It’s not the goat farm, but there are still woods: quiet and calm. There is a stream with a small bridge over it that we snowshoe to on our first day. The snow is deep and our eight month old puppy, Remy, must jump to make any headway. We walk around the property and create a path which will make things easier for future outings.
The rental is cozy and clean. There is a whirlpool tub that we all take turns using. We play games, my children drawn to an electronic version of Battleship from the 90s. The house is soon filled with the game’s robotic voice.
We watch the Olympics in the evenings. Remy discovers his reflection in the glass sliding doors and timidly barks at it. He looks for the mysterious dog every night when darkness falls.
We go to the Baseball Hall of Fame, my baseball-loving daughter inspired to someday play in the big leagues. We go to a classic car museum, my son dictating which cars he wants pictures of. He poses in front of his favorites and I take his picture over and over again.
There are lunches out and cheesecake from a local market. We are close to where my grandparents lived and many of the roads are ones I took to see them. The hills, the forest, the winding streams all feel familiar to me.
My husband makes a campfire and my children roast marshmallows and have s’mores. My parents visit on our last night, eating tacos and other leftovers that we don’t want to bring back home.
We talk about the goats and how we miss them, but we all feel surprisingly okay. We are happy to slow down and disconnect from our lives. My children are happy sledding outside in the fresh air. We are happy here in the woods among the trees and the stars. There is a peacefulness that we find, not unlike our time with the goats, and we’re pleased to know that we can find this feeling again.