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.