North of Everything

This evocative verse novel beautifully captures the emotional and physical journey of a family relocating from the vibrant, unchanging landscape of Miami, Florida, to a working farm in rural Vermont. Through the eyes of a child narrator, readers witness the stark contrast between urban and country life, the wonder of experiencing distinct seasons for the first time, and the process of adapting to a simpler existence. The parents' desire for a life closer to nature and each other drives the move, and the narrative gently explores the child's initial feelings of loss and eventual embrace of their new home. It's a contemplative read that normalizes the complex emotions associated with big life changes and celebrates the resilience of family bonds.

<p>Here, north of everything,</p><p>when winter’s almost done</p><p>and the sun begins to climb</p><p>above the mountains,</p><p>the old Winooski thaws.</p><p>Willows wave their pale leaves,</p><p>robins dig for worms,</p><p>and I hear the lowing cows,</p><p>voices</p><p>drifting</p><p>soft</p><p>across the fields.</p><p>Here, north of everything,</p><p>we boil sugar from the maple trees in March,</p><p>plant long rows of corn in June, watch</p><p>October mountainsides erupt in leafy fire.</p><p>Here, north of everything,</p><p>all winter long, we sit beside the wood stove,</p><p>drinking cider, rubbing hands</p><p>to warm ourselves.</p><p>Here, north of everything,</p><p>where seasons change their clothes</p><p>from red and yellow, then white to green,</p><p>where I have learned</p><p>that fall turns to winter,</p><p>and winter turns to spring.</p><p>Before I knew about the seasons,</p><p>we lived where nothing ever</p><p>seemed to change</p><p>in Florida, in Miami, where</p><p>there were buses, trains,</p><p>airports, malls, fast-food</p><p>restaurants, discotheques, and bars.</p><p>The streets were jammed</p><p>with motorcycles, trucks, and cars.</p><p>Palm trees jutted up along the sidewalks.</p><p>Just down the block, the ocean</p><p>stretched to where the sun came up.</p><p>Everything smelled like flowers.</p><p>All the time!</p><p>I only knew what snow was</p><p>from movies and picture books.</p><p>Dad worked in an office.</p><p>Mom worked at school.</p><p>Dad grew up with cows and horses,</p><p>the smells of barns and leather.</p><p>His family farmed for generations.</p><p>As far back as anyone remembers,</p><p>they worked their Pennsylvania homesteads,</p><p>then migrated westward to Ohio,</p><p>settled new farms, and fought for the Union</p><p>in the War Between the States.</p><p>His great-great-grandfather</p><p>got shot in the leg</p><p>and still came back to plow</p><p>another forty years.</p><p>I think Dad got tired</p><p>of wearing ties to work,</p><p>sitting in traffic for hours,</p><p>waiting</p><p>for a light to change.</p><p>He said good clean dirt</p><p>would make all the difference</p><p>in the world.</p><p>We bought a farm,</p><p>Dad said, his hands</p><p>in his lap, fingers</p><p>laced together.</p><p>Mom smiled</p><p>like a cat</p><p>who’d swallowed</p><p>a canary.</p><p>I sat at the dinner table,</p><p>chewing something.</p><p>There’s no way</p><p>I could tell you</p><p>what it was.</p><p>We sold our house,</p><p>packed furniture and clothes,</p><p>pots and pans, my trunk of toys,</p><p>everything in stacks and stacks of boxes,</p><p>and then I wandered</p><p>through the empty rooms,</p><p>listening</p><p>to the echo</p><p>of my footsteps,</p><p>looking out the windows</p><p>at the tile roofs,</p><p>the orange trees,</p><p>and the palms.</p><p>In Florida,</p><p>everything was flat,</p><p>but</p><p>as we headed north,</p><p>the earth began</p><p>to rise and swell.</p><p>I remember</p><p>driving up the coast:</p><p>the Atlantic Ocean to the east,</p><p>Georgia and the Carolinas,</p><p>Washington, the Chesapeake,</p><p>New York City, Boston,</p><p>then west,</p><p>through New Hampshire</p><p>and, finally,</p><p>Vermont.</p><p>Mountains big as God stood up.</p><p>Along the way,</p><p>rivers carved their names</p><p>through forests, cities,</p><p>little towns like Asheville,</p><p>Harpers Ferry, Hopkins Cove,</p><p>Bennington.</p><p>At last we drove</p><p>along the banks of the Winooski,</p><p>north on Interstate 89</p><p>to Montpelier,</p><p>the smallest state</p><p>capital in America.</p><p>Our farm:</p><p>is in Montpelier, Vermont,</p><p>almost as far as you can go</p><p>before you get to Canada.</p><p>Our farm:</p><p>fields still wet in late May,</p><p>sun low above the willow trees</p><p>that stand like tired ghosts</p><p>along the shallow, dark Winooski,</p><p>the Indian word for onion . . .</p><p>Onion River, oldest in the world.</p><p>Our farm:</p><p>a hundred acres</p><p>stretched like skin along the bank</p><p>of the Winooski.</p><p>Our farm:</p><p>an old oak tree,</p><p>a swing my dad strung up,</p><p>an old gray barn with corners</p><p>where I lie in piles of hay,</p><p>dreaming summer daydreams,</p><p>where I go to be alone,</p><p>where I hide when I am sad.</p><p>Our farm:</p><p>where my dad</p><p>said we’d start again,</p><p>this time closer</p><p>to the earth,</p><p>to the sky,</p><p>closer</p><p>to each other.</p>