Tangential back story:
Skaneateles is about 45 minutes from home. It's a quaint town. My mom and I have annual November dates in Skaneateles to peruse the shops, lattes in hand, as the first snow usually twinkles down softly around us. Whenever I walk its Main Street, I feel like I've apparated into one of those old New England porcelain snow villages my mom set up for Christmas. Some of the walkways are cobblestone. The old buildings smell musty and creek with the wind, accelerated by the lake. We usually eat at the same waterfront restaurant; we request the back room next to the wood-burning stove, both for the swelling heat to flush our cheeks, and also for the first smells of winter. Removing our scarves and jackets, Mom and I order a glass of wine and split an apple brie croustini drizzled in a warm raspberry sauce. We spend the afternoon milling in and out of old shops, laughing at hand-painted signs, purchasing the first gifts of the season and occasionally treating ourselves to trinkets from The White Sleigh or a cozy flannel from Roland's Men and Boys. Surely, living in Hawaii, our annual afternoon outting is only momentarily paused. I vow, as soon as we are back on the mainland, that I will travel home every November to reinstate this coveted tradition.
But that's besides the point.
Always, while driving or while sitting in traffic, my mind sifts through the past, and I delve into a favorite memory. Lately, my memories have a theme.
Autumn.
I miss autumn. I miss the wind nibbling at my cheeks, and the click-clack of my stack-heel leather boots, and scarves and jeans. Gosh I miss jeans. Perhaps this ache for the cold is instigated by the sweltering days in the sun, by the humidity that seeps into the walls of our Hawaiian home and bakes us all afternoon like a slow-cooking turkey. No. There is no 'perhaps'. These are most certainly the reasons for my ache for the cold. I seek refuge from the heat in the chill of my thoughts, especially when my skin is clammy-wet from the heat and the feeling of sweat tracing the curve of my spine is more familiar than.... the curve of jeans around my waist.
Anyway, I know none of you feel sorry for me. I live in Hawaii. So I'm not looking for pitty. I'm merely attempting to articulate my love for cooler climates. And, for those of you who know me well, you know that the arrival of mid-July typically provokes my yearning for the fall. I'm a fall girl. Our October wedding was not chosen based on convenience.
One of my top ten favorite fall memories is from Labor Day weekend 2010. I know (Nick) that Labor Day technically isn't fall. But it signifies the closing of summer time and, depending on the weather for that weekend, it certainly can inspire that familiar autumn chill.
In 2010, I surprised Nick with a weekend in Skaneateles to dually celebrate his birthday and our anniversary. He had been gone all summer working for an engineer company outside of Chicago, and I wanted us to retreat for us time in the quiet of a a bed and breakfast called Hobbit Hollow. I found Hobbit Hollow on a listing of New York b&bs. The photos of the property stole my breath, never mind that the location was Skaneateles.
Nick and I drove along the far side of the lake. Crimson and burnt orange leaves popped in preview along some of the tree tops. As we slowed to the driveway off 41A, I was enchanted by the colonial architecture of the old home.
We were greeted by the inn-keeper, a Mrs. Potts figure who offered us a tour, our house key, and warm chocolate chip cookies. The library we passed on the way to our room neatly held old books with tattered spines. I can only describe this space to you by telling you to close your eyes and picture a small library from a movie or a novel. The room smelled like the pages of an antiquated book. An old sofa, curvy and romanticly French, sat rigidly against the wall. It didn't invite you to curl up and read, but it somehow did capture the spirit of the whole house. I wanted to live there.
Our room was the Lake View room. It sat above the front porch. It had a fireplace and a queen-size bed. On the bed we found a tray of chocolate covered strawberries and a bottle of wine on ice. Before we ventured into town, we sipped our wine and laughed our way through stories from our adventures, together and apart, over the summer.
In the early evening sun, we slipped on jeans and long sleeves, and drove the mile into town, passing breathlessly beautiful mansions and old victorians. We parked near the town center, and wandered out on the board walk, but didn't stay long. Whispers of fall prickled our skin and we chilled quickly.
The rest of the evening was storybook-like. We strolled along the main street of Skaneateles. We ducked in and out of shops. We stopped in the park to sit on a bench before we realized the park's name (Thayer Park). We laugh and naturally, like most romantic stories in our repertoire, we sent a photo of the park to our Wags. Tired from the day, we retreated early. Our room, cozy and dark with rich reds and deep mahogany wood, captured us and spun the night into a sleepy daze. Right before we drifted out of consciousness, fireworks lit the lake and jolted us to look out our floor-to-ceiling windows. As if it all could not have ended more perfectly.
The next morning, Nick and I woke early. The inn-keeper offered us coffee when we ventured downstairs. As she made a homestyle breakfast (with fruit and veggies from the garden on the property), Nick and I rocked in the wooden rocking chairs on the front porch. A Central New York frost swept the tips of the grass, and the pristine lake glistened like glass in the morning sunshine. Our noses ran with the airy chill, but the sun kept us from seeking warmth in the house.
I ascertained at the moment on the porch that Nick and I would be back to Hobbit Hollow. It has the potential to be our special spot in the rolling hills near home.
Photo from that weekend, right before we left
Sept 5, 2010
