When I left Ohio two Saturdays ago, my jaw was clenched tight and my white knuckles held the steering wheel like I was the only thing preventing it from falling off the car. It had been too long since I got in a quiet car and headed out for a longer adventure. 

My attention span had been short and my fuse perhaps a little shorter for a while. I live in a world governed by emails, agendas and a buzzing phone. I hate the sound of my phone and the word agenda is one of the most obnoxious in the English language. 

To be on the road and out adventuring without a real plan is one of the best parts of traveling. 

It took three days for my jaw and fists to relax and another day to spot the wild haired, bright eyed Brandi that thoroughly enjoys the world. 

And then I woke up in the Berkshires of Massachusetts where the mountains feel almost like a cradle for anyone needing nurturing and calm. 

Let me tell you something, friends. It took some coaxing to get me to leave.

There’s a sensibility about that area that appeals to me. There’s a combination of wealthy transplants, tourists, and generational blue collar residents who keep everything working. People seemed mostly fit and happy, enjoying active lifestyle hobbies like walking, hiking, bird watching and kayaking. There’s also a rural sensibility that appealed to my own ways and made me wish for more time. I was there with my eastern travel pal and we agreed that we needed more time because there was so much we wished to to do. 

Where I live, even country folk have big yards that are mown right up to the road like small golf courses. In that area, you see a lot of country houses where there’s a break in the trees for a driveway to a house that’s reasonably close to the road but disguised by a tree row or a thicket of wild looking shrubbery. There’s no need for a giant lawn that invites attention from the road when privacy is clearly valued so much here. Yet, short driveways make sense in a place that averages six feet of annual snowfall. 

Norman Rockwell made his home here for the last several years of his life. He came because his wife was sent to Stockbridge for medical treatment. He stayed because he found most of his inspiration here. 

And I can see why. 

The town streets are tree lined. People are just naturally welcoming and seem to genuinely want you to enjoy wherever you are and what you’re doing. They are not overtly friendly, in that fake nice way that you get in a lot of places. They seem genuinely glad to know you traveled a long way to visit their community. 

Everywhere you look in Stockbridge, there’s a pocket park or a set of chairs inviting you to stay a while.

Being there past Labor Day meant that we missed the high season so it was quieter than a summer tourist might experience but it was also cheaper. While it was still busy enough, it was quiet. 

It felt a little fall like for most of our visit and we even had a nice gloomy day that ended with rain showers one evening.  Consequently, there were places we could spot patches of yellow and red leaves, hinting at the beauty that is just around the corner in New England. 

We did lots of things in the Stockbridge area. We also rustled up some fun going to and from. After all, it’s a long trip by car from my friend’s Pittsburgh home and we both tend to believe the journey is the destination.

In other words, driving a straight line isn’t really our thing and we’ve never met a situation that didn’t call for a trip around the block to see what’s what. Sometimes she just rolls forward a foot or so at a traffic light so we can get a better look at pretty buildings like this house in Altoona.

Something tells me that this trip’s stories will be bubbling up for a while. I already feel the calm and the embrace of the Berkshires dissipating from my consciousness like an early morning fog. Luckily there are pictures and memories to help me revisit those moments from time to time. Plus, I have stories to share with you, friends.