“Foxes and snow in the same week… Wowsers!” ~ Outer Cape friend, Gail
We arrived in Truro two weeks ago today. Strangely, it feels like we’ve been here longer than that, in a ‘rooted’ way. Couple that with the lack of emotion in leaving Jackson, and this move feels as though it was meant to be.
Part of the White Mountains version of me died with Atticus. Another part wilted with the arrival of the post-pandemic changes.
In describing Jackson, the Mount Washington Valley, and much of northern New England to folks we met on our cross-country coddiwomples, I described a heartbreaking shift: “It used to be Norman Rockwell; now it feels more like Pottery Barn.”
In our final weeks up north, we witnessed three large areas go from old trees to being cleared for multi-house developments. Of course, I had been noticing the progressive decline in wildlife compared to the “old days.” And that, too, saddened me.
Without realizing it, our coddiwomples became a hunt for a new place where we could feel more like ourselves. There were half a dozen communities that came to my mind when it was clear we needed to leave. In the end, it was either Kanab, Utah, or the Outer Cape.
Friends in both areas cast nets to find us housing. When Jim Landry, who grew up in my hometown of Medway and is co-owner of Provincetown Paws & Whiskers with his partner John, sent a series of photos of this cottage, I had mixed feelings about the space, but not about the area.
Two weeks in, and I adore the cottage. Yes, it is small, lacks a full-size refrigerator, storage, and a bathtub, and has a weak two-burner electric cooktop. It also has a tremendous shower. Jim and John lent me an extra refrigerator from their store. I bought a portable induction cooktop, and not having as much storage means a cleaner, less-cluttered life.
The numerous and glorious windows bring the light of hope in dark times. With track lighting along the exposed beams, the cottage glows at night. The bed is comfortable, and the overall feel is that of an artist’s garret or a writer’s cottage.
We are ten to twenty minutes from numerous ghost-empty beaches, and while the hiking trails are shorter and fewer than in Jackson, they still offer hills, and it feels like we are stepping into the pages of a fable. This is the same setting that beguiled Mary Oliver, Henry David Thoreau, Edward Hopper, and Henry Beston. More than a land or seascape, it is a dreamscape.
We are ten to twenty minutes from numerous ghost-empty beaches, and while the hiking trails are shorter and fewer than in Jackson, they still offer hills, and it feels like we are stepping into the pages of a fable.
As for people? Well, we rarely see anyone in Truro, except at the post office. It is a quiet town, and in winter, the most tranquil on Cape Cod. I adore that Provincetown is a dozen minutes away, with its layers of history and its engaging mix of personalities and colors. In Jackson, I may have seen four Blacks in sixteen years, and none of them were residents. Jamaica is well-represented in PTown. The other contrast melds together seamlessly — the grizzled blue color townies and the LGBTQ community.
A simple trip to the Stop & Shop is heart medication and a feast for this writer’s eyes. In an increasingly divided nation, Provincetown gets it right. Yes, it’s challenging to find affordable housing, but at least they are aware of it and discuss the problem.
And then there is the National Seashore. We will hunt the coyotes after a bit. Not to harm, but to see more of them. However, studies claim there are only eighty of them on National Seashore land. Foxes and seals have been great company so far. And we’ve yet to see any other humans on the beaches. We’ve only run into another pair in all our woods walks. Twice we’ve met and chatted with Richard and Candy.
And then, this weekend, the outrageous happened. Snow was forecast for Sunday. Locals couldn’t be bothered. It rarely snows much out here, and the predictions are seldom accurate. However, when we woke up that morning, there was a good coating of snow. We walked along one of Mary Oliver’s favorite trails with its bent, haunted trees, as it turned into a scene from Narnia.
At Stop & Shop, I joked with the Jamaican employees as they shivered and gasped when I lifted my pant leg to show them I wasn’t wearing socks under my running shoes.
“And you walk the trails like that?! Brrrr!”
At home, I made our old favorite, Fat Free Vegan’s lentil soup, in my Instant Pot. The snow kept falling.
I baked apples with cinnamon and sweet potatoes, and the cottage smelled like our kitchen back home.
And the snow kept falling. Mug after mug of steaming tea warmed my hands and throat, each stirred with a fragrant cinnamon stick.
Just before sunset at 3:30, we walked through the storm's fattest snowflakes to Katy Smith Dos Passos’ grave and laid a small holiday wreath I picked up the day before at a garden center.
Storms rarely live up to their billing, but by the time the snow drifted out to sea, we had eight inches here. It was like a gift from New Hampshire.
The Outer Cape is lucky to get a dusting. Our friend Gail, from three towns away, said, “It’s the best it gets for us as it’s been a long time since snow actually stayed on the ground. I’m so delighted for you! I hope your desk is here…perfect weather for writing!”
(She was correct about the weather; however, the desk has yet to arrive.)
I was impressed by the work the plows had done and how clean the streets were by noon yesterday.
Foxes and snow on back-to-back days. We’ll take it. We love it! And it helps three pilgrims feel like we’re home.
Bewitching Timing
Sunday’s storm, our first on Cape Cod, fell on the same day as the first snowstorm Atticus and I experienced after moving to the White Mountains all these years later. We hiked three 4,000-footers that day — Tom, Field, and Willey.
