She pulled into the parking lot just before closing Thanksgiving Eve, as snow fell in cadence with the day’s vanishing light.  The sweet smell of ash wood from the farmhouse chimney brought a smile to her face as she stepped through the Wine Barn door.

Snow falls on Mount Salem every Thanksgiving weekend, it seems.  Rarely is it serious snow, navigable on Nordic skis and such, but it requires a full wood box and surrender to the year’s darkest days.

Her name and number flashed on my ringing phone just an hour earlier, while other winery customers lingered on this grey snowy Wednesday, and I understood before answering why she was calling.

We hail from the same high school but from different years, first meeting here in Hunterdon decades later.  Yet we knew the same families and teachers, and shared the hometown culture that shaped us as young adults.

Over a glass of Riesling in the winery loft, while wind rattled the roof and rafters of this ancient place, we covered familiar ground of spouses and children; aging parents and sideways siblings; and news of friends.  Then, while we laughed about something I now can’t recall, I felt tears welling up as her eyes glistened, too.  The sad side of nostalgia, it seems, nicked us both at the same moment.

And with that, she cradled her Thanksgiving wine bottles like newborns, promised me she wouldn’t be a stranger, and stepped out into the darkness.

Standing alone now in the falling snow, while I locked the Wine Barn door, I gave thanks for the gift of returning home before making my way toward the sweet farmhouse chimney.