over the river, through the woods, and off to storybook land…
by bam
dispatch en route to 05091 (in which the little black mobile swoops by a snow-covered campus quad, picks up a firstborn child and dashes away to snowier vermont for a short sweet spell of make-believe and pinch-me…)
once upon a time, there must have been a curly-haired lass whose prized position was little legs dangling over the edge of the armchair, storybook sprawled wide across her lap.
i imagine her big gray-blue eyes dancing. i imagine the gleam as she pored over the page. i imagine, most of all, the faraway look that must have set in, as her heart soared away to never-never land.
this little girl, you see, was a storybook dreamer. always was, always will be.
charmed by the intricacies of early-on picture books (surely tasha tudor framed many a dream), lulled by tales set in english walled gardens, abandoned castles, thatched-roof cottages and little cabins in big woods, she stumbled hard — and from the beginning — into that indescribable realm called the world of the imagination.
she found out that, plonked on a fat armchair, or tucked under the bedcovers, or curled up under the swishing strands of the weeping willow beside her bubbling brook, she could set sail to faraway places, weave long and winding stories that continued, chapter after chapter, night after night — for years, sometimes.
once, on a winter’s day she still remembers, she spent hours behind her locked bedroom door, hunched on the hardwood floor between the patchwork-covered twin beds, just beneath the paned windows that looked out through the trees and into the thick of the woods.
for nearly the whole of that day, she worked. put colored pencils to paper, scrawled a table of contents, prettified the fat first letter of each and every chapter. and, when all was just as she wanted it to be, she proudly penned her name onto the cover, just below her chapter-book title. “the adventures of joHo, by barbara ann theresa mahany,” she wrote, aiming for that authorial stretch that comes from employing all available monikers.
and so it’s ever been.
that little girl grew up. her blah-brown locks are now silvery with streaks of snow (how’s that for storybook stretch?). but quick as you can say “rumplestiltskin,” she can switch on the magic loop, and sail away on a pea green pod to the place where stories grow, and imagination sprinkles every garden bed.
and so it is that as we pack for a weekend’s jaunt to the woodstock inn in snowy vermont, i am beside myself with what bambi long ago called “twitterpation.”
soon as i saw that snap up above, the storybook inn with the glowing windows spread all across its face, soon as i got a whiff of that white picket fence, and read about teatime at four in the library, i started dreaming of four-poster beds, and threadbare oriental rugs. i heard the crackle of the fireplace, and spent a few delicious minutes chewing on the choice of which fat books to lug along with my lanz flannel nightgown and my holey haflinger boiled-wool slippers.
i imagine we’ll take long walks in the snow, through the sleepy vermont woods. and, if the moment is right, is sublimely sacred, i’ll take the hand of one of my boys. all three — tall, taller, and not-yet-tall — are signed up for the adventure. it feels like something of a miracle within the miracle, to be motoring up the back roads, leaving behind this cobbled city, stopping to grab the college kid in emily dickinson’s amherst before wending our way to woodstock.
but so it is. in this year of living sumptuously, this might be the sumptuousest (to make up a word, for the moment deserves its own home-grown vocabulary). we’re not a little clan who gets to take vacations terribly often (the price of being newsrakers in a dying industry), so each and every one is a sweet bit of miracle.
and this one, more than most.
it’s spring break for three of us — the two now entrenched at veritas U, and the one up amherst way. the little one’s spring break is not till april, so, alas, we’ve been here driving him back and forth to school through ice and snow all week. but at the crack of dawn tomorrow, i’m calling that school and reporting the child absent. and then we’re packing up the road food, stuffing ourselves into the woodstock-mobile, and heading out on massachusetts state highway 2.
all my life i’ve wanted to set a foot in vermont, a state of mind that brings to mind dappled cows bedecked in daisy chains. and covered bridges coursing over gurgling rivers. and woods aglow with lefty politics. my kinda state, i’m telling you.
it might be the epicenter of storybook landscapes, so off we go to fill my head with picture frames to last a lifetime. and for two full days, i’ll be bookended by my deeply beloved boys.
i can’t imagine — hard as i tax my storybook brain — a dreamier way to spend a gilt-edged chapter tucked amid these blessed holy days.
are you a storybook soul? and if you could pick one storybook place to tuck away for a sweet short spell, where might it be, and why?
I think plopping down in that storybook cottage would be true heaven on earth. Enjoy!
oh, darlin, if only i could tuck you TOO in my suitcase. you and me, kindred spirits in our very definition of the storybook cottage. i promise to bring you next time i mosey into woodstock. road trip from the sedona mountains????
in my mind’s eye, the cake is already frosted. perfect. xo
and just think, my beloved across the way, your magnificent miraculous firstborn gets to spend the NEXT FOUR YEARS in the great state of vermont. she makes me want to go to college again. oh, wait, that’s what i’m doing! but, seriously, in vermont, with a cafeteria that serves all-organic foods? and has phenomenal writing program? be still my heart…..maybe you can tuck me in YOUR suitcase one of those heavenly weekend treks you’ll make to middlebury……
I can hear your soul exhaling from here. Enjoy, enjoy, soak in every moment. xoxoxoxo
xoxoxoxo
The early Little Golden Books were magical. Especially any of them with illustrations by Garth Williams. The name of one that drew me in is temporarily out of reach–I guess if I’m old enough to remember this book, I’m old enough to forget its title!–but it was about a dog named Crispian Crispen, nicely dressed in tweedy suits and with pipe, who lived in the most fabulous little house and had a pet boy. I wanted to live in that house. I still have the book.
oh my goodness, i forgot to name garth williams, but yes, he was a good dose of the magic behind the laura ingalls wilder books. i too got lost in his pictures. and yup, i grew up on little golden books, too. the pokey puppy. and…….and, you know, i don’t think i ever connected the dots and realized HE was the illustrator of most of my favorites……i should look him up and find out more about him… thanks for reminding me….
Oh, Middlebury was my dream school (for the languages). Alas, I didn’t work hard enough in high school to go there. I finally visited 18 years ago, and nearly swooned, but I also enjoyed our days spent at Stowehof. I would go back there in a heartbeat. Does Vermont remain billboard-free (so you can see the views but not find our hotel . . . ) For my upcoming leap into storyland, my husband and I are visiting Switzerland, his old coworkers on the lake, and my old college grounds in the Alps. The college is no longer, but just to tromp the trail to the meadow restaurant, dip into fondue serenaded by the cowbells. I can’t pass a picture of an alpine village without stepping in; now I will for real. For Tasha Tudor fans in storybook towns, visit Niagara-on-the-lake and Trisha Romance’s gallery for a hearth-and-family blend of Tasha and Carl Larsson. And how about Robert McCloskey? Is there a museum for him in Boston?
oh, lordy, with every illustrator’s mention i am melting off my chair. robert mccloskey! there is the DEAREST (when you write in all littles you are resigned to all caps for emphasis, so forgive me, it’s like shouting in an elevator, i suppose…) mccloskey statue on boston common. (hmm, is it IN boston common, or ON boston common; prepositions can be SO vernacular…). with the ducklings, of course. i believe i snapped a pic of it somewhere, but will hurry back to snap another if i can’t find…
your storybook to the swiss alps had me at the fondue ala cowbells. i will never ever forget going into orbit reading heidi as a wee kid. i can still conjure some image of the mountain lunch she unfolded from her pack. oh, reading as a child is such a ticket to eternity, non? your trip sounds heavenly. i didn’t know you went to college in the alps. and, alas, i am in your camp: i too didn’t work nearly hard enough in high school. it was the one spell in my life when i decided to have a blast and never mind the homework. and i forever regret it. even though it was pretty much fun. for about 3.75 years……
yes to carl larsson. now there’s a field trip the chairs should take. scandinavia isn’t too far off the trail to the swiss alps, is it?
Do you remember, before Deerspring Pool, there was an alp (to a 10-year-old) from digging the basements in the neighborhood next door? I spent a summer playing out “Heidi” on that hill. Thank you for the memory!
oh, gosh, i don’t remember the alp. i was on the south side of deerfield road, playing pioneer alongside my brook and the mysterious gook-covered green pond back in the woods. talk about parallel play…..too bad our orbits didn’t line up….
I have just managed to pop over here to storybook land, and I am happy as happy to be remembering. I remember the endless, out-of-time gazing at Garth Williams illustrations and longing either to be a little child befriending a shimmering fairy, or out milking a cow on a lonely prairie. I hope your week is proceeding/has proceeded in a way that will long have you gazing back in out-of-time wonderment!