MY EAST COAST HAVEN

By Mina Okamoto

My grandparents’ woodland house in the tranquil forests of Connecticut is where I find solace. There is serenity in the quiet, still mornings and the cerulean morning skies accented by subtle golden rays of sun. To me, daybreak in the peaceful swaths of New England is a sacred snapshot in time. The few hours of silence and aloneness every dawn is an Eden-esque paradise. I cherish these moments by lounging in a pillowy, throne-like armchair and reading. Through the cool glass panes of the windows, I can see elysian, rolling emerald hills in the backyard adorned with towering trees and wildflowers. Deer often grace the fields with their presence, dancing through the shrubs in an endearingly carefree, childlike manner. On occasion, lumbering, lazy bears plod through the greensward while the sun casts a bronze sheen on their majestic, ebony pelts. Proud turkeys strut through the tall grasses in families, with their heads held high, flourishing and boasting the plumes of feathers down their backs.

In the summer, the dulcet hum of my grandfather’s John Deere tractor traversing the meadows of the estate fills my ears. During the winter, I can hear the crunch of snow being pushed from the alabaster, cloaked grassland by his tractor. Peridot evergreen fir trees stand in stark juxtaposition with the pallid snow of December and perfume the glacial air with their sharp, tangy aroma. Warbling, chirping birds that congregate around the bird feeders sparkle like gems that embellish the limbs of the broadleaved trees of June. The air of the fields is laced with the sweet, clean fragrance of the new grass reaching up from the confines of the soil.

Although a cool, crisp breeze sweeps through the backyard, my grandparents’ house is warm and inviting. Inside, the tantalizing bitter hazel scent of coffee wafts through the atmosphere of the kitchen, counteracted by the heavenly scent of freshly baked, crispy Belgian waffles doused with maple syrup. On Sundays, I wake up to the cracking sound of my grandfather dropping eggs into a hot pan filled with butter. Their savory, enticing smell rises up to greet me. I spend my summer afternoons running through the backyards of the house, and the winter afternoons are occupied by sledding through smooth, icy snow. Though the summer months are filled with the cold, sugary flavors of ice cream, rich, milky, steaming hot chocolate is the taste that symbolizes the holidays.

During Christmas, cookies of all kinds — Mexican snowballs, jam thumbprints, chocolate chip, snickerdoodles — and a myriad of other treats line numerous decorative plates. The Christmas tree is trimmed with silvery ribbons and festooned with glittering baubles, ornaments, and tiny ballerinas that seem to be in motion. All of the ornaments have a story of where they came from and how they came to sit upon the tree. The decorated tree is a beacon of light in the dark of night.

In the evening, stars pattern the indigo canvas of the Connecticut night like sporadic splotches of paint scattered by a painter’s brush made from the clouds. The old, creaking wood of my grandparents’ house is ingrained with the memories that I’ve made there and the scents of idyllic familiarity that can only be described as home.