24 Hours at Carla's

Searsport, Maine

The first time I spent the night at Carla’s house, I slept in a tent. But even then, after my first sleep, my insides were quieter than when I’d arrived.

I know when I’m at Carla’s house, two things are gonna happen: we’ll eat a warm supper and watch the beavers.

‘Watch the beavers’ means we bundle up with blankets, bring our binoculars, walk out to the pond, and set ourselves down in two plastic patio chairs facing the water. Beaver hour is the time before dusk when the beavers emerge from their dam and swim around. This time, she and I brought them “snacks,” spring clippings from her apple trees.

We throw the treats into the edge of the pond, and she says, “They’ll be gone by tomorrow,” in her thick Southern accent. But don’t let that fool you, Carla is a Mainer through and through. We’re not always born in the places where we belong, friends, but damn if we don’t find them.

Carla was my midwife to Maine. She invited me here, let me stay with her, found a place for me, sent me to a play, introduced me to all her friends around town, and even sat with me at Urgent Care. Then, after I moved here, an hour and a half south of her, when it had been a minute since our last visit, she texted me, “I need to set my eyes on you, soon.” With just five months under my belt and no blood family in this state, to be claimed by an elder is no small thing.

Today, the beavers were slow to exit, so we started off watching the Mergansers, a waterbird I was sure was a wood duck. She laughed and said, “You know, for years, I called them wood ducks! There used to be 60 of ‘em on this pond.” Today, there are just two. But we watch them, gliding across the pond, nonetheless.

It’s early spring, a time up north when one’s longing for the sun is disproportionate to the warmth it provides. So when dusk settles in, so does a deep chill, making Carla sneeze and me wish I’d worn my winter clothes.

But it’s supper time now, not dinner, supper time. We head back in, and on the way, I explore the forest floor, revealing itself after the winter thaw. A big tree turned upside down with its roots all up in the air. The last bits of snow clinging to the shadows. The moss emerging from beneath matted leaves, and me searching for at least one tiny green shoot. Both sides of the path are initiated with the beaver’s handywork: chewed-up tree stubs that come to a point. “They come out this far?”

Sure do.

Every time I’m here, we sit and watch the beavers. And sure, it’s great when I see them, when they give us a big ole slap of their tail, swim up close, or when we count them all over the pond, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5…8! I see 8!” But it’s kinda like fishing with my dad used to be. Most of the time, we just sat there, listening to the sounds, smelling the smells, talking, and being together. No cell phones. Just us and the pond. That’s what I love.

But this night was particularly special. When we got inside, Carla put me to work with the potatoes. There’s a hospitality that comes when someone makes a meal for you, which is nice, but then, there’s what happens when you make it together. One step closer. Like we’re family, like this is what we do.

I peeled and eyed the potatoes, chopped them up, and put them in a pot to boil. Carla put together salad greens, mashed up the potatoes (she makes the best mashed potatoes), and served it all with last night’s stewed lamb. We sprinkled the salad with hot-off-the-stove toasted sunflower seeds, and Carla poured herself a homemade elderberry spritzer.

Desert: blueberry and rhubarb cobbler from last year’s crop, with a dollop of fresh whipped cream she made with a little bit of sour cream.

After dinner, I stretch out on the floor like a satiated cat, next to the wood stove, and Carla puts on two songs from her playlist “Big Salty Tears.” It’s been that kinda week. Maybe that kinda year.

The last song was American Tune, by Rhiannon Giddens with Paul Simon. I rock my body back and forth on the floor with Rhiannon Giddens’ layered vocals moving through the air, and watch the weight of this world, which builds up without me noticing, settle down into my bones as only a warm lullaby, a good meal, and a 24-hour visit at Carla’s can do.

Years ago, a teacher shared with me his life mantra: “to make family everywhere I go.” And it’s true, not everyone makes family the way I do. I’ve seen it. Maybe it’s a skill acquired from moving so much, a side-effect of queer living, or just my genuine desire for home to be more than a place-based experience. What I do know is that making family is an action. It doesn’t just happen from good intentions or desire. It’s a choice. We choose it every day. We decide to be family. We decide we’re gonna do this, whatever that this is, cooking, walking, standing in line, working, cutting down a tree, moving a couch, this living, together. And I’m gonna help you do your dishes.

Want me to come visit YOUR home and write about it? Email me at denise.e.casey@gmail.com. Every home is singing. Sometimes we just need to listen.