After 20 years, we’ve reluctantly sold our weekend house. Our travel schedule are such that we just couldn’t maintain two domiciles, and though we’d much rather have kept the country house and sold the city apartment, there’s not a major airport within 200 miles of the house.
Our house was located in a beautiful part of the state, where spring summer and fall each had its promises. Winter, however, was usually nasty. Thus, just about every Friday afternoon, from April through October, we made the five-hour drive, usually with a friend or two as well as our Scotties, Nelly and Pepper, and the calico cat, Kitzel, who traveled in a cat carrier and hated every minute of it. From the moment I stowed her as far back in the car as possible, she spent her time hurling cat curses at us. And inevitably—every single time—when we were passing through Portage, about ten minutes from the house, Kitzel decided her curses were to no avail, so she stepped up the action and vomited. Every single time! It got so that we took to calling Portage Puke City.
Arriving at the house was, for all of us, stepping into a vale of calm. We let the animals out to root around for a while, opened all the windows, had a nightcap while we talked about our day and week, and after a snack on whatever had been left in the refrigerator, went to bed. That luscious soft bed, with the lake breeze billowing the gauzy curtains brought the sleep of the gods.
Saturday morning started with a quick trip to the local grocer. Then I spent the rest of the day gardening. Dinner was a simple meal eaten on the terrace with a big bowl of just cut flowers on the table and the lake as a backdrop.
On Sunday, we did the brief drive into town where the national newspapers were being held for us at the ‘everything store’—blue jeans to auto tires. And the rest of the day was for reading, napping, walking with the dogs or hearing all the weekly news from the widow whose land bordered ours on the other side of the small woods.
Sunday night, we usually went hunting for a fish fry at the Elks or Woodsmen’s Hall, unless my husband insisted on showing off his grilling skills. But it’s amazing how tired you can get after a day of doing nothing. So Sunday night, for me at least, was early to bed.
The drive home on Monday was almost always uneventful. But there was the time when the dogs got into the broccoli we were bringing back to the city. Although it was October, with a distinct chill in the air, we drove the entire trip home with all windows fully open. There’s no escaping the facts of nature in the country.
Do you have stories of country living? If so, please share them with us.
Paula "Country Girl" Gifford