A Lovely Week in Cornish

Our week in New Hampshire is over, and it is terrible to imagine that we won’t be back until next year. Once a year isn’t nearly enough—and if we had our way, we’d be situated closely enough to go regularly, once or twice a month or even every weekend. There’s a timeless quality to the house and grounds, and being there makes the rest of the world feel very far away.

Much of the world seemed to be in Cornish this year, however. Molly and Ian came for a few days; several of the Littells’ friends came; and Mom and Dad came for a few days at the end of the week. It was not exactly a relaxing time—everyone’s stacks of books went more or less unread—and it rained almost every day; yet the days passed pleasantly with Scrabble, meals, and conversation. Molly, Ian, Andrew, and I tried to swim in the river a couple of times, but it was too rainy and chilly. When Mom and Dad and I flew home, they said they could hardly remember not being in New Hampshire—it has that kind of timeless effect. I can’t think of anyplace else even remotely like it.

Though Andrew and I will be back to Cornish, this trip marked our last trip there as a twosome—next time we go, we’ll have a baby with us. I think it will be so much fun to have our little girl there—there are so many fun things to do outside, like spotting frogs in the pond and hiking in the woods and canoeing on the river; and, if I have my way, the house will continue to be a media-free zone, a place free from video games and TV. To me it seems like the absolutely most blissful place to spend childhood summers. Our daughter will be very lucky if Cornish can become part of her life.

She was kicking maniacally all week—at night it felt like a baby aerobics class was taking place in my uterus—and I take this as a sign that she enjoyed her time there.

California seemed very far away all week, as, indeed, it was. It still seems far away now—I am in Pennsylvania until next Sunday, prolonging my time on the East Coast, though it’s much less fun with Andrew back in Roseville. I came across this passage in an article about California politics in the Times Magazine yesterday, and though the article is referring to Sacramento in the governmental sense, I read it with a kind of recognition:

“Calamity is just part of the equation here, as if God gave California so much glamour and grandeur and great weather that he had to throw in some apocalyptic menace to provide a little balance. Earthquakes, say. Or Sacramento.”

An apocalyptic menace. That sounds about right. I hope I don’t make a mistake on Sunday and accidentally get on a plane back to New Hampshire. That would be a terrible, terrible shame.