HOST) Willem Lange is certain this is the best place in the world to live – even in winter
(LANGE) I drove home by the back road just at sundown recently, thermometer near zero, a light breeze teasing swirls of snow, and the gibbous moon already high in the sky. The orange sun cast the shadow of my little truck against the east bank of the road. Ahead of us, the road passed through an arch of hemlocks, like a rustic cathedral, still hung with fresh snow. I imagined how they’d look in an hour or so, in the reflection of headlights, and involuntarily said to myself, out loud, “What a beautiful place to live! I don’t know where it could go better.”
I realize a lot of people, especially this time of year, have clear ideas where it could go better. And I’ll admit the bloom might have faded from my rose if I’d had a flat tire just then. But I just chugged on home.
I often reflect, traveling through northern New England, about what makes a place home. The reflection is especially poignant at the cusp of winter. After Christmas, the days lengthen, but as the old saying goes, the cold strengthens. A lot of those who are able to, go south, and I sometimes yearn to join them. But it wouldn’t seem right to skip paying my dues for good days.
The reflections run on: to raking the roof after each storm; to mud season and rows of shoes in the entry; to mosquito and black fly time, when just walking down for the paper in the morning can be maddening; to rocks in the garden, tourists, splitting wood, and burning brush. Surely, I think, there must be better places to live. But I can never put a name to them.
Because the difficulties of living here are balanced by moments like that one driving through sparkling snow crystals at sunset. There’s the elation of hitting the wax just right on a cross-country ski jaunt. In spring the splashing of feeding trout can make you regret you have to die – unless you believe there are trout in Heaven. The moment of reaching the summit of Moosilauke or Camels Hump and seeing the trees spreading to the edge of the earth is incomparable. The land over the years becomes part of you, as you become part of the land.
I’ve always enjoyed the company of men who work with their hands, as well as their minds. During lunchtime, especially, I’ve always felt at home in this cold, rocky corner of the continent, with men of particular talents, familiar accents, and predictable, ironic opinions.
The moon is down as I write this, and this end of the house is getting cold. In a few hours I’ll carry my lunch out to the garage, putt down the driveway, and take the back road to work, just to remind myself why, in spite of all its difficulties, there’s no better place than this in the world.
This is Willem Lange up in Orford, New Hampshire, and I gotta get back to work.