We spent the day in Vermont Saturday at our friends Deb’s house.
I love visiting her place, an old beauty that she and her friend Rui lovingly restored. (She may read this and say there was nothing loving about it. I think once past the renovations we all ought to be entitled to rewrite things a bit and look back fondly on the work, though we might have spit and cussed through every last dusty damn minute of it.)
At Deb’s it seems that around every corner there is something new to marvel at. I remember staying overnight in March or April of 2001 and feeling every bit like Anne of Green Gables, my eyes wide as could be as I drank in the magical qualities of the house. I heard the whistle of a train in the night, slept under downy blankets, enjoyed a perfectly appointed guest bath, and a breakfast of fresh baked bread, preserves and coffee from an achingly delicate mug. It was amazing to watch, four years later, as my own daughter, at the time not yet one, found the same kind of magic.
It is so difficult to find truly magical places anymore. I was excited to be back. This visit did not disappoint. As I daintily fed myself and Briar bits of honey dew and strawberry. (Ok, Briar fed herself and me eating is anything but dainty.)
No, that wasn’t a guess as to which area in France, just a smart ass nice because of course they were from a place I couldn’t just skip off to. I chose to make it a running joke for the rest of the afternoon. I think we left just shy of Deb saying,
“Amanda, enough with the France crap.”
To which I am sure I would have either said a rednecked, “Moi?” or “Merde.” You see I am just so giddy to visit I cannot stop myself. Luckily, we had not one distraction, but two, as this visit marked the first time Avey experienced Deb’s house.
I’ll leave you with that squeezable image of baby goodness.