Flying across the Atlantic straight after the tour I was in Pennsylvania once more. Eight hours to Washington’s Dulles bus station – airport seems too grand a title. It feels so much like an urban transport hub I could imagine a Greyhound bus rather than an Airbus pulling up to the departure gate. Then a short hop to State College and I was home – if home is where the heart is now. Made home even more so as Becky brought Jackson to meet me at State College arrivals and baggage claim. If Dulles is like a bus station, State College is smaller than most Greek island airports I’ve visited. Either they clone their staff or it’s the same person who waves the plane in (presumably after staffing the control tower, if there even is one), offloads your baggage, welcomes you to Pennsylvania and serves you a coffee before your onward journey.
So Jackson and I rekindled our connection on the back seat, chauffeur-driven to meet the rest of the pack. And what a meeting. If I had worried Jackson would have forgotten me, I thought it entirely possible I’d be back to square one with the shepherds. But no. They’d actually missed me and were almost as enthusiastic in their welcome as the boy himself. Most significantly, Luna – who on last arrival had literally shepherded me around the house with nips and snaps – well, she was all kisses and shoulder rubs, and her big little brother was emphatically cuddly. Just the Dane was left wondering what was going on and had I been in the garage all that time? And who was this guy anyway?
I was back for a short visit, but every wildlife invitation had clearly been sent and RSVP’d, as I was treated to firefly displays every other night, chipmunks galore, cardinals to catbirds each in their distinctive finery, even a skunk in ermine flowing neatly across a neighbour’s yard one evening. No bears, but elegant leggy deer would cross our path on a morning stroll and in the afternoon the flowers on the porch would attract hummingbirds and bees as dragonflies went in search of water across the lawn. And water there wasn’t, as temperatures soared to the 90s Fahrenheit (well into the 30s Celsius). Summer had certainly arrived in Centre County.
And with summer came invitations to dine out, wine tasting, baseball games, drinks by the pool and ultimately 4th July celebrations. Tempted though I was to fly the flag of ‘the other union’, restrained I remained. No attempt to take back the colonies this year. I’d Make America British the another day. I took huge pleasure in re-establishing friendships with those I’d already met and making new friends amongst Becky’s longstanding ones.
Connecting through food continues to be key for me. Meals can be a great leveller as you choose from the same menu, extolling the virtues of simple and satisfying or obscure and overwhelming. Hot dogs or hamburgers, ice cream or gelato, gravy or ragu, tuna or venison tartare, it makes not a jot of difference, especially sharing family style. If breaking bread gave us good company, then passing the plates draws us perhaps even closer together. Conversation weaves its way into your soul as much as into the ears, and laughter is the greatest boon of all. The food, the flavours, the aromas and the odd table mishap all stimulate so many senses you can’t help but understand better and build bonds of friendship.
Alongside the social calendar and my teaching commitments, these having morphed from evening to morning and midday thanks to the time difference, came the increasingly familiar rhythm of the day. The early morning breakfast bark signalling the start of the day, or the even earlier wee-whine for the boys to be let out as Lady Luna looked on with disdain, staying put. Breakfast for the grown ups, a quick espresso or a hobbit-style staged affair as need or time dictated. Maybe giving a lift to work, a bit of shopping, or back home for some gardening (‘yard work’, John, get it right) or an attempt at fixing things that had long ago or recently given up the ghost. Contributing this way helped me to settle more and more. And it was appreciated, whether rehanging a cupboard door or rescuing a damsel in a distressed BMW. This was clear. And it made me feel things were actually moving forward apace at last, rather than disconnected increments.
The dogs soon settled back into familiar patterns too. Vulcan chewing his stress ball between bouts of frisbee in the garden. Luna and the Dane arguing over the whole point of chasing that flying disc – Luna runs competively for the catch while Mars runs interference, drooling over Luna’s shoulder. Jackson watches aloof and self preserving from afar, waiting for his toy to be thrown. Poop patrol started over – my moderate obsession with clearing the field before a single throw. And the poop lady was left wondering about the faecal drought that made life perhaps too easy for her. Jackson had put on a little weight, Vulcan maybe hadn’t lost it but mislaid it for a while – the jury was out. Luna had a different strategy for weight loss – amply distributing winter coat around the house – enough furballs and tumblehair to fill a sleeping bag, or indeed a bedroom. Mars was still choosy about when and how he was going to eat, but he had learned to regularly ring his dinner gong when kibble wasn’t coming his way. That was the role of Jackson’s bowl.
In my absence, it was clear Becky’s and Jackson’s bond was growing deeper and stronger, each comforting the other in lonely moments. He’d taken my place on the bed and was to be found following like a labra-shadow while my partner worked or did the chores. Personal time continued with private frisbee sessions, but the girls had started to enjoy taking him for walks too. Puppy was revelling in the new private parenting on offer, but that didn’t stop pup from turning to upstart every now and then. His bark was also getting stronger and deeper when he was short of attention. The quieter but just as infuriating alternative strategy was stealing towels, socks, napkins, in fact anything tuggable and chewable was fair game. Toys were still being disemboweled, doors occasionally scratched. And the Dane by now was getting bullied – toys snatched, tongue chased, food a bone of contention as they were by now sharing the same type.
Then as soon as I’d arrived, it seemed, I was packing to fly back to Edinburgh for the next tour of the season. Jackson clocked the suitcases and he wasn’t alone. On the morning of departure there was a free for all in the bedroom, with two of the four dog, Dane and Labrador, were pinning me down while Vulcan stomped grumpily around the bed, whining that he couldn’t join the fray. A morning walk with Jackson, giving him full attention, wasn’t enough to ease his angst and he supervised the final stages of packing with a look of resignation. His was the last forlorn face I saw before leaving the house.
And it was already a new month.
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