We just got back from a lovely few days with my parents. Can I just say that I love going home? I had a conversation with my SIL, Amy (also from the country) about people we know that no longer want anything to do with their small town roots. It's sad really, because no matter where I move in my life, I started here. And I think you'd have to be crazy to deny this stuff.
The local Wednesday auction and market:
Dirt on your face and neck:
A grandpa that makes you a fire "just because" and a place to do it in. Hot dogs and 'smores roasted on the embers:
Somehow, I think it even made my kids nicer to each other:
Or maybe that was just the blueberries from the market:
See that red post? It used to host one end of my grandma's laundry line. The other was hitched right to her trailer on my parents' property. I used to play around that pole as a child... pretending it was the lamp post in Narnia. The boys don't know that book, YET, but somehow that red pole still had a magical pull. This trip, Grandpa cleared out some under the bottom of that pine to make them a play space. Maybe next trip we'll clean out some more of the weeds and make it even more interesting. Meg, what is it about playing under the pines? You and I? Your kids? Now mine? Never mind the sap, dirt and mosquitos.... totally worth it.
Know what else was worth it? Watching my boys learn to climb said pine, even if it did make me nervous. You know what? They came down when I said I was scared for them, but even at my most afraid I was still cheering them on in my heart. That, boys, is how you fly. That is how you test your own limits and nerve. I know that climbing a tree and coming down covered in scrapes and sap is a sort of rite of passage, a test of independence and skill. I know because I did it. This is the sort of thing you SHOULD take with you from being in the country.
And you should never turn your back on it, no matter how far you move from it. Because it's beautiful and it's part of your heritage.