What a luxury. An airport just minutes from my home.
I live in Vermont. Luxuries don’t come easy here — but I have it made. Hop on the cropduster and be in Boston in one hour, after a stunning ride over the Green Mountains. One hour! It’s like a miracle, considering that it takes 2 hours to get anywhere in VT.
I’m all set for a quick flight home to see my Dad, erasing hours in the car — but the miracle dissipates into thick, heavy clouds over Killington.
Can’t get in or out, says the somber desk agent. Don’t know when.
If it were another era, I’d be foaming at the mouth, frantically trying to switch up my flight or harangue the agent into offering every possible option.
Instead, my practical side swings into action. Hm, I think. Maybe the Chef will drive me to Boston. It’ll take 3 1/2 hours and I’ll catch a later flight.
Within a minute, the Chef zooms up and begins to map the entire trip while idling in the parking lot.
Um, honey? Maybe we should start driving, too? I suggest.
Of course! she replies, cheerfully blasting down the road under gloomy clouds.
We stock up on drinks before starting the longest drive in the world, otherwise known as Rt. 4. (If anyone tells you that Rt. 4 takes “an hour or so” in whichever direction to wherever, immediately tack on an extra hour.)
I’m gonna take the backroads and avoid Rutland, says the Chef and I inwardly roll my eyes. The Chef is all about the “taking the backroads” since her family has lived here for a million years. Thing is, practically every road in VT is a backroad. Highways are the luxury.
Okay, but don’t take the “backroads” all the way to Boston. I’d like to actually make the 4:30 flight.
No worries! says the Chef. I’ll get you there, as she races up the notorious backroad that drops my cell at the most crucial moments of a conversation. I hold it like an old TV antenna, waving it around while checking with the local airport one last time. The sky seems to be brightening and the 1:30 flight out of Boston is already a wash.
You know what they say: Don’t like the weather in VT? Wait 5 minutes.
The agent is slightly more animated now. The pilot should be here at 12:35. At least we think. No guarantees. You still wanna go?
Yep, I say. Let’s do it.
No Boston? asks the Chef.
Nope, I reply. Back on the cropduster. We’ll do a roadtrip soon.
We circle round and say our goodbyes yet again. As she starts to pull away, I call out, stay close to the phone in case we need to go to Boston. Unless I decide to reschedule the whole thing.
She laughs and drives off with that God, what a crazy Gemini look on her face.
As I re-enter the waiting room, five passengers are still slumped in their seats, as if continuing to absorb the mass dose of awful news the doctor just delivered. Not a good sign.
I’m fortunately still in a calm place because a) I am only visiting my Dad and b) I could walk home in an emergency (my acute survival instincts kicking in). There’s only one thing to do: pull out the NYT crosswords and get to work. Boston recedes with every florescent minute, and the clouds are more ominous than ever.
At 1pm, 90 minutes after I should have been on the original flight and 30 minutes before the connecting one I’d miss, the weary agent walks in with cellphone in hand. She informs us that the pilot is landing in Lebanon, NH and a cab can take us there.
How long? I ask.
About 1 1/2 hours.
It seems there’s no avoiding the longest drive in the world. More »
We drove to the Congregational church under a patterned gray sky, the perfect compliment to the scattered yellow leaves that waved us up a narrow lane. We were about to give our respects to a friend’s father, a true Vermonter and beloved member of a tiny farming town.
I had only met my friend’s father for a brief moment before he died — a charming man with a “salt of the earth” face — but I recall kind eyes and how he adored his only child, my friend who eulogized him so eloquently that we were all left stunned by her words of love for family, his community and the land.
As we drove home after the church supper, I said to my companion, “If the major thing that people remembered about my legacy was a love of flowers, I’d be a happy woman.”
It’s all about love.
Love is borne as much as it is taught. I realized this yesterday as I watched my friend embrace every person with equal care and attention, continuing her father’s legacy.
Perhaps for some, loving isn’t so easy. Maybe they’ve never been able to overcome their rage or regret. Maybe their love shines towards animals or through words that heal. A casual touch that helps one forget their suffering for a few moments. To release spiders rather than kill them. Walk away with finality from chaos not their own.
Perhaps the best way one may love is to drive up a mountain road, roll down the window and yell, I love you! Always be here! — grateful to be a part of such magnificence.
No one might see these moments, but they remain part of our legacy.
Perhaps legacy is learning where we love best. It’s loving places and things and people without struggle. It’s growing comfortable in the softest places of our soul, and to shine in such a manner that the brightness can’t help but remain once we step out of this form. Our brightness — without discarding the memory of a painful existence — becomes part of our beautiful country, the enduring birthright.
