Our theme for the month of October is “states.”

The lake water is crystal clear this year, the blue a sharp contrast to the autumn leaves. It’s so quiet here my ears are ringing. I take my shoes off and let myself feel the grass and soak in the silence. We always stop here on the way home from the airport. It’s a baptism of sorts—from the city to the small town.

We drive down the main street of the village (because yes, the population is that small) and pass your aunt’s salon, your brother’s banner hanging on the lamppost outside. His photo billows in the breeze along with the other local servicemen: the “Hometown Heroes.”

Almost every house we pass, you know someone who lives there, or used to live there, or you used to live there. You got pulled over on that street for speeding, your dad’s snowmobile rolled into that ditch over there, your uncle runs that potato farm, you worked at that apple orchard ages ago.

The Notre Dame flag is flying proudly outside; your dad changes it depending on which football team is playing that day. We pull into the circle drive and see your dog in the bay window, keeping watch always over her family (or, more likely, the treats she has squirreled away throughout the house).

Your dad grills chicken wings in his famous sauce on Saturday. He explains the recipe (again), but we all know it won’t ever taste as good as when he makes them.

Light filters in through the windows at all times of day, lingering on the brick and wood paneling and family photos. Your grandparents lived here before your parents, years of memories held in the walls and etched into the floors. You assume your assigned positions in the kitchen barstools almost immediately when we arrive. Your mom baked not one, but two kinds of cookies. Always one with peanut butter, your favorite.

The garden is bursting with vegetables of all kinds and a plethora of zucchini. A surprise pumpkin patch appeared this year behind the shed, proving that joy can spring up even during a difficult season.

The front and back yards both back into apple orchards. There are more apples on the ground this year, we all notice. “Because of the drought,” your dad says, because he’s on top of these things. Every so often, a tractor drives by the front door. This is a whole different world; not the New York I imagined, but the one I’ve come to love.

The leaves are changing, littering the streets with impossible colors. We drive for hours, marveling at the waterfalls and the “Grand Canyon of the East.” We stop to take pictures—proof that we were together for this moment.

The time flies, as it always does. We hug goodbye and all say “love you” and “thank you for having us.” Your mom says, “Anytime, always.”

Olivia Harre

Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.