Where The Heart Is

We're so anxious to get away, to experience a different environment, face challenges other than those we cope with in our everyday lives, that we enthuse about vacations, holidays elsewhere that we feel will add a refreshing new dimension to our lives. Invariably they do. That old adage, "a change is as good as a cure", speaks of boredom, of the ennui involved in the commonplace, the quotidian assurance of predictability, the rote involvement of ritual.

It's certainly not that we endure life, by any means. Those of us privileged to live out our existence in wealthy countries whom circumstances have given the opportunity to live in comfort and ease, know how fortunate we are. We like to coddle ourselves, offer ourselves different landscapes from time to time. We make the most of those opportunities, whether they represent trips abroad, or week-end visits to the family cottage.

In our own case, it's the return, usually several times a year; in early spring, in early fall, to the lush green mountain landscape of New Hampshire. Where, for many years in succession, we brought our children as they were growing into their early teens and beyond, into adulthood. Where we shared the pleasures of discovering new mountain trails, ascents that would challenge and take us, however arduously, to the summit of mountain tops.

There to look out over the valleys below, and more remarkably, over the summits, some taller, some shorter, of countless other mountains in the Presidential Range. We enjoyed the varying scenery, the density of the surrounding forest, and above the tree-line the delicacy of the alpine growths. The heat of the sun, the coolness of sleet attacking the mountain as we ascended oblivious to the cold, our industry creating our own circles of warmth.

Although we're no longer capable - nor would we wish to push our strength and endurance beyond the reasonable - of ascending the considerable heights we once did, we still take immense pleasure in the ambiance, and the opportunities presented us in hiking reasonably rising trails in those same mountainous areas; the three Notches, the Waterville Valley, where we tend now to centre our ambulatory adventures.

It's great fun, a lovely adventure, a break from the ordinary. And then, when the week allocated to all this expeditionary discovery is concluded, we're so anxious to return home. In our absence, our home has somehow morphed into magnificence unparalleled; we see all the familiar rooms, the gardens, the furnishings and the paintings in a new light. How could we bear to leave them, however temporarily?

They furnish us with such comfort and delight. Our own spacious and linen-dressed bed, comfortable beyond comparison. Even our two little dogs snuggle in comfort in their own places in the only home they've ever know, with us. Our large and well designed kitchen, where everything needful is right at hand. Our bathroom, with all its comforting and relaxing appliances. Our library of books!

Sometimes you have to temporarily abandon what you have to later value these aids to gracious living. Soon after return there was a need to see to the gardens, a bit of nip-and-tucks here and there, cutting back spent perennials so that others, freshly blooming, have the space they need. Staking up lushly blooming roses, asters, coneflowers. Admiring the rampant blooms of the begonias in their garden pots.

Taking our daily morning stroll through the ravine, hurrying to grab an hour in there before the rain descends in earnest; left-over from Hurricane Ike coming our way. It's uncommonly humid, misty, and the sodden leaves overhanging the trail keep shedding the earlier rain, drenching us. But no matter, it's a delight to be there. We stop, fascinated, at the sight across the creek; a tables' width collection of saucer-sized bright orange fungi.

Along with all the common asters in white and pale mauve, there are the beauties of the fall aster world; luxuriant bunches of bright pink asters, larger flower heads, greater numbers of thick petals, and also bright dark purple as well. They're a delight to the eye, rivalling in beauty the cultivated specimens in our gardens. A tree trunk sports huge, broad shelf-fungi, the constant dampness encouraging these spectacular shows of nature's diversity and abundance.

Through the length of our walk, my husband has been unravelling a tale, entertaining both of us as he describes the storyline of a film he had watched on television last night, while I read the newspapers. He'd thought the film was an excellent rendition of some aspects of the human condition, with excellent acting, and some well-placed comedic insertions to relieve the starkness of lives interrupted by fate.

He does this frequently. It can be retelling the thesis behind something he'd read, expounding at length, eliciting my opinion which does not always match his; or framing a fictional story taken from a recently-completed novel. Or as he did this morning; describing the action and story line in the film he'd watched last night. When we were young, newly married, and I was ill in bed, he would comfort me by reading softly to me.

Fifty and more years later, he's still doing the same thing. And that's where my heart is.