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| Tightly furled leaves long to burst. |
Every summer
I reread “The Country of the Pointed Firs” by Sarah Orne Jewett. The first
chapter, “The Return,” best explains what it means to return to a much-loved
place after an absence. She writes:
“There was
something about the coast town … which made it seem more attractive than other
maritime villages … Perhaps it was the simple fact of acquaintance with that
neighborhood which made it so attaching, and gave such interest to the rocky
shore … and the few houses which seemed to be securely wedged and tree-nailed
in among the ledges… These houses made the most of the seaward view … the
small-paned high windows in the peaks of their steep gables were like knowing
eyes that watched the harbor and the far sea-line beyond, or looked northward
all along the shore … When one really knows a village like this and its
surroundings, it is like becoming acquainted with a single person. The process
of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift in such a case,
but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair.”
It is the beginning
of the long-awaited season at Fogland; and like other summer residents, my
pulse quickens as I come home again. The shimmering Sakonnet, the well-kept
cottages, and the sleeping summer house – all welcome us. Over and over again,
we say to each other, “It’s so good to be back.”
Yet, there
is much work to do. The summer house has been in a state of hibernation for
nearly six months, and it is time for it to be reawakened.
We call in
the plumber who climbs inside the well house and installs a new pump, and like
the rhythmic beating of a heart circulating blood through veins, it sends the
water coursing through the pipes. One frigid year the pipes burst, and the
rooms were flooded. Consequently, we hold our breath until we learn that the
old piping has survived another year.
Throughout
the winter, we worried about the roof. We remembered what had happened some
years ago when the ceiling had fallen into the living room, and we had to hire
a carpenter to fix the roof, as well as put up a new ceiling. But this year,
outside of some cobwebs, the summer house is intact.
Inside the
sticking front door, it feels cold and lifeless. We pull up the shades and open
the windows, and let the clean sea breeze stir the dead air. Sunlight bounces
off the walls and illuminates the dust. We turn on the hot water and plug in
the fridge.
My mother puts
fresh linens on the beds, while my father carries in a trunk-full of food.
Outside, my husband
mows the knee-high lawn, which always grows fast in this fertile, coastal soil.
Before long
the summer house will be filled with shrieks of laughter.
“It’s so
good to be back.”
