Loose Leaf Notes

We drove from Massachusetts to Virginia with the ocean on our skin. My husband, Joe, flew into Logan Airport; I picked him up at the ferry, and we swam in the ocean before beginning our road-trip home, all in the same day.
After a sleepover in “The Promised Land,” a state park in Pennsylvania, and then making the second leg of our 800 mile trip, I finally got behind the wheel myself, driving to Floyd from Roanoke airport, where Joe had left his car the morning before. After the short and rude awakening into the world of interstate speed, I was initiated home via The Blue Ridge Parkway and quickly remembered why I live here.
It was 7:30 p.m., and I was thinking about missing my sunset walk on the beach. But there it was! The same sun was setting off the 2,500 foot high mountain drop off. The same glow that lit up the beach was now lighting up the flood of Virginia green and revealing the beauty and gentle roll of the mountains that were stretched out as far as the eye could see.
Everything was the color of trees, except for the yellow line on the parkway road. I felt like a pinball skating up and down the winding hilly incline, holding the steering wheel tightly for fear of falling off the steep escarpment. But I wasn’t afraid as much as I was exhilarated. “The rhododendrons are still out!” I exclaimed out loud to myself with a smile.
I rolled all the windows down, put on a tape (“Counting Crows” was within my reach) and danced in my seat while singing along at the top of my lungs. Passing the green fields of corn and put-up hay, the stone walls, and chestnut split rail fences that the Parkway is famous for, I breathed a sigh of relief, getting re-adjusted to all the space.
As much as I love my hometown and the ocean, I also love the Virginia mountains, which are just as prehistoric and elementally alive with energy as the ocean is. The best part of my homecoming was realizing that I was leaving an area dense with people, and while riding the Parkway, I didn’t see more than a dozen cars in the 45 minute climb to my driveway, and not a single person.
I slept peacefully in my own bed that night (after thoroughly inspecting the garden and happily noting that my corn was over 6 foot tall and tasseled). The next morning, on my way to the kitchen to make tea, I noticed a small magnetic poetry message on the floor that must have fallen from the refrigerator. I picked it up, as if it was a fortune cookie, and read: WORK.
Yes, there was laundry to do, sweeping and cleaning, all a part of reclaiming where I live. An hour or so later, smelling of bleach, and soapy brillo, I said to my husband, before taking a break to post today’s entry, “This is a morning for 2 cups of tea.”
“Cheers. And welcome home,” he answered.

Photo note: After posting the above photo, revealing the rolling Blue Ridge, I noticed it was taken in Autumn. Soon, I’ll be digital and more immediate. Right now I work with a scanner. Imagine it green.