Whenever the world grows cold, and I feel the need for reassurance and warmth, I think of my grandmother. She seemed to come more regularly into our orbit every fall, as the days began the march to the holidays. My Mom would bring us into her hometown of Hoosick Falls to spend the weekend with Gram just as the fall ascended to its apex. In preparation, I would make a batch of apple cinnamon muffins. They filled our house with the comforting smell of cinnamon and spices. Nestling them into a cloth-lined basket a la Little Red Riding Hood, I loaded them carefully into the car and we made our way along the backroads into the little town where Gram spent most of her life.
In close proximity to Vermont, Hoosick Falls was a sleepy village, through which the Hoosick river flowed. Water played a part in our journey there, as we crossed bridges that went over streams and said river. “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go” was an apt musical cue, and we would sing it out loud as we entered the town.
That first night we would settle in to an old-fashioned meal cooked by Gram, accompanied by apple-cinnamon muffins for dessert. We went to sleep in spite of our excitement over the next day’s travels.
Some years the leaves were in the midst of their glory; others they had already been rendered bare. The sky was usually gray, and the air damp, but the scent of fireplaces made it all feel more cozy. Along with the rustling of leaves, the sound of rushing water came to signify fall, as it ran behind one of our favorite places to stop: the candle mill.
As one of the main destinations for me and my brother, its two-or-three-story building stood on the edge of a roaring stream, always full of fall rain. Before we got outside to inspect it closer, however, we had candle work to do. There was one small section, on the landing between floors I think, where they offered a pair of pure white linked candles which you could dip in various wax colors which were heated and smelled deliciously of light, if light could have a fragrance. We would dip and make our own designs (I always tried to make an entire rainbow on the candle, but after the third or fourth dunk it was futile, and the yellow never got as light as I wanted it.) That wasn’t the point – we loved it, being able to take part in something like that, putting our own little spin on something as wonderful as a candle.
Afterward, we would go behind the building and look over the bank onto the rush of water. A little waterfall crashed further up the stream; it was noisy there, in the best way. We wanted to get closer, but there was danger there too. Childhood verges ever on the dangerous. We gripped our paper bags of candles tightly, as we edged nearer the ledge. Mom and Gram pulled us back and then it was time for dinner in Manchester.
Those weekends were why Gram would come to symbolize the coziness of fall to me. Together with my Mom, they crafted a sense of warmth just when the world began to go the opposite direction. Later, Gram would teach me to crochet, another act of creation that would see us through the winter as well. But that’s another story to tell, and we’re not quite there yet.
