A Note from Steve

When we fled New York, neither of us had much of a plan. We didn’t need one. Three weeks, tops, a brief reset until things settled down. We stayed ten months, perhaps the most consequential of my life.

I feel guilty saying this, but the first month or so resembled a vacation. I quarantined in the barn apartment, frittered away hours at video games, went on the dole, ate more peanut butter than I care to admit. Time passed without passing. Kate, a mile or so across town, spent her days cooking, reading, working in the garden. We were, both of us, insulated from the pandemic. And the store, too, despite its proximity to our home and the tremendous role it plays in my family’s life, remained distant from my mind, someone else’s problem. 

To say my subsequent awakening was “rude” would be incorrect. It was quite possibly the kindest thing my father could have done for me - give me a purpose. Rather unceremoniously, dad asked me to “take over.” The store was failing - revenues down 75% over the previous year. His plaintive eyes told the story. What was I to do? 

Duty-bound to uphold the family’s honor, I made my first trek down to the store. What followed, despite my initial reservations (read: dread), was a true adventure. We began by opening a restaurant, from the ground up. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. Nor have I ever learned so much in so short a time - profit margins, accounts receivable, payroll - one by one, the mysteries of business revealed themselves to me. The mysteries of management took a bit longer, but I got the hang of it eventually. 

What we built over those nine months was truly beautiful. Not much in Harvard compares to the patio in its full splendor, day merging into night on a fall evening. We jerry-rigged new systems for doing business, whipped into shape a kick ass kitchen, hired and trained a tremendous staff as dedicated to the store as we are.

Yet the true value of my time at the store came in the relationships I nurtured, the bonds I deepened. I have never been closer to my partner, my brother, my mother, my father, or the community we call home. 

When I was younger, Dad would take me on hiking trips in the White Mountains. We went every year - Madison, Adams, Washington. These were formative experiences for me, but I’ve always been plagued by two (likely congenital) problems - short legs and an abiding interest in vernal pools. Naturally, I tarried on the path, turning over rocks, searching for turtles and generally meandering. When Dad tired of my antics, he’d turn around, shirt soaked in sweat, and cry, “Stevie! Walk with purpose!” How right he was. 

Thank you Harvard,

Steve Hayward

A Note from Katie

I’m not a runner. I’m an actress. Now, I understand those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, but let’s just say, I’m a yogi, not a sprinter. Sometimes, when I walk past the playing field in front of Old Bromfield, I get traumatic flashbacks of the infamous ‘Mile Run.’ P.E. teacher and Coach Sue Silver (who sold me $0.75 Diet Pepsi out of the ladies’ locker room) would scream at me, “KATIE!  AT LEAST TRY!” All the huffing and puffing was too horrible and embarrassing, especially as the queens of Coach Henry’s Soviet-trained cross country team zipped by with not a speck of sweat. After playing soccer, both HAA (orange slices! donuts!) and JV (nothing!), for many years, I eventually got old and had to try out for the Bromfield Varsity soccer team. The catch? I had to run the dreaded ‘mile’ as part of my audition. Panicked, sweaty, chubby and nervous -- I walked it. Needless to say, I did not make the varsity team. Whatever, I got over it. I’m an adult now and I try things (promise). Plus, not making the soccer team led me to the try-out for the high school play and the rest is “HISTORY!” I just never identified with running, OK?

COVID-19 hit New York City in March and our 700-square foot Brooklyn apartment started to feel rather... small. The subway, disgusting. I had actually been licking it for all these years -- how stupid! Our bodega felt like one of those Escape-The-Rooms where you’re locked inside and can’t get out without solving some super fun mystery with all your friends. Alas, this escape room had no fun mystery and no fun friends -- only deadly droplets you had to dodge as you attempted to buy your morning bagel. Broadway shut down on a Thursday. After refreshing the NYTimes app for the 30th time, I looked up at sweet Stevie and said, “I think it’s time to go home.” We packed our bags on Friday for a brief hiatus, ‘3 weeks -- tops!’ We made sure the trash was empty, that our friend had a key to water our children-plants, then hopped in the car and without stopping or touching anything (except for an open-air pee in a parking lot behind an I-Hop in Connecticut) drove straight home -- to Harvard.

How 3 weeks turned into 10 months is still something of a mystery, but it’s only too real for many adult-children living at home during COVID. Being 30-something and living with your parents and your in-laws was … surprisingly fun! Although I assumed we were dying at all times, we made delicious meals, Marie Kondo-ed all the rooms, planted more parsley than we could handle, binge watched The West Wing and religiously attended our evening sermons with Rachel Maddow; we genuinely enjoyed one another. 

About 4 weeks into Quarantini (named for all the cocktails I consumed), I started to get a little antsy. My Zoom yoga practice wasn’t cutting it. I would try to get outside for fresh air and walk from my folks house on Warren Ave to the Hayward’s house or the General on the Common. One April morning, on one of my walks, I heard this strange voice whisper in my ear, “‘maybe you could run instead of walk?” I laughed it off. The next day it came back. An itching feeling. A feeling I can only describe as a desire for-- change? An energy shift? Although we were having fun (playing Catan, making sourdough, alphabetizing the spice drawers) I was a full-blown anxious mess. My life--my world--had simply vanished. My job gone. The theater closed. TV, all filming, shut down with no indication of when it would resume. A deadly virus was ravaging my city and I had simply abandoned her. Thousands of people were dying every day. I wouldn’t let my parents go anywhere - no post office, no grocery store, no pharmacy, no nothing. They were in lockdown and I was their jail keeper. As you would assume, they loved it. If they defied my orders and snuck out to Old People Hour at Idylwilde, I would scream and cry for hours. I eventually hid the car keys. I was absolutely losing my mind.

The first attempt was … okay. Better than expected. I laced up my Hoka’s, put on some Kelly Clarkson and slowly jogged to the Pond. I had to walk up the hill on Pond Road to get home, but all in all, not too bad. Convinced I had managed the dreaded mile run, I was seriously bummed to find out that it was only about .75 miles. The next attempt was … awful. My legs felt like lead. My chest burned as I gasped for air in the cold. I had to stop every 2 or 3 minutes. With tears in my eyes, I slogged down the street. I trudged behind the high school, up the path to the General, back down Mass Ave, past Old Bromfield and finally back to my house. I huffed and puffed and walked most of it but I finished my little loop. 1.2 miles. With a small but wary sense of accomplishment, I patted myself on the back. The next day, I was determined to try again.

As I attempted this “jogging” thing (the huffing and puffing became slightly easier), I started noticing parts of this beautiful town I had never noticed before. An 18th century barn, a chicken coop covered in rose bushes, stunning stone walls that had been there for hundreds of years, magnificent conservation trails with twists and turns and the birds! THE BIRDS! I downloaded an Ornithology App to learn more about the insane variety of BIRDS! in our area. I used to explore the woods as a kid but I never fully grasped the beauty of it. As spring came into bloom, I ran. I ran past apple blossoms on Old Littleton. I ran past the grass coming to life on Pond field. I ran past goats playing on Madigan Lane. I ran past rhododendrons the size of palm trees. I ran up rolling hills that nearly killed me. I ran through raspberry bushes and sculptures at Old Frog Pond Farm. I ran to Barba’s Point, sticks crunching under my feet, clouds painting the sky.

And every other day, for 9 months, I ran. Gradually adding miles, getting better shoes, listening to fun playlists. I even ran longer distances--up to 6 miles (can you imagine?!) In the summer, I’d run past small farm stands and grab peaches or tomatoes and eat them hastily as I wandered and explored a place I thought I knew so well. I took pictures of everything (also an excellent excuse for a stop in action to catch your breath--I’m still not good at running, let’s be real). Before the toxic algae bloom (Thanks, 2020!), I’d finish my 5K’s with a dip at Thurston’s Beach. I’d run to the General Store Patio and grab an iced coffee and say a socially distanced hello to the regulars, smiling behind our masks. I got to share my pictures with the General Store community, running the Social Media and Marketing for the store. It was amazing to meet new people who had moved to town, to reconnect with folks from the UU Church and see all my parents’ friends and my friends’ parents. Two of my best girlfriends from Harvard had babies. I watched them become mothers. Steve and I surprised ourselves by taking on jobs, responsibilities and roles we had no idea we were capable of doing. Scott and I talked ‘shop’ late into the night as we made fancy cocktails and dreamed about what the General Store could be. Danny made us outrageously delicious meals over the outdoor fire pit. We’d all sit around it as the coals burned down, listening to the crickets-- being still together. I realized during this time, immersed in Harvard beauty, I wasn’t screaming and crying as much. My anxiety was more at bay. I even let my parents have the car keys back… with rules, duh.

The charm of Harvard, of the place I've called home for 31 years, blew me away. In my search for something to ease my spinning mind, I not only conquered a two-decade-long fear but also discovered the magic of my home. You haven’t lived until you’ve run (or walked!) past Carlson's in late October...  the fruit falling off the trees and disintegrating into the dirt below. The crisp autumn air is scented with apples. The sweetness is so palpable it’ll stop you in your tracks. Returning to Harvard as an adult-child during a once-in-a-century global pandemic, was truly a salve for my soul, an experience I am so deeply grateful for and so painfully aware is inextricably linked to my race and privilege.

As my sweet Stevie and I finally head back to our other home (and back to our plant-children and big city dreams), I can’t help but feel indebted to the town that seamlessly took us back in its arms, and to Mrs. Silver, for screaming at me to, “at least try!”