Since a good portion of my FYS class is rooted in a sense of place, I have been thinking a lot about my place(s) lately. Right now I'm calling Saranac Lake, New York in the Adirondack Mountains home. I moved here a year ago and although it's still in the eastern United States, the culture and climate is certainly different from my hometown of Richmond, Virginia. Whereas Richmond is a large, sprawling metropolitan area whose main climate highlight is hot, muggy summers, Saranac Lake is a rural village set in the frosty climate of the Adirondack Mountains.
I will never forget the first interview for my job as Public Services Librarian up here. Unlike other jobs, the phone interview was a two-step process. The first step entailed the search committee describing just how cold and isolated it is up here. They told me that at times this is the coldest place in the continental United States, that some days it can get so cold your snot will freeze. I remember doing some research before I flew up for the campus visit to reassure myself they were exaggerating. I was scared when I realized that for the most part they weren't. At least, I comforted myself as I packed all my belongings into boxes, it isn't as cold as Siberia.
My first winter here was rough, though not nearly as bad as I expected. In late December, just a few weeks into winter proper, I managed to total my car despite having purchased two studded snow tires for my front wheels and driving slowly. My coworkers told me it was a North Country rite of passage to wreck your car in the winter, so I guess you could consider it a step towards belonging up here.
After all the drama of the car accident I figured I could handle whatever the season had to throw at me. I did take proactive steps to make it easier on myself-- I used a light therapy lamp in my office, took vitamin-D supplements, started going to the gym, and in February I started taking African dance classes. And somewhere along the way I realized I had a real, rich life here in this cold, isolated place.
Finally, one day in late April I realized I no longer had to scrape ice off my windshield every morning. Mud season was here. I bought a stylish pair of rain boots which I proceeded to wear every single day for a month. Despite the slush, I was so grateful for the small pleasure of being able to get in my car and just go, without having to wait ten minutes for the defroster to start working. And I felt strong, self-sufficient and just plain proud of myself for proving that I could adapt to a new, difficult environment. Now I understand why my coworkers spent so much time cautioning me and telling me horror stories about the winter-- up here complaining about winter is actually a socially acceptable form of boasting. And now I felt tough too, like I had earned the right to wear my goofy flannel lumberjack hat and pontificate to newcomers about the cold.
After mud season comes the glory that is an Adirondack summer. Summer, brief though it is, is why people tough it out here through the other 10 months out of the year. Summer brings perfect 80 degree days with plenty of sunshine and cool nights that are perfect for sleeping with the windows open. In the summer, I take a lot of time off to just be. I take Max for leisurely walks around the lake and then take an afternoon nap with my face buried in his fur. More often than not, I make plans with my friends and we go out together for trivia night or wing night at a local pub. I go to dance classes, and little outdoor festivals or events that spring up around town.
This past weekend was the Farm 2 Fork festival. It was like a microcosm of the things I have grown to love about this place. The day started off grey, but eventually became warm and pleasant. I showed up and ended up informally volunteering to help collect money for Farm Aid to benefit local farmers. Droves of people came out and I realized that I recognized a lot of faces in the crowd. Chatting and making connections with people that I felt like I already knew through my other friends, I felt like a sense of belonging. I love this small, friendly community. This, more than anything, is what makes the Adirondacks feel like (a) home to me.
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