At the end of our journey from NYC to Vermont, we stopped in at a restaurant to pick up dinner. We sat down at the bar.

Where you driving from? The man next to us asked.

We said New York City.

Is that where you’re from? He grinned, from inside a deep, dark, long beard.

No. We’re from a small town west of Boston, we said.

I just want to let you know, he said, I’ve been wearing the same pair of pants for three weeks.

His friends at the bar rolled off their chairs laughing at him and quickly resumed a conversation they were having about plans for next Tuesday’s sushi night.

Have you ever been to Vermont before? Ol Dirty Pants said.

I’ve camped in every state park. Skied every mountain. Hiked every trail. Dunked my kids under every waterfall. Watched every river carry winter into spring. Inhaled the dying breath of every leaf that has ever performed a fainting spell for leaf-peeping tourists. Stuck my tongue out to catch the best of every winter’s snowflake vintages. Swallowed the entire run of maple syrup from the sweetest sugar bushes. Been lost, been found–in the dewy webs of every spider that ever decorated every meadow on the shores of Lake Champlain. Handed over all my dreams upon every island in the northern reaches of the state. Touched every gravestone, of every baby, in every forlorn, forgotten grove alongside hiking trails, biking trails, and snowshoe trails.

Pour me a beer. I’ll cry a cheerful river about how I’ve been to Vermont before.

*****

We gathered up our “to-go” dinner order and left the restaurant after some more good conversation with the folks at the bar.

We only had five more miles to go on the long road cruise from New York City.

Eight years had passed since our last stay in this part of Vermont and I felt my heart start bubbling up into my throat. Our kids were little, then. My sister and her husband and their two children, had created a gracious, country home for their family. No cell service. No Internet.

A babbling brook. Horse-drawn sleighs that glided over the snow as one stared out the windows into the forests. Stars.

*****

I’m huddled in the car outside the South Woodstock General Store. It is a bitterly cold night–8 degrees–but this is the hot spot for free wifi.

When I walked into the house, I stood at the doorway of the kids’ room. The beds were neat and tidy. The little desks near the beds didn’t have any books on them. The old wood floors weren’t splashed with the lively brush strokes of mismatched socks, shirts, underwear, wet towels. I knew I had to get out of there.

I was saved by three little paintings on the walls here and there that all of us used to love.

Birds. Wearing shoes.

Thank goodness there’s a little tree outside the country store, where I sit at work in my car. It still has colored Christmas lights on it. They are the ones that twinkle. As soon as I finish this post, I’ll head down the road back to the house.

It’s a route we used to walk with the kids, laughing and freezing all the way.