I’ve always thought of myself as a decent packer. Church retreats? I could fit three days of clothes, a Bible, a quilt, and a tin of brownies into one rolling suitcase. Family vacations? I was the one who remembered the sunscreen, the bug spray, and that one cousin’s inhaler. But packing for Willowford has been an entirely different matter.
How exactly do you prepare for a place you’ve never been, much less a whole new kind of weather?
Georgia packing is simple. You bring something to sweat in, something to dress up in for church, and something you don’t mind getting barbecue sauce on. If it’s winter, you might throw in a cardigan and call it a day. My small town doesn’t demand much variety.
Maine, however, has me stumped.
Everyone I’ve told about this trip has offered an opinion — most of them contradictory. My sister swore I’d need snow boots by September. (I Googled it: apparently not.) My neighbor insisted on rain gear because of the fog. Another friend warned me about wind so strong “it’ll slap you sideways.” By the time they finished, I was convinced I’d need a suitcase just for coats.
So here I sit, surrounded by piles of clothes that don’t look like they belong in the same zip code, much less the same bag.
There’s my sundress, soft and floral, because a part of me refuses to believe summer ends just because the calendar says so. Beside it, a chunky cable-knit sweater that looks like it belongs in a Christmas card. Then there are the practical items: jeans, rain jacket, boots sturdy enough to walk along the coast without falling into the Atlantic. I even bought wool socks — me, a woman whose idea of “cold weather gear” used to be fuzzy slippers from the Dollar General.
And yet, I can’t quite bring myself to leave the sandals behind.
Packing has turned into a kind of negotiation with myself. Do I pack for the person I’ve always been — the Southern woman who thinks humidity is normal and flip-flops go with everything? Or do I pack for the person I imagine I might become — someone who drinks coffee on a foggy porch in a thick sweater, watching lobster boats head out before dawn?
Maybe it’s both. Maybe packing is less about what fits in the suitcase and more about making space for possibility.
One thing I didn’t hesitate over: books. Half my carry-on is stacked with paperbacks and notebooks. Some people worry about having enough socks; I worry about having enough stories. If nothing else, I’ll have plenty to read when the fog rolls in.
I also tucked in a bag of my favorite coffee beans. Laugh if you want, but I’ve heard things about “New England coffee.” I’m not about to risk starting my mornings with anything less than strong, dark, and Southern-approved.
The hardest part wasn’t the sweaters or the boots or the coffee. It was looking at the suitcase and realizing what I wasn’t packing: all the responsibilities I usually carry. No church bulletins to type up, no casseroles to drop off, no endless to-do lists. For the first time in a long time, I’m heading somewhere with no expectations except the ones I set for myself.
And that’s both thrilling and terrifying.
As I zipped up the last bag, I thought about what my grandmother used to say whenever we went on trips: “Pack half the clothes and twice the patience.” She was usually talking about road trips to Florida, but I think it applies here, too.
Because the truth is, no matter what I put in these bags, I can’t really be ready for what I’ll find in Willowford. Packing can only take you so far. The rest, I’ll just have to learn as I go — sweater or sundress, sandals or boots, ready or not.
For now, the suitcase is zipped, the coffee beans are tucked safely inside, and my heart feels a little lighter knowing the next time I unpack, it’ll be on a porch overlooking the harbor.
And if I discover I really did need snow boots in September? Well, I suppose that’ll make for a good story, too.