Category: transcripts

You wake up on Friday morning to the sounds of Alumni Weekend already getting underway all around you in Jubilee Station. You make your bed, brush your teeth, and shuffle down the hall to your kitchen, to start your morning tea. Your toes are warm and cozy inside your soft slippers. You can smell honeysuckle and peonies out the windows from the back garden. You rub your eyes, stretch your arms overhead, and take a deep breath.

This morning, you are heading to the Jubilee Inn to meet the featured speaker for Alumni Weekend. When you arrive at the hotel lobby, the speaker is sitting on one of the couches, dressed in jeans and a hoodie from the college in town. You fumble with your Alumni Weekend badge, trying to pin it to your jacket, and the speaker stands up to greet you.

“Good morning! I’m Liz. Are you my chaperone for the day?”

You say, “Yes, I suppose I am.”

Liz says, “Excellent, excellent. Hey, I need you to break me out of this schedule.”

You say, “What?”

Liz motions for you to sit down. They say, “Now, I promise you I will be a good citizen for the rest of the day. I just need to make a little detour from the schedule. There’s someone I really need to see while I’m in town. But I know we might both get in trouble with Joshua. Will you help me?”

You say, “Yes, I will help you.”

Liz claps their hands and says, “Wonderful. Thank you. Let’s get going.” They leap up from the couch and head out the front door of the hotel, where a car and volunteer driver from Festival Committee are waiting. As you scramble to follow, you hear them say, “Good morning! We have a little change to the schedule….”

A short ride later, you are walking through the lobby of the Care Center, waving at the receptionist, as Liz strides into the lounge behind the front desk. Sitting on a walker, by the grand piano in the far corner, is Elise, an older resident you have seen before.

You hear Elise say to Liz, “Oh, it’s been too long,” as she gives Liz a fierce hug.

When you catch up to them, Liz turns to you and says, “There you are. I’d like you to meet Elise, my piano teacher.”

Elise chuckles softly and says, “Former teacher. Hello again, You!”

Liz says, “You know each other?”

You say, “Yes, we do! Elise, how is that dolphin puzzle coming?”

She sighs and says, “Way too much ocean. All the same blue. But never mind that. Elizabeth, I’m so glad to see you. And I got your message. Do you really want to spend your time here on a lesson?”

Liz says, “More than anything. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had, in anything.”

Elise touches her hand to her chest and looks away for a moment. She whispers, “That’s kind of you to say.”

Liz says, “I like to say true things.”

Elise straightens her posture and clears her throat. “Well, down to business, then. What piece are you practicing right now?”

Liz answers quietly, “You know the one.”

At this, the teacher’s eyes fill with tears. Then, with her face set in determination, she reaches in the pocket of her dress and produces two hard candies, offering one to you and one to Liz. Elise says to you, “I have always given my students a little piece of candy at the start of their lesson, as a reminder to play sweetly. Also, they were usually hungry when they got to me after school. Anyways. Just take a moment and enjoy that.”

You take the individually wrapped candy and see that it is a mint with red and white stripes. These were your grandmother’s favorite when she was alive. You unwrap the candy, place it carefully in your mouth, and taste the mint oil mixed in with cane sugar, dissolving on your tongue. Meanwhile, Liz moves from the chair to the piano bench, and sets their fingers on the keyboard to play. You close your eyes, remembering how your grandmother would play her own piano, and take a slow breath.

You open your eyes and realize that all other conversation in the room has stopped, while everyone else listens, too.

When Liz reaches the end of the piece, Elise says in a shaky voice, “I have no notes. That was truly beautiful. It was perfect, but even if it hadn’t been….” She and Liz finish her sentence together: “Perfect is not the goal. We play from the heart, to reach other hearts.”

Elise says to Liz, “You have filled my heart with pride, all over again.”

Liz kneels down in front of Elise on her walker, and takes both of her hands in theirs. Liz says, “That’s all I ever wanted.” The two of them embrace again, and just like that, Liz is marching toward the exit, calling over their shoulder, “Try to keep up, Chaperone.”

At the union hall, after lunch and a reception in the rooftop cafeteria, Mayor Ashley introduces Liz to a standing room only crowd. The mayor says, “Elizabeth Findley is a world-renowned classical pianist, whose performing career began on this very stage, with a third-grade recital back in 1994. They will play for us, after a few remarks. Liz?”

You are standing just offstage as Liz, now dressed in a sleek black suit, takes the podium. They look over the crowd and say, “Alumni Weekend is a time for all of us to come back to our roots. To reconnect with friends and loved ones, and to remember how much this place has formed us.”

Liz slips off their watch and sets it on the podium.

They continue, “Would you take just 15 seconds with me to think of the people who have helped you become who you are – those who have cared about you, and who believed in you? I will keep the time.”

Liz fixes their gaze on you, waiting in the wings, as they say, “Thank you.”

You are awake early on Saturday morning, in the middle of your usual three-day weekend. The first rays of sunlight are filtering through your windows. As you walk down your street towards College Avenue, shopkeepers are sweeping their sidewalks, and cafe servers are putting out tables and chairs. Your destination this morning is the farmers’ market across the river. 

You are moving briskly through town, but when you reach the bridge over the river, you stop to enjoy the scene. The brick and limestone buildings of downtown Jubilee Station are glowing in the morning sun. Above you, the hills are full of proud oaks and maples. A cool breeze flows across the bridge from the river below, carrying the scent of the coffee that is brewing in the cafe by the train station. As you listen to the water rushing beneath your feet, you take a rich and full breath.

The farmers’ market happens every Saturday, year round, in all weather. The vendor stalls trace the shape of the large plaza where College Avenue comes to an end. A sign by the entrance announces that the market is organized by the Jubilee Station Land Trust.

“Good morning, You!” someone calls out, and you turn to see Joshua from the Festival Committee.

“Oh, good morning,” you say. “Nice to see you again.”

Joshua asks, “Do you like to cook?”

You say, “Yes, and everyone has been telling me I need to get here.”

Joshua says, “You’re in the right place for sure. Come with me – I’ll show you my favorite spots.”

At the first vendor you visit together, there are heaps of heirloom tomatoes and yellow bell peppers for sale, alongside a variety of lettuces and greens. The vendor says, “All of this was grown right here,” pointing to the greenhouses that loom overhead on top of every building.

As you walk through the market with Joshua, you gather a plump loaf of sandwich bread, fragrant soft cheese, and an armload of those tomatoes. Seeing your choices, Joshua says, “If you don’t make the best grilled cheese ever for lunch today, I will be supremely disappointed.”

You say, “I won’t let you down, chef.”

Joshua says, “Good, good. But in the meantime, are you hungry right now?”

You say, “Yes, I could eat.”

Joshua says, “Right this way.” He leads you to the edge of the vendors, where a small cafe is sitting behind an herb garden brimming with mint and cumin. There is a sign in the garden that says, “Take all you need.” Black-Eyed Susans, just beginning to bloom, are bursting out of planters between the small tables arranged outside.

“This is Yuubiil,” Joshua tells you, “and we are getting North African breakfast tacos. Have a seat.” He disappears into the shop, and you sit down at a table next to the garden, taking a small piece of mint from the nearest plant. You crush it between your fingers, savoring the bright and crisp scent that the plant releases, and you breathe deeply.

Joshua returns a minute later with two small plates, each with two tacos. A server follows him outside, carrying a small teapot and two ornate glasses. The server says, “Mint tea for the table. We are grateful for your visit.”

You say, “Shukran,” and the server smiles warmly at you as she pours the tea.

Before you take your first bite, Joshua leans toward you. “I need your help,” he says. “You’re around next weekend, right?” You nod at him as you take your first bite. The taco is filled with shakshuka, an egg and tomato dish. The tomatoes have retained their sweetness, and there is a sharp tang of feta cheese in the mix. You set the taco down, falling back in your chair and closing your eyes as you marvel at the taste.

Joshua says, “These tacos will change your life,” and you can only say, “They already have.”

He continues, “Like I was saying, I need your help. Alumni Weekend starts this Thursday, and it’s for the whole town, not just the college. You saw the schedule from Festival Committee – we have like a hundred events happening. I had someone lined up to spend the day Saturday with the featured speaker, but that guy’s sister just had her first baby, so he’s going back to where he grew up to help them for a while. Like, wonderful for them? But so inconvenient for me.”

You say, “Hmm,” and take another bite of your taco.

Joshua says, “It’s not about me, it’s not about me. Okay, so. Would you be up for doing that? Could you spend the day with this visitor? You just need to meet them at the hotel in the morning and show them around town, make sure they get to the right places at the right times.”

You say, “Yes, I can definitely do that.”

Joshua puts his hands on his head and sighs in relief. “Thank you so much,” he says. “I just want it all to run smoothly, you know? You and I haven’t known each other for very long, but I feel like I can trust you.”

In the afternoon, once you have made your epic grilled cheese, you prepare some shakshuka of your own, to bring to this evening’s baked potato buffet as a topping. You add the greenhouse tomatoes, some ground cumin that you purchased at Yuubiil, and fresh eggs from your neighbors’ chicken coop down the street. As the dish simmers on your stove, you take in the rich aroma with a deep and satisfied breath.

At the buffet, even the kids in the crowd come over to compliment you on your cooking. Grace’s daughter Emily, baby Claire’s mother, stops by and says, “She keeps looking over at you, so I think y’all should hang out for a bit.” Emily hands Claire to you, and you walk around the backyard with the baby, enjoying the company of neighbors who are fast becoming family.

You are heading to the train station to meet your Mom, who is coming to visit for the weekend. You have gathered a bouquet of flowers from the garden in your front yard, and you have scrubbed your house to a high shine. You lean against your sturdy oak front door, taking in the tidy and cozy home you have made for yourself. You smell the faint scent of lemon and pine, and you breathe deeply.

A gentle rain is falling, so you take the tram from the end of your block directly to the station. Your Mom’s train is just pulling in as you arrive. She sees you immediately as she steps onto the platform, and beams at you as she waves.

“Hello, You,” she says, pulling you into a warm embrace. “Goodness, I have missed you.”

You say, “I missed you, too,” and you squeeze her tight. Mom steps back, resting her hands on your upper arms, looking closely at you. She says, “You look happy. Living here seems to suit you. Does that feel right?”

You say, “Yes, I’m very happy. Here! These are for you.” You hand her the bouquet. Mom smells the flowers deeply, and says, “Oh, I love the smell of lilacs. Thank you.”

The two of you take the tram back to your house. The rain has subsided into a light mist that is swirling in the air. Your Mom says, “If I didn’t know better, I would swear this is Ireland. Look at how green it is! Oh, let’s sit on your porch for a minute. This is my favorite kind of weather, you know.”

You place her suitcase inside the front door, and fetch a vase for her flowers, which Mom carefully arranges and then places at the center of the coffee table on your porch. The two of you sit next to each other, Mom resting her hand on yours, as you catch up on people from home, and reminisce about days gone by.

Just then, Grace walks up your front steps. She says, “I hope I’m not interrupting. May I come over for a visit?”

You say, “Yes, of course. Grace, this is my Mom. Mom, this is Grace. She lives across the street.” Your Mom stands up and offers her hand, saying, “Grace, it’s lovely to meet you.”

Grace shakes your Mom’s hand gently, and says, “I heard you were coming, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet you.”

Your Mom says, “Is that right?”

Grace sits down in a chair across from both of you and says, “Of course! You raised a wonderful kid – forgive me, dear, but you’re still a kid to both of us!” She and your Mom share a knowing look and a laugh.

Mom says, “I’m grateful to you for taking such good care of your new neighbor.”

Grace says, “We’re all here to take good care of each other. Isn’t that the point?”

You and your Mom both smile in agreement. Grace’s question hangs in the air, and the three of you fall silent for a long moment, each of you taking a slow breath of gratitude for each other.

You and your Mom end up spending most of the weekend on the porch. You attend Grace’s baked potato buffet on Saturday evening, but you excuse yourselves early so you can sit on the porch in candlelight and continue catching up before bed. Sunday morning, on Mothers’ Day itself, you serve croissants, raspberry jam, and coffee on the porch, all from the French bakery on Meade. The weather remains cool and misty, and the two of you take turns working on the crossword in the Sunday newspaper from the City. 

Later in the morning, two kids from the neighborhood appear on the front steps. One of them is holding an envelope, and the other is carrying a large paper bag with handles.

They say, “Happy Mothers’ Day!”

Mom says, “Hello there! Come on up!”

The kids bound over toward your Mom, holding out their treasures. They say, “This is for you!”

Mom says, “Thank you so much. And who are you?”

The first one says, “I’m Jayda!” The second one says, very seriously, “I’m DeAndre.”

Mom says, “Jayda and DeAndre, I’m glad to meet you. Thank you for your gifts.”

DeAndre nudges Jayda and says, “We gotta go.”

Jayda beams at your Mom and says, “More deliveries to make! Happy Mothers’ Day.” The kids run down the stairs and out to the sidewalk, where their Dads are waiting, with cargo bikes full of paper bags. The Dads wave to you and your Mom.

Your Mom waves back, and then looks over her glasses at you, saying, “I wonder how they knew I would be here.”

The two of you sit for dinner on the porch, enjoying the feast that the kids delivered – vegetable risotto, a salad of mixed greens and vinaigrette, and one of the baguettes you got to try the other day. You hold hands for a moment of silence before eating, your Mom’s fingers worn but strong as they grip yours, and you close your eyes, taking an easy breath.

After dinner, you present your Mom with a memory book of photos and stories from your favorite times together. She says, her eyes brimming with tears, “This is beautiful. Thank you so, so much.” Mom has brought something for you, as well – your favorite bedtime story from childhood, dog-eared and well loved. She asks, “Do you remember this book?”

You say, “Oh, yes. I’m so glad to have it again. Thank you, Mom. I love you to the moon.”

Mom says, “I love you to the moon… and back.”

As you settle in on your living room couch for bed, reading your childhood book, your Mom comes out of your bedroom, tucks you in, and kisses you goodnight on your forehead. You drift off to sleep, your windows open to the soft rain falling in the night.

On this first Saturday afternoon in May, Jubilee Station is soaking up the brilliant springtime sun. You are walking into Cafe Frances, the coffee shop on the ground floor of the union hall. The barista signals to you that they are already working on your usual order. You find an open seat by the windows, settling into the radiant warmth of the love seat that has been absorbing the rays of the sun, and as you listen to the cafe bustling around you, you relax your eyes and take a settling breath.

Jessica from the Puzzle Exchange walks over, carrying your drink from the espresso bar, as well as hers. “Hello, You,” she says. “Thanks for meeting me here. I believe this belongs to you?”

You say, “Yes, it does,” taking the mug from her. “Thank you so much.” You take a sip of your cappuccino, fragrant and slightly sweet, with a touch of cardamom and cinnamon. Jessica takes a sip of her latte, and sighs.

“Right,” Jessica says. “To business. This is your access badge for the care center.” She hands over a well-worn plastic card. “When you bring puzzles back to ¡Jugamos!, just put them on the shelf that says Welcome Back on it. You can take whatever you want from the shelves that say Ready To Go. You will get lots of requests, but you should also feel free to make some of your own choices when you feel inspired. It’s a little like choosing songs on a road trip with friends.”

You and Jessica discuss a few other details, and then she says, “I need to be on my way in a minute, but before I go, I’d like to give you a tour. I’m one of the reps for the teachers’ union here in town. Would that be all right?”

You say, “Yes, definitely! I’ve been curious.”

The two of you clear your finished mugs, and start to make your way across the cafe toward the wide and open doorway that leads into the heart of the union hall. But Jessica stops suddenly and turns to you, saying, “Oh, I almost forgot. Can you… come to the bathroom with me?” You give her a puzzled look, and she says, “Trust me.”

You walk through the bathroom doors, into a space with a long shared sink and mirror in the middle of the room, and a row of stalls to your left. To your right are built-in shelves, stocked full of soap, shampoo, diapers, onesies, baby formula, feminine products, and first aid supplies. Jessica leads you through a doorway in the center of the built-in shelves, down a hallway lined with small suites. Each suite has a changing table, two easy chairs, and a full bathroom with a shower. 

Jessica says, “This just might be my favorite place in town. Sit down for a second.” You take your place in one of the easy chairs as she dims the lights and pushes some buttons on a panel next to the light switch. The room fills with the sound of ocean waves breaking on a beach. Jessica sits down in the other chair, and the two of you share a moment of stillness, each taking a slow and deep breath.

The rest of the tour takes you through the auditorium, the banquet hall, and the help center, all of which are humming with activity. Jessica brings you to the elevator bank and says, “This is where I leave you. I believe you’re helping the Festival Committee with Mothers’ Day?”

You say, “Yes, I am. But shouldn’t we finish the tour first?”

Jessica’s eyes twinkle as she smiles at you. “The Moms aren’t supposed to know about the Mothers’ Day celebration. It’s meant to be a surprise for us. The worst-kept secret in town.” She offers you a handshake. “Thank you for helping with the Puzzle Exchange. I’ll see you again soon.”

When you exit the elevator on the top floor of the building, Joshua is seated at a table in front of you. He is wearing a comically tall white chef’s hat. “Hello again, You,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re here. Ready to get to work?”

You say, “Yes, chef.”

The rooftop cafeteria has glass walls looking out on the town, and a kitchen open to the dining area. The cafeteria, which is open to the public during weekdays, also serves as a culinary school. Today, there are Dads and kids seated at the tables, preparing Mothers’ Day cards for every Mom and Grandma in town. Meanwhile, a group of kids are practicing their cooking and baking in the kitchens. Joshua asks you to help serve their practice meals to the card makers.

One of the cooks is standing on a stepstool, diligently stirring an enormous pot. They appear to be maybe 8 years old. The steam rising from within the pot smells rich and earthy. You ask them, “What are you making?”

They say, “Vegetable risotto, with Swiss chard from the greenhouses across the river, and mushrooms from Kennett Square.”

The kids plate over 100 meals, which you help them deliver to the tables. You circulate around the cafeteria, refilling water glasses and fetching extra butter for the crisp baguettes that are fresh out of the oven. After serving a mixed berry compote with scratch made vanilla ice cream for dessert, you head back into the kitchen to get your backpack. You find two large grocery bags of leftovers with your name on them, sitting on the counter, waiting for you to take home. You set down your backpack for a moment, your fatigue starting to catch up with you, and as you stretch your arms and back, you transform a yawn into a deep breath.

You walk back to your house in the fading sun with your leftovers, a couple of baguettes poking out of the top of one bag. Dads and kids stream past you on their bikes, riding home, calling out thanks and good night.

Late on Thursday afternoon, as you wrap up your work week, you hop on your e-bike and ride across the college grounds, past the stately old mansions on Stevens Lane that now serve as off-campus apartment buildings. College Avenue slopes gently downhill toward the river, its generous bike lanes running past cafes and restaurants with their facades open to the warm evening. Riding past your new favorite pizza place, you can smell the wood smoke from their brick oven. You grip your handlebars, coasting as gravity gently pulls you toward your destination, and you let the fresh air fill your lungs, taking a slow breath.

You are heading for ¡Jugamos!, a toy store on College Avenue near Meade, where the monthly business meeting of the Jubilee Station Puzzle Exchange is taking place this evening. This will be your first meeting as a new volunteer. You pull up to the bike rack in front of the shop and notice a narrow passageway along the side of the brick building, with a sign across it that says: “Grown Ups, Do Not Enter.” As you lock your bike, two kids approach the opening, giggling and glancing back over their shoulders at you, as they duck under the sign and disappear.

You heed the sign’s warning, and enter the shop through the front doors. The cashier waves hello to you while checking out another customer. The shop space is somewhat narrow but deep, with a large display of stuffed animals up front guarding shelves of books and toys behind. Toward the back of the store, you see racks and racks of jigsaw puzzles, all bearing the same stickers you saw in the lounge at the guesthouse last weekend.

You reach the back door to the shop, which opens into a courtyard formed by the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. There is a small playground at the center, with a grouping of picnic tables in one corner, and party lights strung overhead. Roughly a dozen adults are seated at the tables, some of them wearing Puzzle Exchange volunteer shirts from previous events. Two women, both holding clipboards, are standing in front of the tables.

“Hello!” the two women say in unison. “Are you here for the Puzzle Exchange!”

You say, “Yes, I am!”

“Wonderful,” one of them replies. “I’m Jessica, and actually, this is also Jessica. Please, have a seat. We’ll get started in another minute.”

You sit down in an open spot, exchange greetings with everyone at the table, and see that a puzzle mat has been laid out, with a 500-piece puzzle in the midst of being assembled. You dive into working on the puzzle, happy to work with your hands after spending a long day at the office. As the kids hoot and holler on the playground, and your fellow volunteers attack the puzzle laid out in front of you, you listen to the rhythmic sifting of the pieces in the box, and breathe deeply.

The meeting gets underway with the two Jessicas ticking through the details of the Puzzle Exchange. They tell you, “We have over 1,000 puzzles in our collection right now. Our busiest times are winter and summer – people take puzzles with them on vacation. We manage the puzzle collections for all the local schools, care facilities, and regional rehab centers. We also participate in a regional sharing network with other towns, to keep everyone’s collections fresh.”

Dinner arrives soon after, as the meeting settles into a steady flow of committee reports and small scale financial decisions. Each table gets a collection of family style platters of curry and rice from Bollywood Hills, the South Asian restaurant down the street. You help yourself to a bowl of veggie korma, the rich creamy sauce perfect for mopping up with a piece of garlic naan.

While everyone is serving themselves food, the first Jessica comes and sits on the very end of the bench next to you. She says, “Does this all make sense so far?”

You say, “Absolutely. It’s really impressive.”

Jessica says, “Thanks! A lot of people who came before us made all of this possible. And now it’s our turn. Speaking of which… we could use some help at the elder care center, if you’re up for that. You would go over maybe twice a month to bring some new puzzles and collect the old ones. It’s a fun gig, because they also have a preschool there. So you get to work with puzzles for adults and kids. What do you think – would that work for you?”

You say, “Yes, I’d be happy to do that.”

She says, “Awesome, thank you!”, making a note on her clipboard. “Let’s meet again next weekend just to go over details. How about Saturday afternoon at the union hall?”

You say, “Yes, that sounds good! See you then.”

As the business meeting wraps up, you visit the other picnic tables, working a little bit on each of the puzzles, which are coming together rapidly at the hands of so many experienced assemblers. The kids from the playground mingle with the crowd as well, inspecting the adults’ work. You are starting to recognize some familiar faces from your neighborhood, and they light up with evident joy when they recognize you as well.

Night falls over the town, and the playground in the courtyard falls quiet as the kids slip back down the secret passageway, heading home for baths and bedtime stories. When you are ready to go, you ignore the signs warning off adults, and sneak into the dark and narrow alley yourself. You press your hands against the cool brick on either side of you, and you take a contented breath.

The lights of College Avenue seem impossibly far away in the darkness. But your eyes begin to adjust, and you realize that the walls of the alley are lined with hundreds of glow in the dark stars, forming constellations that stretch out ahead of you, guiding you home.

You are packing an overnight bag for your weekend getaway to the City, as part of the Jubilee Station Concert Club. Your backpack is sitting on your bed, along with most of the clothing you own. You are running late for your scheduled train, which you are meant to take with the rest of the Club. 

The set list for tonight’s show has been playing from the speaker that sits on your dresser. Your bedroom window is open to the spring breeze, and you smell freshly cut lawn clippings from your neighbor mowing their lawn. You feel the coolness of your hardwood floor under your bare feet. You pause the music, rest your hands on the metal footboard of your bed, close your eyes, and gather yourself with a slow breath.

When you finally reach the train station, 10 minutes after your scheduled train has left, you see Mayor Ashley on the platform, holding a Concert Club sign. You walk up to her and ask, “Did you wait just for me?”

She says, “I totally would, but no, I’m running late too. So is like half the group. It’s no problem. I changed all our tickets, and the next train will be here in 5 more minutes. Honestly, I think I’m on Team Straggler pretty much every time we do this.”

There are ten of you in the later group, ranging in age from college students to retirees. Mayor Ashley leads the group into the café car, where everyone finds a seat at one of the open tables. She drops her backpack next to you and says, “I’m getting us some snacks. If we can’t be punctual, we can at least be well fed.”

Sitting across from you are two middle aged men, both sporting well-worn concert T-shirts from younger days. “Hi, I’m Larry, and this is my brother Darryl,” the first one says. “I’m the one who sent you the playlist. I take it this is your first time out with the Concert Club?”

You say, “It’s nice to meet you. Yes, it’s my first time.”

Darryl chimes in, “You’re gonna love this show. We’ve gone to see this artist a few times over the years. His albums are great, but his live concerts are just really special.”

Mayor Ashley comes back with a flat rectangular cardboard box and several glass bottles. “You gotta respect a Pennsylvania café car,” she says. “Tomato pie, fresh this morning from Norristown, and ice cold birch beer.”

The four of you toast to your weekend getaway, and dig into the tomato pie. You pull a slice from the box, noticing the thick layer of grated Parmesan and Romano on top of the tomato sauce base. When you take a bite, the cheese is delightfully sharp and smoky. You realize that in your haste to get out the door, you had forgotten to eat lunch today.

Your train pulls into the City an hour later. You and Team Straggler take the light rail to the Jubilee Station Guesthouse, which sits on a busy corner not far from the river. Here, there are 25 guest rooms available, at very low prices, for when people from town come into the City.

When it’s your turn to check in, the clerk asks, “Is this your first time here?”

You say, “Yes. I used to live in the City. But I’ve never been to the guest house before.”

The clerk says, “In that case, welcome, and welcome back!”

The group agrees to meet in the lobby at 6:00 for dinner before the show. You head upstairs to your room, which is simple but comfortable, with poster-sized photos of Jubilee Station on the walls. You set down your backpack on the bed, taking a moment to wash your hands and face at the bathroom sink. As you dry your hands and face, the towel plush and soft beneath your fingers, you hear the familiar sounds of the City around you, and you take a deep breath.

When 6:00 rolls around, you and everyone else in the Concert Club have made it to the lobby on time. The group boards another light rail to a Thai restaurant near the venue for dinner. Over noodles and dumplings, Mayor Ashley asks you how you ended up in Jubilee Station.

She says, “I hope you plan to stick around for a while. We need people like you.”

Darryl, eavesdropping on the conversation, leans over to say, “I first came here for a summer internship in college. It was supposed to be 3 months. That was almost 30 years ago. This place grows on you.”

You say, “Yes, I feel that.”

The concert this evening is taking place in an old converted brick warehouse. The artist and his band come out on stage, and everyone leans forward in their seats in anticipation before the first notes.

Back at the guest house for the night, you head upstairs to your room, and realize you are too excited from the show and the evening to go to sleep right away. You notice a light on at the end of the hall, through an open doorway. You walk down to take a look, and you discover a lounge that is open all day and night. There is a kitchenette with a well stocked fridge, a coffee and tea station, some comfy couches and chairs, and a dining table that has a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle sitting on it, partially completed. You fix yourself a cup of rooibos chai, sit down at the table, and take an easy, relaxed breath.

Studying the picture on the front of the puzzle box, you notice a sticker on its side that says Jubilee Station Puzzle Exchange. You look up at the shelf next to the table and see a stack of puzzle boxes, all bearing the same label. You sip your tea, the City growing quieter outside as it settles into night, and you start sifting through pieces.

A steady rain is falling on Jubilee Station as you make your way out to your front porch. Your neighbor Grace has promised to pick you up at 10:00 sharp for the monthly Welcome Breakfast taking place at the library.

Just before the top of the hour, you sit on the edge of the porch where it meets your front steps, sheltered from the rain. In your front garden, you notice that your tulips are starting to bloom in purples and yellows. The warm air smells of new mulch and magnolia blossoms. With your feet on the concrete stairs, and your hands resting on the smooth planks of the porch deck, you take a slow and measured breath.

“Great day to be a duck!” Grace calls to you as she crosses the street. She is wearing a bright yellow rain slicker and a wide-brimmed purple canvas hat. You realize that she matches your tulips.

You say, “It’s good to see you!”

“Are you hungry?” Grace asks.

“Yes,” you reply. “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“You chose wisely,” she says, a twinkle in her eye. With that, the two of you set off for the main library, on the corner of College Avenue and Curtin Street, at the edge of downtown.

“Ah, here we are,” Grace says, holding open the heavy wooden door.

As you step into the lobby, you smell maple syrup, grilled onions, and the faint but reassuring scent of finely aged paper. A hand-painted banner overhead welcomes you.

“Grace!” someone calls from across the room.

“Joshua!” Grace calls out in reply. “Come meet our new neighbor.”

A short younger man with a gold ring in his right ear hurries over toward you. “I’m Joshua,” he says. “Thanks so much for coming!” Before you can reply, he turns to Grace and says, under his breath, “Our table setter-uppers overslept their alarm. It’s chaos here. Can you help?”

Grace looks at you, and you nod back at her. “We’re with you,” she tells him.

Twenty minutes later, the tables and chairs are set up. As the various groups and committees start laying out their signs and swag, you excuse yourself and step away to find a moment of quiet. Tucked away behind the circulation desk is a reading room, with comfortable chairs set in cozy alcoves, and a dense thicket of tropical plants growing under a skylight in the center. A majestic grandfather clock stands in one corner, quietly keeping time. You have the room to yourself. You stand in front of the plants, gripping the cool and smooth beech railing that surrounds them, and breathe deeply.

Back at the welcome breakfast, Mayor Ashley starts to give some opening remarks, and then realizes that no one is eating yet because she is speaking. “I’m cutting myself off,” she declares. “Get some pancakes!” She takes a small bow, to generous applause.

Grace comes over to you, with a full plate in hand. “I took some liberties,” she says. “Here’s a fork and a napkin. Joshua is over at the Festival Committee table, and… he’s expecting you.”

You narrow your eyes and try to scowl at Grace, but she just shrugs and smiles, and you can only smile in return. She melts back into the crowd, and you have a moment to savor your buttermilk pancakes and roasted Yukon gold potatoes with onions. The amber maple syrup has migrated over into the potatoes, the sweetness mingling happily with the salt of the potato skins. You make quick work of your plate.

“Hellooo!” Joshua calls out to you. “Festival Committee! Let’s do this.” You hang your head in mock resignation, and let yourself be summoned to the signup form. After swearing your loyalty to the committee, you notice a sign for the Jubilee Station jigsaw puzzle exchange, and you volunteer for that as well. Then, Mayor Ashley bumps into you in the crowd.

“How do you feel about concerts?” she asks.

“I’m… in favor of them?” you say.

“Good answer,” she says, putting a clipboard in front of your nose. “The Concert Club picks one show each month to go see as a group in the City. We’re going next weekend, actually. You should come!”

You write your contact details on the next open line. “Awesome,” she says. “Later today, you’ll get a link to a playlist – we always send out the expected setlist about a week before the show. That way, even if you don’t know the band very well, you have time to get familiar.”

The rest of the breakfast, and the rest of your day, is a blur. You and Grace make it back to the neighborhood in time for you to take a long nap, your bedroom window open to the sounds of the breezy rain. By nightfall, the skies have cleared, and the weather has turned windy and colder. The bright light of the full moon gives your new curtains a soft backlight, as you climb back in bed for the night. You stretch out under your warm down comforter, your window still open to the night chill, and you pull the covers over your head for a moment as you take a slow and deep breath.

Your phone chimes just before you switch it off for the night. You have received a text from a new number, with your playlist for the concert next weekend.

On the first truly warm day of spring in Jubilee Station, Pennsylvania, you are sitting on the porch of your new home, not long after moving here to take a job at the college in town. You have been unpacking boxes and setting up your space. Now, you are giving yourself time for a break. You sink into the soft cushions of the couch, and prop up your feet on the sturdy teak coffee table. There is a cool glass of water in your hand. The afternoon breeze carries the scent of drying laundry. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.

Just then, you hear footsteps on your front walk. You open your eyes to the sight of an older woman, carrying a baby in a sling, coming up to the porch. In her hands, she is somehow balancing a shiny metal casserole pan, two loaves of bread, and a bouquet of daffodils.

”Hello, you!” she says. “We saw you moving in the other day, and I’ve been meaning to bring something over to you. This is a veggie lasagna, and the bread is just out of the oven. I hope you don’t mind all of this.”

You do not mind.

“My name is Grace,” she says, sitting down across from you. “And this is my grandbaby, Claire. She’s a snuggle bug,” Grace says, looking down with pride. “As long as I keep her in here, she’ll just hang out all afternoon. Lucky thing.” Grace glances back up at you. “Well, don’t just sit there! Go get a fork. You look hungry. But before you go, take a bite of the bread. I need to know if it turned out alright.”

As ordered, you open one of the crinkly paper bags containing a loaf of bread, tear off a hunk, and take a bite. The warm sourdough is crusty on the outside, densely chewy on the inside. It melts in your mouth. You understand now why there are two loaves for one person.

Grace asks, “Is it okay?” It is more than okay. You tell her, “Yes, it’s wonderful, thank you.” Taking another bite, you set down your glass and hurry inside to get a fork.

“I have two other pieces of business,” Grace declares as you return. ”First, I’m here to invite you to our monthly welcome breakfast for new neighbors. Next Saturday, down at the library. It’s catered by the Flapjack Foundry, and it’s all free, but we might ask you to serve on the Festival Committee or something like that. Will you come?”

You say, “Yes,” your mouth full of lasagna, and Grace slaps her hands on her knees, causing Claire to stir. “Good! Oh, sorry, baby, didn’t mean to startle you.” Grace pats the sling gently, and looks over at you. 

“Last thing,” Grace says. “Every Saturday night, we invite folks over to our house for a baked potato buffet. People bring toppings or salad or dessert, but you don’t have to bring anything at all. We get a fire going in the backyard, and tonight it should be perfect for sitting outside. How about it – are you free for dinner this evening?”

You swallow your bite of lasagna, and you say, “Yes. I’d be delighted.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” Grace tells you. “We are so happy to have you here. See you around six.”

With that, Grace excuses herself, heading back across the street to her house. Before you return to your moving boxes, you sink back into the soft cushions of the couch once again. You take a sip of your water, and in the distance, you hear what sounds like every child in town at the playground in the park at the end of your street. A flock of Canada geese pass overhead. You take a deep and contented breath. 

As the sun sets on this beautiful spring day, you are sitting beneath the covered pavilion in Grace’s backyard, soaking up the warmth of the crackling fire in the stone fireplace. You meet Grace’s partner, and Claire’s parents, and so many more of your neighbors. It feels as if they are all taking turns in an elaborate and unspoken dance. Someone comes over, chats with you for a few minutes, and then they excuse themselves, giving you a bit of time to savor your dinner. Then, someone else comes. Each person at the dinner makes time for you.

They say, “You need to try this blackberry crumble. Here, I brought you some.”

They say, “Please, don’t buy a lawnmower. You can just use ours.”

They say, “We’re glad we have a chance to get to know you.”

As the early risers in the crowd start saying their goodbyes, Grace comes over and perches on the arm of the chair next to you. “I hope that wasn’t too much,” she says. “It can be overwhelming, being the new person at a gathering.”

“I’m not sure I will remember everyone’s names,” you say.

“No one expects that of you,” Grace replies, with a warm smile. “You know, just showing up here tonight, at a dinner where you don’t know anyone, was a wonderfully brave thing to do. Please, keep coming back. You belong here.” Grace stands up, stretching her arms with a big yawn. “Now, do you think you could help me with some dishes?”

A crisp chill has returned to the air as you walk back to your house, the scent of wood smoke now woven through your clothes. You step into your living room, through your unlocked front door, boxes still piled high, no curtains yet on the windows. The room echoes as you slip off your shoes and sit down on your favorite armchair. The streetlight outside gives a faint orange glow to the hardwood floor. You rest your hands on your full belly, the chair embracing you, as you take a slow and deep breath.

You have lived here for just over two weeks, and you already know that you are home.