A newcomer in an old land.
I am a newcomer. I always will be. It is not an easy title to wear. Some use the word as an insult. For others, the word denotes newness, which may carry the burden of a fear of change, of stepping into the unknown, of letting go the confines of the past, of ambiguity of the future, or of an uncertain history.
Newcomer. Old timer. One way is not better than another. Only different, based not on the individual’s make up, but his or her circumstances. Not everyone was lucky enough to be born in the right place to remain indefinitely, I’ve been told. Others remind me of the heavy load of being the old timer, the expectations, the demands, the assumptions. There is a lightness in moving through life without such baggage.
We have choices. It is not necessarily that I have chosen change. But change is what has been right for me; it is where my life led me. To new places. To try new things. To be a newcomer. And the funny thing is, usually I end up in a land of old timers. If I remained back in New York City, would I be an old timer now too?
“I’ve been coming here since 1974,” he tells me as if that statement alone requires respect. His words do not. I try to respect all people upon first meeting, not demanding they earn it first (as if I should be worthy of such efforts?). I try. I do not always succeed. I look around the cabin he bought, not built. It is the same as it was when he paid for it. Only much older now. 1974, I repeat back to him. What have you done in all those years? Fished, he tells me.
“My parents and their parents before them vacationed here before me,” she tells me. And I am to assume this entitles her more attachment to the land, to the mountain, than the woman who came here on vacation last year for her very first time, and cried and cried as her husband drove away at the end of their week stay, because her attachment grew so great already. It does not take long. I am the middle ground. Or perhaps, as the newcomer, outside looking in. I have never vacationed here. I only lived here, worked here. I see them both equally. They love the land. The mountain does not choose who shall love her more, but accepts both, tolerates both indifferently.
Yet as a newcomer, I am on guard. I have no comfort of a past to fall back on, to dive into and find myself held up by, or to float lazily on the pool of stories which should have been let go of long ago. I have only my own two feet here and now to stand on. Two hands to work the land. And my family by my side. I need no more.
At times, though, I look at the old timers with a longing and envy. Standing their so firmly planted in a land where the roots have spread and taken hold and sent our runners and created their own grove, rich and lush and fruitful. Or grown into a tight thicket, deep and dark and murky with secrets lurking and buried, and vines reaching up to trip and tangle and pull one down and keep them in their “rightful” place.
I remain free, new to the land. The newcomer. I have learned to see things new. I do not often get comfortable. I take nothing for granted, must watch my step, and look around with the wonder of a child’s wide eyes.
Thus begins our eighth winter here. I was scared at the start, that first year. No, it’s not as cold and exposed and unforgiving as, say, the Arctic. Not even close! But at least if I wintered at the Pole, I would not be the first to do so. It has been done before. I could hear stories. People would tell me their tales and it would not be quite as frightening. There would be a little less newness. But I heard no stories from here except, “Oh, so-and-so tried to winter up there once back in 1983… but never made it past Christmas.” There was no comfort in that. A newcomer in a new deal. We learn to write our own story.
Now I begin to find comfort in my own stories. In a cabin on a ranch in a world we conceived and constructed to give rise to such comforts, in which I now find myself feeling… comfortable. Yes, I can say that even when I put on layer upon layer so that only my eyes are exposed, and even they stick together from my own breath rising above my scarf and turning to frost on my lashes, and the digital thermometer simply reads “OFF” because it does not register weather colder than 22 below zero, and my horses noses have icicles around them from their frozen breath, and still I have to remove my mittens to grab hold of the knife to open the hay bale to feed them. Yes, I know I will feel all that. And yet, still I will feel comfortable. Because I’m here, I’m home, if that is what it is for now. There will be others. I am getting too comfortable perhaps. It is not all new to me anymore. There is an ease that comes with time and knowledge. We start to make assumptions.
Eight years. Is that enough time to wear off the edge of newness, or only enough to soften the fear of the unknown? I am still the newcomer. Though I have felt my roots spreading. And before I get too comfortable, I will move on again. A newcomer all over again.