My husband says I am an excellent travel companion–provided I can make it past the end of our driveway.

Now, it’s important to note two things: A) Kris is extraordinarily generous with his compliments, and B) our driveway is 600 feet of “Just One More Thing.” As in, “Just one more thing” to do before I’m ready to leave the house — whether it’s cleaning behind the piano, scrubbing the refrigerator, or trying to match socks that haven’t been paired since we got our Jack Russell, who is a world-class sock thief.

Mismatched socks and the half-full mustard jar slowly becoming a biohazard isn’t on my daily radar. But pre-departure, I am a Whirling Dervish with a mop in my white gloved hands. The whole time I am rationalizing why I shouldn’t go, I should really organize the junk drawer, right?

Eventually, I walk toward the car, which is near the barn and immediately start a quick four-hour horse check — because perfection rarely echoes through the barn, fields or fences. My reluctant liftoff is in part that I love being home, but the rest can be blamed on my farmer DNA.

My great-grandmother Isabelle Ducatt shopped only once a week. In the early-to-mid 1900s, most women “were to home.” Homemaking wasn’t a 15-minute Martha Stewart clip of the best pumpkin cheesecake recipe ever. Homemaking was an every day, all-day, life. They had to grow it, raise it, harvest it, kill it, clean it, cook it and then do the dishes. In their spare time, women raised kids, mended clothes, baked bread and gardened — you get the gist. To keep things running smoothly, women had to be home.

I don’t have my ancestors’ homesteading skills, but I got the homebody gene. Unfortunately, it clashes with the nomad gene that drags me on trips near and far.

Finally, my husband gets “the look.” I tell the horses, hens, dogs and cat to “stay.” Dust bunnies be damned, I climb in the car with my anxiety. As we hopscotch out of the Adirondacks, my reluctance to travel slowly evaporates.

–

Christmas in New York

–

Christmastime in Manhattan is magic. Once off the train, we are infused with the euphoria of the New York City vibe. Or maybe it’s the second-hand marijuana smoke — who’s to say?

Manhattan, originally called Manna-hatta by the Lenape, means “the place for gathering wood to make bows.” It was purchased for $24, but the sale’s legitimacy is highly debated.

With its painful history and sharp wealth divide, New York City feels undeniably human, raw and real. It feels home like because it mirrors the pain and beauty of our own imperfections. Anonymity is not a perk of small town living, but in the city you can melt into the background and recharge.

We coddiwompled along — eating Japanese food at Momoya, visiting the Harry Potter Store, enjoying two pints of dark beer at McSorley’s with its sawdust-covered floor, walking the High Line, and, of course, eating pizza.

Chomping on a slice, Kris suggested the most touristy thing ever: “Wanna go ice skating tonight?”

“Yeah, but let’s avoid Rockefeller Center. It’s a zoo. Wanna try Bryant Park?” I said.

“Yup.” He stood up. “Wanna walk? It’s not far.”

“Ok, it’s a Tuesday — maybe it won’t be crowded.”

That line tells you how little I still know about NYC.

A few miles and an espresso later we were herded through a serpentine corral at Bryant Park. The Park was dressed for the holidays, and packed like a college bar on a Friday night, with more languages than a UN General Assembly Session.

Carols blasted over the market, as succulent food aromas of Greek, Indian and Italian food wafted from pop up eateries. The Empire State Building in shades of red and green loomed overhead. A Zamboni swiped the empty rink clean as we inched our way to the skate rental counter.

Elvis crooned he’d be home for Christmas. A harassed teenager took my size and handed me hockey skates.

“Well, Ma’am, we’re outta figure skates,” he shook his head doubtfully. “I hope you can wear these.”

“Hope I can wear hockey skates,” peh-lease, I thought, lacing up. I may still be mixing up local and express trains, but we all learned to skate.

I’m the child of resourceful parents. Not only did we wear my brother’s hand-me-down skates, but our 24’x48′ sandbox doubled as an ice rink. As temperatures dropped, my bro and dad flooded it with the garden hose, their hands freezing faster than the rink.

Years of fun, our slap shots cracked off the frozen plywood backstop or slammed through the scoring squares with a thud. Hockey games ran past dinner time, a huge spotlight illuminating 10 or 12 laughing boys crammed together.

We learned to skate by pushing a yellow step stool. My sisters and I created routines with shoot the duck, camel spins and single toe loops — all in hockey skates waving to the invisible crowd like Dorothy Hamill.

Skating at Bryant Park was crowded and challenging. Kris and I avoided the wobbling and fallen, as snowflakes fell, through twinkling lights. People clung to the boards inching along. My skating ego was growing — until I remembered my friend Beth Sullivan once said I skate like an ’80s roller derby ad. Ego checked.

After a steaming oat milk cocoa, we shuffled our sore feet back to our hotel.

“Wanna go see the lights at Dyker Heights?” I suggested. “Then late dinner in K Town?”

“We leave early tomorrow,” Kris said, stopping at a crosswalk. “Don’t you miss home?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “But I wanna stay too.”