Transplanted Yankee ... by Cortney Eldridge

Dear Friend,

How is North Dakota? I understand your sister wants to leave the snow for good and move to New Hampshire? Concerning your sister’s plan, here is one transplant’s experience. I married a Yankee. Not a New York Yankee (perish the thought), a Yankee. A Yankee who despite our 13 years of living all over the world via his military career, still claims that New England is the center of the universe. Like your sister, my first trip to New England was in the fall. The weather is crisp, the leaves are gorgeous, and the orchards are loaded with every apple known to the western world. New Hampshire looks like something directly out of a Land’s End commercial. I admit it, New England is beautiful. Who wouldn’t want to live here year round? I too was lulled into a sense of it would be so great to live in New England so we packed our west coast children and made the cross country move. After three years of living amongst the Yankees, let me see if I can provide an accurate portrait of New England weather. There lurks a sinister side of this New England Camelot living referred to as … the “rest” of the year.

September and October are gorgeous months in New England … even mid to late August is nice if you are from the west coast where August is sweltering. Every small town and village boasts weekend fairs and antique shows. The locals are very kind, (even if they only use 25 letters of the alphabet, do they not teach the letter “R” in New England schools?) and there is a culinary delicacy called a “lobster roll” that you have to try. From November until that dark and fiery underground place freezes over (or New England, whichever comes first) there is snow. I grew up with the rocky mountain range in my backyard. I know snow, my home state is even famous for its particular type of powdery snow! I even like snow … until I met New England snow. It’s the humidity. Winter sports I love, like skiing, become hazardous entertainment as you maneuver down ice slopes, no powder here. The kids enjoy sledding and tubing … but I make them wear helmets. Have you ever felt a humid cold? It’s unlike anything ever experienced. I spend October – May cold. I mean cold, sitting in the house cuddled by the heater and still cold. Right now I am in sweat pants, thigh high baseball socks, two t-shirts, a sweatshirt, and the space heater is on high …still cold. The weather bites right through you and there is no thaw until March or April.

Just when the spring bulbs start to peek out of hiding (along with the local population who has been trapped inside all winter) the thaw happens rapidly from so much snow that we enter what New Englanders refer to as “mud season”. Mud season is exactly what it sounds like. I had cute shoes before living in New England. I had cute little sandals, sliders, pumps … I now have a pair of green and tan duck boots that I wear 10 months of the year. They work in the snow and the mud, which magically follows my children into my house, garage, car (my truck has not seen a good clean since we moved here, I gave up fighting the mud and snow) The mud is deep, and it’s everywhere. Your car will eventually get stuck, despite the “extra” 4 wheel drive package you paid handsomely for at the dealership. And if you don’t get stuck in mud, you might just accidentally get stuck in the thick fog and run over a moose, deer or escape housewife fleeing for their lives to the southern states during said winter months.

However, the mud eventually hardens, and we enter beautiful New England summers. New Hampshire in particular boasts beautiful, crisp mountain lakes for water recreation, amazing outdoor activities for the whole family, and local fairs with crafters from around the world. It is beautiful, it is entertaining … but remember the mud from the spring thaw? That same mud has provided a literal orgy of virility for every known species of “black fly”, “horse fly”, and “mosquito”. When I first moved to New England, I was swarmed at my son’s baseball practice. I foolishly referred to the swarm around my head as gnats. We have gnats out west, they are annoying, but harmless. My native New England neighbor warned me that these gnats bite. I didn’t believe her, these were gnats! Suddenly and without warning, the swarm attacked. New England gnats bite. I don’t care what you call them, they all bite, they are all the same, none of them are merciful (even to the chubby unsuspecting thighs of my newborn), and all of them potentially carry some sort of nasty virus.

The humidity during the day is bearable, it’s only about 80-90 degrees or so, but just when the sun starts to set and you think you can sit on your porch, go for a swim, or even have a bbq with friends, everyone disappears into their homes to avoid the swarms of “gnats”. We go through gallons of bug spray in the summer … and I mean gallons. I have tried coils, burners, swatters, zappers and even entertained hiring a voodoo expert. Nothing works. My hair is consistently frizzy from the humidity, I am covered in “gnat” bites, and usually sunburned because the low temperatures lull you into a security that it isn’t really “that hot”. Just when the swarms end (August), there is usually one good week where you can be outside, swarm free, and not freezing.

After having survived your first New England winter you swear you will flee the state before living through another. All Summer you plan your new life living further south or west, whichever the case may be (wherever there are no biting gnats). You might even put your house on the market with a serious intention to sale, and sale cheap! But one crisp fall morning you wake up and smell the faintest apple blossoms in the air. Ahh, Fall apple harvest. Your kids beg you to take them to the local farm to pet the animals, take a hayride, and pick some famous New England apples. As the day ends, and you find yourself putting the final touches on a homemade apple pie, while the television blares the New England Patriots season opener. You take a heavy sigh, and your plans to move are replaced by amnesiac memory of all that is good about New England and you realize another year in New England can’t be that bad. After all, these apples are delicious!

Love,
Your Transplanted Yankee