The Oasis Away

Curled in the armchair, swaddled by blankets and pillows, I stared out the window. The air was faintly musty with the scent of old wood and antique furniture, and bugs bumped their bumbling abdomens against the glass, outlines faint against the darkening bellflower sky. An electric porchlight burned a pulsing scarlet light against the white wooden overhang. It briefly illuminated elegant, wrought-iron trellises and hanging plants with tiny, fraught leaves fluttering in the breeze. Telephone wires carved lazy stripes against the wide expanse of blue.

My mother sat ten feet away, sprawled on the couch with her legs crossed and a book cradled in her palms. Folk songs played faintly from the other room, string quartets and husky Southern voices escaping out the door. My sibling’s footsteps on hardwood pattered unobtrusively within the placid tableau. A mug of earl grey exhaled steam from the table beside me. I was one with the chair, peacefully watching the lantern glow, fade, and glow again.

The 1920s cabin, delicate and rich with character, is nestled in the gentle hills of Mount Dora. The charming city is idyllic, rich with Southern charm, antiques, and art festivals. It smells like South Carolina, its stature of 184 feet above sea level apparently enough to simulate mountain air in Florida. Here, I was at peace, in an oasis from the near-endless expanse of readings, essays, and exams that awaited me back in Gainesville.

Since my sibling and I departed our hometown of Sarasota for UF two years ago, my family has been fighting to retain a closeness that only really flowered in my senior year of high school. Now that we have it, we’re loathe to let it go. A small household of two kids, two parents, and two cats, it is still alien for our respective homes to be empty of one another: my childhood bedroom is well-dusted but too-clean, patiently waiting for me to return on a weekend to mess it up again; a pile of black laundry on the floor in my dorm turns into my cat for a split-second–until I realize hollowly that he is curled up somewhere 180 miles south. There is still a tether uncomfortably tugging the four corners of my family together in the middle, which is why a seemingly frivolous weekend away, even within in the city limits of Gainesville, is so important to us.

This was our second weekend trip to Mount Dora, and I was yet again enamored with the feeling a bit of distance can create. After visiting an arts festival and meeting some long-lost relatives, my sibling, mother and I indulged in dinner (salmon, bathed in a creamy sun-dried tomato sauce—it was as good as it sounds), watched a movie, relished our togetherness. When they went to sleep, I padded back outside to mull over this simple sense of peace.

Last time, we stayed at the Blue Bee Cottage, interrupting my parents’ own getaway that was meant to be my dad’s Christmas present. (He bought everyone matching Valentine’s Day socks, so he must not have been too upset.) We meandered through downtown Mount Dora to explore the lovely brick buildings that should have belonged to a New Hampshire postcard, not central Florida, and then built a fire to warm up the crisp February air.

On Easter, they drove up to Gainesville to celebrate with us; my roommate joined us for dinner, and the hummus chicken my mother cooked is still famous in our dorm. Even when I squirreled myself away to catch up on some assignments, the reprieve of an embrace whenever I needed it, of bare feet on cold creaking wood, of classical music drifting through the cracks in the door, made it feel like home. I hope they will make it again this year, if only so I can live vicariously through praise of Mom’s cooking.

While I’m so fortunate that the stars have aligned to make these trips possible, many of our mini-vacations haven’t worked out, either because of homework, work-work, COVID, or tight money. It has been a bit of a blow to be suddenly confined to the monotony of Marston or Libwest for another weekend, but the disappointment reminds me that our getaways have achieved something—we still feel the pang of each other’s loss, even if it is only temporary. And no one has to mourn for too long—luckily for me, home is only a three-hour drive away. While that je ne sais quoi of unfamiliar air and new buildings ripe for exploring may be missing, in the end, what is more important than family?