Vermont

It is easy to tell when we enter Vermont because the road goes from paved to gravel. We pass familiar houses and the winding stream and soon arrive at our rental. We are barely in the state but there is snow, something we have mostly missed this year.

We are staying on a small farm tucked between hills in the Vermont countryside. A year has passed since we were last here and I’m surprised how familiar everything feels, how time has melted away. It feels like we were just here but I know my children are taller, older in so many ways. This year, my son knows how to read.

Soon, our footsteps zigzag across the property, our bootprints cemented in the snow. The male goats are outside and come to us when we’re near. The other goats are in the small barn and we peek at them through the window. I wonder if they remember us.

The animals stay in on our first evening. We reorient ourselves with the house, settling in. My children explore the upstairs loft that is too scary for sleeping, get out the books and games. The decorative cow skull is once again put outside on the back patio because my children are afraid of it. My husband complains about the pans while he cooks dinner. There are no sirens or streetlights and rarely a car.

In the morning my son is out the door by eight to talk to the goats. He doesn’t come inside until lunch. My husband keeps the wood stove burning, feeding it log after log. A kettle full of water sits on top but my eyes still get dry. 

On a clear night we go outside, the snow and stars brightening our way, our crunching footsteps and the babbling stream the only sounds. It is cold and everything is still.

Our days fall into a different rhythm here. My children are outside early, letting out the animals, collecting eggs from the chickens and ducks. The caretaker comes every day and they help her feed and water the animals. It is cold but sunny.

I have long stretches to knit and read. Last year I was learning how to knit when I was here, producing a needed dishcloth that was full of holes. This year I am knitting cables in soft buttercream yarn.

My children come inside for meals and once the animals are put to bed we have dinner and play games. There is no streaming so we watch movies on DVDs that we checked out at the library.

The snow slowly recedes during our stay, revealing brown patches of grass. A family from Buffalo rents the house next door and our children play together. Daddy the duck becomes ill and the caretaker brings him home. My son cries when he talks about him, worried about what will happen.

I don’t want to leave and we extend our stay by one night. I think about the air, the animals, the silence and how we are so far removed from these things most of the time. I think about the change in my children, the excitement to go outside, their normal morning TV time forgotten. They are worn out and tired by the end of the day but they fight less and sleep soundly. How do we find this rhythm in our daily lives, the days of work and school—a different kind of exhaustion. How do we find peace and stillness in a world of screens and activities and constant news?

I don’t have the answers, can’t upend our lives. But I can promise my children that we will come back next year and hope that their times with the goats have changed them.