Ode to a place

There are things I want to write about, like how completely frustrated I am by the NICU. Beyond frustrated. I want to scream and smash things and just get the hell out of there. Instead I will write about a place that sits in my heart all the time but that is particularly on my mind these days.

My family, my family of origin, is gathered and gathering in Vermont in preparation for my younger brother's wedding. The wedding and the fact that my brother is becoming a husband in two days time deserves its own post. Seven months ago when we discovered I was pregnant again, before we even knew it was twins and we were still reeling at the news, I burst into tears realizing that I would miss my brother's wedding. I knew I'd be too pregnant to get on a plane and I could not believe that such an important moment would happen and I wouldn't get to be there.

Vermont. My siblings and I grew up going there almost every summer from the time we were very small. I didn't realize what an unusual thing that was until I was older and wondered why I'd never spent a summer in Tahoe or met people my age who had never been on a plane before. I knew it was special in the way it made me feel, though. We usually drove up from Maryland after vising my grandparents and, even as a young person, even though the state is full of green mountains, I'd get excited when I started to recognize OUR green mountains. The smell of the fields and of manure. The feel of the air. Route 14 stretched and rounded its way to my family. I felt filled up.

We stayed in different places over the years--my family takes up a lot of space in Vermont. Good thing there always seems to be more space. . especially since there also always seems to be more family. Each destination, each separate house, brought with it its own daily habits--different rooms in which to sleep, different kitchens in which to eat. Different creeks for walking and exploring, different barns for working or visiting, different roads to walk down or to cross. Different places to sink into and be quiet--under trees, in fields, up waterfalls, in hay lofts, on couches. The group was always different too. My mom's side of the family is big. Very big. At last count I had around 25 cousins and that was a few years ago so we've probably added a few. By proper definition we aren't all exactly first cousins but we do away with the 2nd-cousin-once removed stuff and just say "cousin" or "What up, cuz?" depending on who you're talking to. My mom's generation is made up of many siblings and cousins and step-siblings and spouses and outlaws (which is what we call in-laws who have technically left the family through divorce but who don't actually leave the family because. . .well, family is complicated, isn't it? But love is worth sticking around for and we like to keep people.) All of this is to say that each summer gathering was made up of different members because of soccer tournaments, summer camp, family obligations, perhaps some family feuds, different schedules to work around, money or lack thereof, and various other reasons that I can't come up with because I'm limited to my own perspective of things. Whoever came together arrived and left in a stretched-out way, so there always seemed to be the anticipation and excitement of another mini-reunion.

These days the gatherings are somewhat intense, by which I mean we are coming together for a reason like a wedding or a memorial or a graduation so we come together en masse and have lots of meals and activities and try to see everyone and worry about missing something or someone but do our best to soak it all up. Back in the earlier days of my life we spent summer days that melted and dragged, with no sense of having anywhere to be unless you were trying to be at the barn in time for morning or evening chores. Going to the library in town was a big event. So was going swimming at the Floating Bridge or going on a creek walk from the waterfall to the swimming hole. I picked many bunches of wildflowers, carried many little cousins on narrow hips down to the swimming hole or across the field. I was part of many conversations, sitting on the porch with the elders of my family listening to stories, playing Charades and learning who I was and who I wanted to be. We picked cows that were "ours" for the summer, usually those that were hugely pregnant hoping to be there when their calves were born. Our cows got special handfuls of clover picked on the way over and leisurely brushings and hugs. This summer is the fourth summer in a row I haven't been there and I really feel it in my skin and bones how much I miss it. I've never been away so long. I can close my eyes and picture everything so clearly with no effort at all.

It will be so different to go back now--I have a husband and kids, none of whom were in my life the last time I was there. I think that might mean I'm an official grown-up or something. Vermont has always been a good measuring stick in that way--marking the first time I drove myself up there rather than riding with my family. The first time I was involved in cooking a meal rather than waiting to be fed (though to be honest that probably hasn't happened as much as it should have!). The first time I drank a beer with a cousin whose diaper I had changed. The next time I'm there I will be the one with babies who get carried on younger hips away for adventures. I thought the next time would be now and I feel so pulled to be there. Through Facebook I get to watch the waves of family arrive and join the celebration. They sit on porches and play with babies and I know they are soaking it all up, getting filled up. Knowing that and getting to hear about it is almost as good as getting to be there myself.