Coming Home

The fire went out last night, and it’s chilly outside the warmth of my white down bed cover. We woke up to a fresh dusting of snow. Looking out towards the barn from the frosted windows in my upstairs bedroom I can see the outline of black shingles traced with powdery flakes, and a pillowy glacier that is starting to take form in the roof valley. The sunrise wasn’t to speak of, but the cold glow of daylight is starting to creep in. It’s around eight o-clock in the morning, and I’ve missed the first morning brewing of dark black coffee.

I fell asleep next to the fireplace last night. It was early, but the dark sky made the after-dinner hour feel like midnight. The glass pane between me and the flame was black with soot, needing a good scrubbing with an old newspaper. It was one of my favorite chores as a child. I would crunch up a couple of thin pages of The Petoskey News-Review (Sports section or Politics, never Comics) and polish the soot-covered glass until it shone clear and bright. It felt a little magical—shouldn’t you need a strong chemical or cleaner to make something so dirty shine? An old newspaper just did the trick. The flames would flicker brightly through the freshly cleaned glass, larger than life and radiating with heat. When I was a kid, we’d sometimes put a pot to boil on the top of the Ben Franklin-style stove, making tea or warming up soup. Any excuse, really, to find the tiniest tingle of adventure and conquest that using a microwave just didn’t offer.

Laying on hardwood in front of the fire was a delicious punishment of sorts on my stiff body last night. The floor was radiating with the heat of the wood stove, and like a Victorian lady on a backboard to improve her deportment, my spine was flat on the pine. My eyes couldn’t even summon the energy to peek into one of the many books I've bookmarked for the holiday season. Day one and I wanted to rest, rest everything. That kind of rest you only find at home. With a connecting flight and a two-hour drive to reach our little lake town, travel days home sometimes feel like a journey to a remote European village. Except when you arrive, you’re still in the Midwest and have to make a stop at Walmart.

It truly is an easy connection through Detroit to the chilly northern parts of the state. If you miss your flight, however, your options are slim and you might not get out until the next day. After the first flight leg, you sprint across Detroit airport to switch to a smaller plane. It’s always a tight connection and on opposing sides of the terminal. The second plane is small. There are two seats on one side and a single row on the other. About 16 rows in total, and increasing in how many seats are filled lately. Your carry-on must be stowed, and there’s no in-flight service as it’s so quick. On the occasions when an upgrade is offered, the comfort of sitting in seat 1A lasts about 38 minutes from takeoff to exiting the jet bridge. There’s not much of a difference between first class and the seats in row 15, maybe a little red napkin on the headrest. I don’t know the name of the craft; I should look it up. You really need not wonder about anything now— in a moment I could find this information in all its specificity.

It’s easy to take air travel for granted, or well, not even take it for granted— it’s easy to be absolutely peeved with it. The snake-like lines, the traffic at the drop-off, the facade of security checks, the elbow of a fellow passenger passing a bit too far into your clearly marked territory. There’s something quite charming about a small flight, though. The novelty of landing in a regional airport where the stuffed deer and bears keep their glass eyes fixed on the baggage claim is especially notable. Any flight, though, can be charming if you choose it. There’s a special magic in climbing above the clouds and feeling severed from time passing below. It’s less and less of an escape now as every flight has WiFi, keeping you tethered to the world below.

Bundled in my tawny Italian wool jacket that almost touches the floor, I was already bracing myself for the winter wind to hit me upon exiting the plane. I take my seat, clutching my yellowing book of E.B. White essays with a smile. The coming-home feeling always overtakes at this point on the trip. As we clear the cloud cover, the northern light crisply enters the deep oval-shaped windows. That weightless feeling of childish joy that Prosecco brings to an empty stomach is made even better paired with a change in altitude. Travel can be quite romantic. Soft bubbles touch my lip and gently trickle down my throat. The aftertaste is sweet and bitter, the afterglow of the first sip lingering. I want more romance in life.

It’s funny how the qualities of light change. On the East Coast, especially New York, it feels clear and energetic. Living in Southern California, it felt warm and vibrant to me. It woke me up with a smile and grabbed my hand—before I’d even had my coffee—and pulled me willingly out of my airy condo for a stroll through the neighborhood to the beach, the bougainvillea dripping in the sunrise. The light feels inviting but heavy in Texas. We get up before sunrise to escape the heat, and retreat to cooler places when the world is fully bathed in yellow. In the Northeast, we worship the sun, flocking outside on a well-lit day. It’s a mortal sin to stay indoors if the sun is out. On my morning journey back to Northern Michigan from Texas (my God, I do live in Texas now), the light has started to feel a little more crisp and clear.

I was hopeful to make a friend on this flight, but instead settled in for 38 minutes with my essays as my adjacent passenger intently examined inspirational videos on his iPhone. I didn’t mind my situation, a good book is a great companion. I took another sip of Prosecco and fastened my long jacket to the tippy-top button as the cold permeated the walls of the plane. I looked it up, it’s the Bombardier CRJ-550.