From the Garden State to the Granite State – The Boston Globe

“It feels kind of weird,” I said, barely one month into living in the Granite State. “It’s been me. It’s been who I am.”

She looked me in the eye and said, “You’re very brave.”

She was not the first to call me brave. She was not the last to say it, to write it in a card. But I was on autopilot since I received an inviting job offer a few days before Christmas. There was much to do.

The pandemic, I quickly learned, transformed an affordable real estate market in the Granite State to the Wild West of home buying or renting an apartment — the same story as the rest of the country: no inventory and skyrocketing prices. Still, no match for Ginger, my high school friend who was like an English pointer, doggedly scouring housing websites for me for weeks, until she reached a breakthrough and found a new listing. I needed a decent place to land. Check. Pet-friendly. Check.

Over text, I was introduced to a future colleague who FaceTimed me during a walk-through so I could see the apartment. By Jan. 8, I was setting up the electric utility account for my apartment, situated between the Lakes Region and the gateway to the White Mountains.

It took awhile before I understood what that meant, the beauty, the majesty, the isolation.

Dodging New Hampshire snowstorms, I moved in on Jan.12, with a job-start date of the 15th.

I left the Garden State with a friend who lovingly packed a 12-foot trailer with several pieces of furniture that would make this one-bedroom galley apartment home. I left my childhood home in the hands of friends who would caretake the last place where my family had been a family and help offset the cost of expenses. I left my neighborhood with the tears and hugs of neighbors. I knew this house. I knew this town, this state, these roads. Eventually, living in the day-to-day of New Hampshire, when the boxes were unpacked and the furniture shaped a home, I came to realize that I left familiarity, and recognizing that held its own kind of emptiness.

There are things that my small and unpretentious wardrobe never imagined, like fleece-lined pants or NASA-technology down jackets. Their warmth and comfort do not eclipse my sense of what it must feel like to be an astronaut wearing a diaper. And the boots. Oh, the many boots.

Adjusting to winter seemed frivolous compared to driving an hour to shop at Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods. Two hours to Costco was like Christmas. I was shopping for familiar comforts. Some days, just deciding which boots to wear and leaving the apartment and getting on roads without cell service seemed brave. For this suburban kid who has always lived a stone’s throw away from Manhattan, driving on dirt and densely wooded roads is not natural.

And when mud season arrived, like the day I found myself unintentionally off-roading — seriously, some people do this for recreation? — it was nothing short of terrifying. I have never seen mud tracks that were somewhere between six inches and “We’re sinking.”

Would the SOS button in my Subaru work? Would anyone find me if something happened? There was no place to turn. I understood one thing: Keep the car moving forward. It was time for X-mode, a feature that I had never before used but was willing to trust. It felt at once like I was an action figure clawing the earth and Captain Kirk commanding the Starship Enterprise. Oddly exhilarated and terrified, I steered the Subaru up over the mountain. Not bad for a flatlander. I felt something akin to courage.

As my days and months in New Hampshire pass — now just shy of eight months — there have been other mettle detectors, like the nine-hour drive home from what now plays like an adventure movie: Escape from the Eclipse. On the winding, wooded roads where I have learned to trust my companion, the British GPS man, my once-sheer panic is mostly a diluted nervousness. It lasts for a moment, while I mentally review whether I have water, coffee, or food in the car. But then I hear myself: We’re OK. Everything is OK. And I go back to listening to my book on tape. Or I see the sun filtering through the richly forested areas, the elegant, feathery ferns, the impressive rock walls, and I see the elements as the forces they are: self-assured, nonthreatening.

Through snow or mist, the mountains — set against the greening of the trees, the painted clouds, and big sky — carry a nobility. Breathing in the expansive landscapes that brim with possibilities, I cannot help but feel that too. And the move that brought me, a writer, to live and work in this rural, sometimes remote area of New Hampshire has shown me that courage comes in bits and opportunities.

“You’re very brave,” she said.

Yes. I now know what she means.

Mary Ann D’Urso is a freelance writer.