Our 3-year anniversary in a farmhouse in WV...
Today is our last day in this farmhouse we rented in West Virginia. The darkness and stillness calms my nerves; from before the pandemic, before the cacophony of three cats, before the calls of my mother. Verizon doesn't reach here, and though we're connected on Wi-Fi, it's comforting that I haven't spoken with my mother in several days. We made arrangements for Aunt Penny to spend the night with her this past Saturday, so we drove over mountains and winding roads to get to this secluded farmhouse.
We remembered each other. In this foreign place without the responsibilities of work or household chores or things to be checked off, we sat silently in front of a gas stove and relished in the calmness of our surroundings. We climbed more mountains, donned hard hats, and went deep into caverns that were too short for us. We ate in a restaurant for the first time since the pandemic, as I ordered fried green tomatoes and a sweet potato. I guffawed too loudly at Fidget, my laughs filling our restaurant dining room with the sound.
We missed each other.
There's a tub here that is big enough for each of us to fit in; I can't remember the last time I took a bath #tallpeopleproblems. I bought a little mango dollar store candle from down the street, poured myself a low ball of sangria, and sunk into the tub, letting my mind wander. It would go toward responsibilities or bills or things to do when we got home, so I'd gently glide it back to just being in the moment, in the too-hot tub with where the water would soak my tired body from jogging (!) next to the stream earlier in the day.
We slept in a fluffy bed, the first one not our own in over 16 months. I realized we hadn't been alone on vacation since May 2019. I was able to finally relax and not have to worry about what's happening in Baltimore; I could not be responsible for the three nights we were here.
We cruised around in the Fusion, the engine holding up to the mountains but still not going fast enough for the locals. I was passed, and passed often. I took in the too-green trees with their winding roads, shaking my fingers occasionally from where I had gripped the steering wheel. I learned the landscape, getting us home easily when our phones no longer worked, by landmarks like we used to do.
Our anniversary night was one of making potatoes and roasting broccoli, as Fidget cursed a foreign stove and made too-big steaks for both of us. (He thankfully didn't set off any fire alarms here!) We listened to Sinatra as I tried to work with the minimal kitchen accouterments we had. We had plans to make a fire and to roast marshmallows under the stars.
That didn't happen; we'll be taking the makings back to Baltimore. But I turned off the lights on the porch last night, surrounded by utter darkness, and looked up to the stars I haven't seen in at least seven years. Bright, bright stars shone down, making me breath deeply as I tilted my head back.
We'll pack today to leave for home, hopefully making potato pancakes and trying to leave out of this farmhouse. I've signed the guestbook and filled out 14 postcards; we'll drop them in the mail on our way out.
It's been three years we've been married, 10 years since he first said he loved me. So much has changed in that time, and yet, I'm comforted we could remember to just be with each other when we don't have the cacophony around us. No cats, no mother, no work to be completed. Just sitting under comfy blankets in front of a gas stove while a cattle farm moves around us. We investigated the river by our farmhouse, and I was able to jog to Fidget- I haven't jogged outside in probably four years. I had sun on my hair and slightly-cool mountain air in my chest.
I felt happy.
We do have to leave and return to our lives, but right now, I'll take peace in what the next less-than-two hours have in store for us as we pack up to move out...
... and return to the frazzled, semi-city life we love.
We remembered each other. In this foreign place without the responsibilities of work or household chores or things to be checked off, we sat silently in front of a gas stove and relished in the calmness of our surroundings. We climbed more mountains, donned hard hats, and went deep into caverns that were too short for us. We ate in a restaurant for the first time since the pandemic, as I ordered fried green tomatoes and a sweet potato. I guffawed too loudly at Fidget, my laughs filling our restaurant dining room with the sound.
We missed each other.
There's a tub here that is big enough for each of us to fit in; I can't remember the last time I took a bath #tallpeopleproblems. I bought a little mango dollar store candle from down the street, poured myself a low ball of sangria, and sunk into the tub, letting my mind wander. It would go toward responsibilities or bills or things to do when we got home, so I'd gently glide it back to just being in the moment, in the too-hot tub with where the water would soak my tired body from jogging (!) next to the stream earlier in the day.
We slept in a fluffy bed, the first one not our own in over 16 months. I realized we hadn't been alone on vacation since May 2019. I was able to finally relax and not have to worry about what's happening in Baltimore; I could not be responsible for the three nights we were here.
We cruised around in the Fusion, the engine holding up to the mountains but still not going fast enough for the locals. I was passed, and passed often. I took in the too-green trees with their winding roads, shaking my fingers occasionally from where I had gripped the steering wheel. I learned the landscape, getting us home easily when our phones no longer worked, by landmarks like we used to do.
Our anniversary night was one of making potatoes and roasting broccoli, as Fidget cursed a foreign stove and made too-big steaks for both of us. (He thankfully didn't set off any fire alarms here!) We listened to Sinatra as I tried to work with the minimal kitchen accouterments we had. We had plans to make a fire and to roast marshmallows under the stars.
That didn't happen; we'll be taking the makings back to Baltimore. But I turned off the lights on the porch last night, surrounded by utter darkness, and looked up to the stars I haven't seen in at least seven years. Bright, bright stars shone down, making me breath deeply as I tilted my head back.
We'll pack today to leave for home, hopefully making potato pancakes and trying to leave out of this farmhouse. I've signed the guestbook and filled out 14 postcards; we'll drop them in the mail on our way out.
It's been three years we've been married, 10 years since he first said he loved me. So much has changed in that time, and yet, I'm comforted we could remember to just be with each other when we don't have the cacophony around us. No cats, no mother, no work to be completed. Just sitting under comfy blankets in front of a gas stove while a cattle farm moves around us. We investigated the river by our farmhouse, and I was able to jog to Fidget- I haven't jogged outside in probably four years. I had sun on my hair and slightly-cool mountain air in my chest.
I felt happy.
We do have to leave and return to our lives, but right now, I'll take peace in what the next less-than-two hours have in store for us as we pack up to move out...
... and return to the frazzled, semi-city life we love.