Crozet, Virginia


Crozet, Virginia: the place that taught me early on that words do not sound as they look.  Crozet: CROW-ZAY (really wishing there was a rapper with that name).

Crozet, Virginia: the one place that stays constant.  I counted it up and realized I lived in 9 different houses growing up.  The white, black-shuttered house in old-town Fredericksburg, Virginia now qualifies as home after 11 years of my family living there-but the wide-porched, blue trimmed house on St. George Avenue in Crozet, Virginia is the only place to have seen me from cross-eyed, chunky baby to lazy-eyed, long-legged 23 year old.

So here’s a post dedicated to homeyness and nostalgia.  I’ve been in a foreign country for almost 11 months without visiting home so JUST YOU GO AHEAD AND JUDGE ME.  SEE IF I CARE.  Immabe as nostalgic as I please.
If your last name is Copeland, you’ll get this post 150%.  If not, you’ll hopefully smile at least once.


On the front porch there´s a swing that´s rocked back and forth against the rhythm of many shouting laughs and many whispering tears.

To the left of this wood swing is an outlet.  This is not just any outlet.  It is an unnecessarily protruding, dull grey outlet that has never been used as anything but an instrument of torture.  How torture?  Well let me tell you.  Some of my earliest memories consist of shouting and shoving matches with cousins over who would be the unlucky one to sit on the left arm of this big wooden swing.  The unlucky loser of aforementioned shouting and shoving match would be relegated the left arm of the swing – precisely where this outlet became a potential bruise with each front and backward motion.  You had better believe that whoever lost the fight and ended up on the left side was sending up a prayer with each swing that the outlet wouldn’t find their leg.  So I´ve clarified that the left side was cursed, but the glory of the right side of the porch swing must not be underestimated.  The right arm of the porch swing guaranteed free leg-kicking and pure joy for a fat 4 year old.  Somehow Grandma always ended up in the middle of the swing-her hymns and West Virginia tunes making even the left side of the swing worth the risk.


In the kitchen I´ve eaten my body weight x 50 in pies and my body weight x 100 in Grandma´s crispy-topped mac & cheese.

The kitchen table is synonymous with kids’ table at any family gathering.  I could be 97 and I’m convinced I’d still end up seated at this table.  Each cousin has fought for the spot next to Grandpa (on his left) since it’s always across from Grandma (on his right).  Each cousin knows to converse with Grandpa in something just below a bellow during meals since his hearing aid is out.  Each cousin knows Grandpa will eat anything that is on his plate and has at some point been sure to sneak the lima beans from their plate to his.

The kitchen was the destination of many sleepy-eyed, sleepy-headed 5:00 am mornings.  My cousins and I all knew that Grandma was a human who did not sleep.  Or if she did it was only when we tried to convince her to watch a movie with us.  So what does a Grandmother who does not sleep do?  She bakes bread.  It didn’t matter how early you woke up-Grandma always beat you downstairs and always had her 17 bread machines filled with rising dough.  I remember my cousins and I vying for the earliest waker award.  Who would be the first up to spend those precious morning hours alone with Grandma?  I had my fair share of wins and my fair share of losses.  I vividly remember the horror of waking up to a full sun – panicking at the thought that Stephen had had Grandma all to himself for at least 3 hours by then.


I’m so thankful to know a place that has a parlour.  The word “parlour” sounds insufferably pretentious and this room did its best to live up to the name.  Something about this room was just a bit more hallowed than any other in the house.  Maybe it was the fact that the furniture wasn’t quite comfortable enough.  Maybe it was the piano.  Oh wait-it was definitely the piano.  Grandma would force me to the piano for a full-blown classical concert with each guest that entered the house.  So it’s my fault.  The pretentious parlour is all my fault.  Glad I figured that out.

But then some nights pretentious parlour filled with warm night glow.  You know-the kind where you know anyone walking by is peaking in and wishing they were inside of all that gold yellow light.  These nights were usually the ones when Grandma was making us sing hymns.  Mom or I would be sitting at the piano.  Other relations were a real toss up – but the most common postures were eye-rolling, bellowing with gusto, or some alternating combination of the two.



Oh man. These stairs are the BEST.  Upon these remarkably un-squeeking stairs sits the world’s most dependable bannister.  Did you know a bannister could be dependable? No? Well now you know.  This bannister is as sturdy as they come.  Whether our parents or grandparents knew it, this banner has been slid down hundreds of times by my cousins and I.  Come to think of it, our moms and dads probably did the same.  So now we’re up to thousands.  This indefatigable bannister has held a few thousand thrill-seekers and still refuses to wiggle even the little babiest bit.


Layers of soil down are the blood stains of football heroics. Often locked out of the house – waiting for the next meal hour when the door would be unhinged – my cousins and I became something along the lines of PROFESSIONALS at good ol’ tackle football and any variation of football that could be thought of.  Many knees were scraped.  Countless ankles were twisted.  One tree was run into (many times).

Next to the garage is the scar of the pond I managed to convince my cousins would be a brilliant addition to our newly constructed bamboo fort.  So we grabbed every last shovel from the shed and dug a big ol’ hole.  An oasis for a week, this tarp lined, hose-filled body of water quickly developed into a mosquito breeding ground that nearly gave our dear Grandfather a heart attack.

Well, there’s Part 1 of Nostalgia by Hannah Copeland.  There’s always more to be said.  Didn’t even get to the living room, peach orchards, Mint Springs, un-fenced farm pastures, Dollar General, OR Crozet Pizza.  So future post, HOLLA.

A few more photos just for good measure:


Dear Copeland family as a whole: I miss you all and will be back for Christmas – I swear on the sacred peanut brittle of Aunt Lucy!


3 Days, 4 Pals, 5 Countries

I´m sitting here trying to sing the title of this post to the tune of Beyonce´s Countdown…and it´s actually going really well.  Too bad you can´t all hear me. So guess what guys-I´m still in Europe and I´m still alive and I´m still having the best of times!  There have been at least 74 happenings I should have written about in the last 6 months but I´ll just have to carry those memories close to heart and hope the dear Lord doesn’t take my memory for a good long time. This last weekend was a lil´ slice of heaven.  Sunday the 12th my dear friend Olivia (check out her blog-she actually writes more than bi-annually) and I sat on her bed, little sunburnt crips, wishing our weekend in Costa Brava, Catalunya hadn´t just ended.  So what do two burnt little wonderlust-struck crisps do?  They thank their lucky stars that they have friends driving back from Switzerland the next weekend and immediately book flights.  (Thanks Tim & Dennis.  PS-you’re great dancers.)


I’ve been trying to get back to Switzerland ever since I left just after Christmas.  Just outside Geneva there’s a little town named Cologny.  In this little town sits a not-so-little home filled by a not-so-little family.  The Masters family of 9 was kind enough to open their home and family to a Christmasy-homesick vagabond (me) this last December.  By some magic stepping through the front door of the Masters’ Geneva home was like unlocking a trans-Atlantic portal back to my own warm, white, Virginia home.  I guess it was some mix of the Christmas pies, brother fights, blankets-on-floor-movie-watching, bookshelves full of adventure and theology, guests gathered from corners of the world, and most of all-the love of Christ encircling the rest.  All that to say-I’ve been wanting to make it back to that home away from home.

So-Tim, Dennis, and Olivia picked me up from the airport and we headed to the Masters where everything was as perfectly homey as always. After a lil’ QT with the Masters we figured we should decide a route back to Barcelona.  OBVIOUSLY that meant I needed to write a list.  Now guys-about this list.  If 14 year old Hannah had been told this list was full of real possibilities she would have dropped dead as a doornail.   The list went something like: Portofino (Italy), Nice (France), Monaco, San Sebastian (Spain), Cinque Terre (Italy).  Yep.  Little Hannah dead.  There’s that. Somehow or another a pros and cons list never happened and Cinque Terre was the final call.

So back to 14 year old Hannah-at this point she’s clutching her beloved Cinque Terre wall calendar, library checked out backpack travel guides, and is for SURE jumping up and down.  Present 23 year-old Hannah is right there with her.

We loaded into the Porsche ( L O L ) and headed South.  Within that “headed South” were Alps, traffic jams, good music, more Alps, and lots of smiling so hard it hurt.


First stop: Genoa

Genoa was pasta and pesto, little backstreets, limoncello, a pretty gross beach, and a hotel with grand piano in the lobby.

Second stop: Vernazza

Woke up bright and early to catch the miraculously 6€ train from Genoa to Vernazza.  Got on the train a bit groggy and croissant-stuffed.  Exited the train to yellow tinted sunrays bouncing back and forth from one color-drenched building to the next.  The kaleidoscope Vernazza street dipped slowly down toward jewel-blue, boat-lined sea. To the right of the street was a little supermarket where we bought apples and lemons.  Apples because they are the best and lemons because having Italian sun-bleached hair is also the best.

We made our way to the end of the main street where white boats bob up and down on Mediterranean blue.  Next to one of these boats stood a little old Italian man.  By some miracle he decided to try to strike up a conversation in Italian with the pretty clearly un-Italian Olivia and myself.  By some extra miracle we answered in Italian/Spanish decent enough to make him keep talking.  Francesco comes to Vernazza 2 months every summer.  He comes back because he met his “amore”-Margherita-there many decades ago.  The Francesco and Margherita that met those many years ago now return with their grandchildren to the timeless, sun-stained streets and waters of Vernazza every summer.  So yeah-it’s cool.  We all just want to be Margherita and stuff but WHATEVER. NOT JEALOUS.

Francesco took Dennis, Olivia, and I out for cappuccini and we all felt pretty darn good about life.  Still not sure how it all could have been real but here’s a picture to prove I didn’t go all 14-year old Hannah and just daydream it up. (photo cred: Dennis)


After this time got lost.  I’d rather keep the rest of the day a dream-like blur.  The blur is all half-opened eyes in blue, salty  water, sun-warmed stone, sunBURN, barnacle rock scraped fingers, melting gelato, cliff jump weightlessness, kayaks and coast, and absolute failure at skipping rocks. I could write an essay on every one of those things. But Lord knows this is already ages too long so I won’t do that to you.

Sunburnt and burned out on late Italian trains, we finally made it back to our hotel and slept like lil’ angels (JK woke up like 72 times but whatevs). Woke up the next morning and had THE breakfast of champions.  Not even going to go there.  Let me just tell you it was a BUFFET.  Scratch that it was about 12 buffets: yoghurt/toppings buffet, fruit buffet, pastry buffet, bread buffet, meat buffet, vegetable buffet, omelette buffet, coffee buffet, EVERYTHINGBUFFETGAAAAAAH.  I can’t even talk about it anymore.  Just trust me-it was gosh darn delicious.


We began the trek westward to Barcelona.  The westward trip included a Tim Keller sermon, word-association game, lots o’ musicsss, maybe a little speeding, and finally, a stop in…


Yeah Monaco…I’m pretty tired and this thing is so long ain’t nobody going to read it. So I’ll just tell you this: Everybody and everything in Monaco is rich.  The cars are rich.  The casinos are rich.  The boats are rich.  The roads are rich.  The parks are rich (like…you’re not allowed to walk on the grass so what even is the POINT!?).  Probably the cockroaches are rich (L O L . As IF they even know what cockroaches are).

Well folks, there’s a wrap. I’m all written out for the day. Here’s to hoping I can do another one of these before another 6 months pass.

And disclaimer-only 3 countries were mentioned in this post BUT-technically we passed through France AND ended up back home in Spain.  So there’s that.  5 countries fair and square.