Teatime near the hearth

                                                                        A Different World

            When I visited Tasha, we normally remained at her cottage, enjoying the fire, the trilling of the canaries, and the rasping speech of the parrots. We filled the hours baking brownies or small cakes for tea time, stitching on handwork, and Tasha constantly drew. The bird feeder provided drama as the blue jays and chick-a-dees battled for the seeds. Of course, the corgis entertained us as they raced through the house or wandered the barnyard. A couple of times we ambled over to Seth and Marjorie’s home for tea and also watched the latest version of Jane Eyre, a book that Tasha loved. While neither of us wanted to step into the boots of the Jane and experience the dark world of Mr. Rochester, the story offered a view into a different time and romantic world.

            But one morning as tiny snowflakes sifted from the low-slung clouds, Tasha announced a trip to town. We climbed into her green Volvo with heated seats, rumbled down her long driveway bordered by snowbanks and white birch, and headed into Brattleboro.

“See this mist of snow? It tends to snow up here, but will only be cloudy in farther down the mountain.”

Of course, Tasha not only lived in a world of her own making, but dwelled in a place that selected its own weather. As her car traveled the road winding around and down the mountain. A little at a time, the snow faded to a few flakes, and then abated when we reached Brattleboro, a classic New England town, with clapboard homes, brick stores and narrow streets. Pedestrians bustled around the shops and hurried down the sidewalks. When one woman walked by in leggings that looked like long underwear, Tasha and I eyed each other.

“You never know what you will see these days,” she remarked. “I would think she’d be warmer in a long skirt.”

We visited the post office in order to mail a small package, and drove on to the food coop where Tasha bought the supplies that she could not grow. A bag of flour, cocoa, and a stash of small chocolates…she kept the bag in the top drawer that held silverware…and finally, a bunch of spinach to feed the canaries.

“I could take you out for tea, or we could go home and enjoy the last of the brownies.”

“Let’s go home.” I knew that few bakers could rival Tasha’s skills, and her fireplace called to me.

Back in the Volvo, Tasha steered her car back up the mountain. Snow frosted the dark green hemlock trees, and yet a stream edging the road still rushed around rocks and under candle-levered layers of ice. As we approached her farm, we entered the mist of snow that blurred the outline of her barn and welcomed us back to Tasha’s world.