By Mistaya Smith
One week out of college, I sign a lease on a house with three friends on the word of a mutual connection, site unseen. It’s only 45 minutes from the city! We reason delusionally, desperate to offer a confident answer to “so, what’s next”?
“The destination is on your right,” the GPS’s stale voice states over the car speaker. Miles of muddy cow pasture stretch out in a desolate landscape of browning snow. There is utter silence in the car as we pass the town’s only two buildings, a church and a town hall with a comically large parking lot. Welcome to Panton, population 646.
The homeowners show us around, sharing that unfortunately they don’t know where the house key is because they’ve never locked the door. Gingham upholstered furniture sits beneath a collection of crosses and blessings.Tucked among the shelves of classics and bibles, there’s a preacher’s guide to dealing with the sin of homosexuality and a pro-life manifesto. “Bless us, O Lord, and these gifts that we are about to receive through Christ our Lord,” I read off an embroidered plaque as we dodge questions about our jobs and love lives. Not the time to share, we suppose, that two of us are dating and one of us works at Planned Parenthood.
Dozens of clocks all chime at slightly different times and, inexplicably, an entire attic full of mannequins fills the space above the garage. A ghost makes its presence known as lights flicker at any mention of the supernatural and the dining room chandelier swings in its reflection, but not in the room.
On the first and only night I spend home alone, someone comes inside, gets a glass of water from the sink, and settles onto the couch. “Who came home early?” I text the group. No one, they ominously reply. I lay in bed wide awake, silent and motionless the rest of the night. Three gravestones stand in the backyard as a testament to those who once lived within these walls—one of whom still comes home to quench their late night thirst.
Reeling from the quirks of our new ‘home’, we each spend hours walking the long dirt road that connects our front porch to Arnold Bay where Benedict Arnold once led a revolutionary war battle, before his traitorous turn. Across the shore, the Adirondack High Peaks loom – giants, at once beckoning and grounding. “There’s more out there,” they call, and I nod miserably in agreement as I squirm under a haze of self-doubt and acquaintances’ flashy LinkedIn posts.
But they’re laughing at a joke I’m too naive to understand. “Look closer,” they whisper, having witnessed this story before, having long tired of folks’ volition that fulfillment lies just out of sight.
We barrel down the dirt road on Saturday mornings, my truck loaded with trash and headed a half hour north to the nearest dump and grocery store. We tell strangers our address in exchange for an anthology of stories about everyone they’ve ever known who lived in or near our house. Dump visits and errands become social outings, stretching hours depending on who we run into.
We receive career advice and an invitation to glassblowing lessons at a nearby library. My new coworkers are shocked to find out that I didn’t move to Panton for its widely renowned Trout stock and suggest a day out on the creek. I don’t hunt, but I begin to keep track of the months in terms of game seasons.
As hare season thaws into snow goose season, Panton’s few hundred residents emerge from hibernation, corralling into the Hired Hand Brewery thanks to a sparsity of alternatives. Amid IPAs, we serendipitously meet the four children who grew up in the house we now occupy. Shep, the youngest son, is on reserve from the coast guard and volunteers to help us fix the back deck.
The flower farm next door opens a roadside stand and our household gifts them record breaking sales. Dahlias, tulips, daffodils, and roses explode from every room under our roof, fragrant sweetness offering a subtle undernote to the rich odor of freshly manured fields.
Fertilized, and hydrated by a winter of deep snowfall, the pastures emerge in blindingly verdant hues, long strands blowing mesmerizingly in the wind, colors shifting between gold and lime. Monstrous hay trucks rumble down the street, their dirt plumes trailed by fresh green straws scattering in the wind, my windshield left cracked after following too closely.
We lure friends from surrounding cities for dinner, promising ghost stories and fresh produce. “We won’t be here for long,” we warn, “come see.”
“Wow, this place is really out there!,” they invariably remark. The Adirondacks wink at me knowingly, “there’s more out there” they chuckle.
Before the pastures are coated with snow again, we leave Panton. We hide the books on homosexual and abortive sins, but offer the homeowners a gracious thank you. I can’t help but needlessly buy a flower bouquet for the last drive out of town, a bucket of pink peonies scenting my truck’s interior.
Mistaya Smith (she/her) is a Master in City Planning student at MIT exploring methods for improving access to outdoor recreation and green spaces. She calls both Virginia and Vermont home and can be found trail running, skiing, and wandering farmers markets in her free time.