I want this to serve as an ode to New England, because I feel like this region of the country doesn’t get a lot of attention or credit the way that it should. I think that’s because we tend to be more quiet compared to other areas – with the notable exception of New York City – but many people tend to overlook New England, and I think that’s to their detriment.
I have lived in…let’s count ’em…how many states? Nine, including Guam – which isn’t technically a state, given that it’s a territory (which I miss so much, actually), and a lot of houses within those different states, as I’ve lived in some of those states more than once and moved around throughout my youth.
Of all the places I have traveled and visited, New England is by far and beyond my favorite. I have such a deep love for this region of the world that it actually makes my heart swell with fondness. How corny is that, right? I know. Even while I was enjoying the beautiful tropical weather on Guam, laying on a white sand beach and marveling at my luck for being there, I still yearned for New England.
I wouldn’t stylize myself as a poetry person, but my BA from the University of Guam is in English Literature, which meant that I had a poetry unit, and I waxed rhapsodic about New England and things I loved about the autumn in particular in one of my submissions – enjoy (if you can stand poetry. If you can’t, I honestly don’t blame you):
“Autumn”
I love fall.
Everything is clean
Leaves are starbursts of color
Coating the ground,
Filling pumpkin bags that
Sit on front lawns of
Suburban neighborhoods.Scarecrows smile
Button eyes blankly shining
The setting sun
turning their plaid shirts
Rosy and their straw
Golden bright
With red yarn lips
And farmer hats.The apples are ripe
Orchards filled with people
And their paper bags, clamoring
For that one big one
At the top of the tree.
And the host farm’s bakery
Throwing into the breeze
Cinnamon
Pumpkin
Apple scents.The air turns colder
Sweaters make their appearance
Pumpkins pop up everywhere
Little children smiling as
Parents carve buck-toothed faces
And roast the seeds for
A pumpkin-gut snack.Halloween, and the streets
Are alive with youngsters
And their escorts
Glittering in Jasmine
Buzz Lightyear
Robot, Fairy, and Ghost costumes
“Trick or treat!”Eager smiles and outstretched bags
Parents drop in candy as the kids
Tramp off to the next house, breath
Glimmering excitedly in the frosty air, cold
Nipping at their extremities, their shoes making
Stomping on the pavement, cheeks
Glowing with the rosy thrill of the night
And fun
And sugar.Then Thanksgiving!
The warm den, a fire
Crackling and roaring in the fireplace
Snug leather armchairs and the comfortable
Familiarity of the home of relatives
(In Massachusetts), the smell
Of the Mother of all Turkeys hanging
In the air, corn pudding simmering
In its aroma.Sit down around a long table,
Heap on the cranberry sauce
Sip heavy eggnog, laugh
At old family stories that
Have been told before, but
Never get old,
Mounds of potatoes, gravy
Spilling out of its tureen in
Sumptuous globs, the
Raucous grins as out comes the pumpkin
Pie, orange and delicious, whipped cream
Nestling on its top.Always there is that
Author: Me, back in 2009
Expectation
That warmth of comradeship
That comes with the crackling leaves
The homemade costumes
The chill air, numbing noses
Biting at sleeves and sweaters,
Pervasive through the
Lovely world
Of change and crisp gaiety
That makes autumn
Autumn.
What has made me think about this topic is my job. I interact with people across the globe – the majority from the United States – and those from the U.S. always ask the inevitable, “Where are you located?” and then seem to always feel the need to comment on how cold New England is once they find out where I live. “Brr! How do you stand it?”
This question always gives me a moment of amused pause. Typically I get this commentary from those in the Southern part of the United States – Virginia, Texas, Florida – sometimes Arizona. I don’t respond with, “Wow, I bet you swim in that humidity and heat! How do you stand it?” Because…the thing is…I love the cold.
I love autumn. I love winter. And I love the culture that comes along with those seasons that really shines in New England. I’m not a creature that has any kind of evolutionary adaptation toward the heat; we traced our ancestors at one point and discovered that we are Viking (to be specific, originating from a specific clan in Ireland that then migrated through Iceland and into Newfoundland before trickling down into the United States).
I thrive in the cool, coastal, historical feel of New England. I acknowledge that, in all technicality, Virginia was the first colony in the United States. I’ve been to the historical reenactments and written papers on the mystery of Roanoke (great book on that here). But that doesn’t keep me from truly feeling the gravitas that New England possesses – there’s just a sense of so much more history here than in the rest of the country.
New England is really the cultural embryo of the country and has some of its oldest traditions. When we think about the original colonists, most people don’t think about the Godspeed, the Discovery, or the Susan Constant. They think about the Mayflower and Plymouth Rock. And when it comes to the American Revolution, some of the dominant images are of Paul Revere pelting through Massachusetts on his midnight ride and the Boston Tea Party. New England was the primary seat from which the Gilded Age giants of industrialization parked their immense mansions on the coast of Newport and took over whole blocks of New York City, turning themselves into royalty. (Fun fact – my family is probably related to Mrs. Vanderbilt. I guess, by extension, that also means I’m related to Anderson Cooper. Small world.)
The quiet wealth, towns, culture, and coastal merchant remnants reflect these influences and history; everywhere else in the country just feels…youthful, in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on. The region just has a richer history and maturity of stature in my experience than elsewhere in this country – like Gandalf compared to the hobbits. All of their wisdom and appeal, but one has far more history nestled in their bones than the others.
And yet, despite this history and the feeling of age or maturity or seniority – however you might want to style it – while one would think that New England would be completely developed…it isn’t. Large swathes of the region are just…wild. The forests and crags simply refuse subjugation. Even states with the highest density per capita have areas where you round the bend and just feel like you’ve been utterly transported to a point outside of time – like no human has ever touched it.
There is a pond near where we’re building our new home – I won’t write its name to preserve its privacy (though quite frankly I doubt anyone will ever read this, as it’s not incredibly thrilling or tailored for any kind of SEO, and I’m largely writing this for myself) – where you cannot reach it without taking a dirt path. It’s nestled in one of the valleys between three mountains, and it’s completely silent there. No noises outside of the wind through the boughs, and no sign of humans. You could almost expect to see the Pequawket step out of the mist on the other side of the water. It just speaks to this untameable feeling that you get in New England.
I haven’t felt this anywhere else in the world, though I’m sure it exists. But that feeling, combined with the history and the coastal culture, with the vibrancy of the seasons and my ability to curl my toes inside my boots when I crunch through the snow and spy the glittering lights of someone’s holiday decorations shining through the pines, the smell of wood smoke on the air…it’s priceless to me. That’s why I’m moving even deeper into New England. And when people ask where we’re moving, their eyes immediately have this full understanding, and they respond similarly, because they know. It’s special.