The season has changed and suddenly I find myself anticipating the holidays. I am the first to condemn the world for jumping the gun on every ‘Hallmark’ holiday, to thumb my nose at Halloween swag on store shelves in August and Christmas décor in October, and so this mood is unusual for me. I offer only the paltry excuse that a sense of nostalgia settled over me several months ago and has refused to move on. I’m still in love with the house I lost at the end of my first marriage and will remain so ‘til the end of my days. It is an architectural gem and property where I raised a complicated boy and experienced the closest and most influential friendships of my life (save the man who is now my best friend), and where I devoted years to making magic for my family. Chiefly, that house served as the setting for the most delicious comfort and nurture that defined my son’s early childhood.

Autumn stands out in my mind as a glorious harbinger of good times to come, of art projects, holiday cooking and baking, and setting out decorations in anticipation of ambitious gatherings in the weeks ahead. I was then and remain an Anglophile, and our Tudor Revival home played into this proclivity; you could sit or stand just so in one of several spots upstairs and teleport to Hogwarts Academy with minimal effort. The door has closed on that chapter now, but it takes so little for me to evoke those powerful memories, summon them right back to the fore standing in my sunny coastal kitchen.

After two ambitious weeks of travel, we are home again in our coastal Carolina house, which today is not sunny but gray and damp. (How very English.) A weather system roiling in the tropics has kept us on pins and needles, and thinking about plans should we need to bail. We are woefully unprepared for hurricanes here and I suppose should try harder; this storm’s potential got us re-thinking our approach. Prospects have improved substantially in the last 24 hours for staying calm and staying put, but how irksome had our lives been upended by a storm named for a dictator’s wife with too many shoes. As of this writing she seems destined to be escorted out to sea where she belongs, within the folds of Humberto. Good riddance to you both. (Things can always change, warn the weather folk, who are killjoys through and through.)

I did not manage to hammer out a second post from the road as I had hoped, so here is my stand-in. We left our delightful digs in Carlisle and arrived unscathed in Manchester, Vermont, where we stayed at a favorite hotel, and where The Chef spent a few days enjoying his kids, which was the point. There were as yet only a few signs of autumn in New England, which was sunny and warm and dry. Meanwhile Scoutie and I did very little, which was also the point, but we managed a nice walk (canine arthritis makes this a challenge these days) to see our friends at Orvis, snagged a few deals, and then spent a fair amount of time on the front porch reading and rocking. I also struck out alone for a couple of nice early-morning runs in Manchester, remarkable only because after having lived in that general vicinity for some time, I’d never actually run in the town before.

The Taconic took good care of us while we were there. We were comfortable and well fed and the staff and other guests were kind to Scout. This hotel has the best dog policy of any I’ve ever encountered, which goes something like, if it fits through the front door, it is welcome here. I keep waiting for somebody to test that policy with a pony or a llama.

After about three days of visiting we pointed the car inland and south, where we overnighted at an unremarkable hotel in Winchester, Virginia, before heading on to visit with dad and his lovely wife Sheryl down in Chattanooga. Traffic was abysmal on I-81 but being stopped for wrecks allowed me to snap a couple of photos that capture the essence of car travel’s appeal, and that is simply the open road and a view onto how most of America lives. If you do not live and work in a rural (or unpopulous) setting, I think it’s important to get out there from time to time and see it and to think about how the people who came before us lived and made a country that just now feels so divided. We felt the divisiveness and division at various points along our journey, but most especially in Lynchburg, Virginia, a place I must say I felt anxious to be done with.

Time at dad’s means time on the porch chatting and reminiscing and watching the hummingbirds from a rocking chair, continuing the theme of this trip, evidently; I believe it is where he is happiest. He also sent us home with a pair of matching bud vases granddaddy brought back from overseas during his tour of duty in WWII, undoubtedly a gift for my grandmother, and an ancient tablecloth that is now so delicate I had to wash it gingerly in suds in the kitchen sink. It is falling apart and will never again see service but instead will be displayed along with my other vintage textiles, as long as it lasts. I am not absolutely certain, but I believe it is tatted. If not, it is the most delicate example of crocheting I think I’ve ever seen. Someone please correct me if I am wrong. I wish I knew more about this family artifact, but its story is gone with the people who used it.

Somewhat reluctantly I consented to a family photo when my brother and SIL visited during one of our Chattanooga days. A decision was made to face into the sun, a thing my eyeballs objected to. Pictured here: Sheryl, my brother Tom, dad, me, and David. SIL Kathleen was behind the camera. Despite looking pained, I am not in pain here:

The final leg of our two weeks was devoted to my son in Asheville, and our time together was too brief. We stayed at our favorite bed and breakfast (more comfortable for us and for him), which has once again opened after taking on substantial damage during Helene. I did manage to wrestle one long day with my kid entirely to myself, during which we shopped for groceries, my favorite thing to do with him. Banal, I know, but this ordinary errand has always taken on a special kind of hilarity in his company and still does; there is in fact a cloud of comedic mischief that seems to follow him everywhere, and I enjoy being swept up in it. We also drove to the other side of Asheville to get Harry Potter Krispy Kremes, which were lackluster except for the feelings they evoked (see nostalgia, above). Also, there were no Sorting Hat donuts, which was a horrible disappointment to us.

On the way there he took me through the River Arts District, which was devastated during the storm. One year on and much progress has been made cleaning up, but almost none in building back. David observed that so many of those artists were leasing studio space in ancient buildings just this side of derelict, and rebuilding may prove too costly for thin artist budgets. I hope he is wrong. We ate well in Asheville, takeout since we had a canine in tow, from Smoke On in Brevard (takeout is the only option here) the first night and Chai Pani on the second. We insisted on a Wilmington visit soon, where we shall indulge in our version of Indian cuisine and then see how it stacks up.

I walked away from this trip with three new things in my life: a taste for oat milk (yes, I am late to the party); a desire for fresh-squeezed orange juice every morning (I have managed this with a new juicer); and a membership to Sam’s, which my son convinced me we needed—time will tell. Going to the somewhat beleaguered Sam’s Club here is an entirely different experience than going to the shiny new one over his way. Maybe I’ll write a book one day about all the flavors of Sam’s Clubs across the country, like someone has done about Waffle House, take a trip on the open road the visit as many as I can. Maybe it is more fun to just talk about than to actually do.

It is good to be home.