When the snow falls deep and fluffy around the old homestead, and Mom sends a pic of good ol' 363 up to her second stone wall of drifted accumulation I am full of memories. Suddenly I am eight years old with my nose pressed to the second story bull's eye glass window panes, staring down the hill to my best friend's house. I am wondering if it's too early to fire up the rotary phone and sound the battle cry of fresh hillsides waiting to be plundered by our sleds.
I haven't seen snow like this since I left New England 20 years ago. Splitting those 20 years between Florida and Texas has left little chance for flurries in the forecasts. When we are young we want to see the world and be as far away from home as geographically possible. If someone told me 20 years ago I would see my parents maybe once a year from that point on and I would never know the joy of that cold drafty dining room on Thanksgiving again...... maybe I would've thought twice. Maybe. Having my own graduating senior who is now full of travel ideas and the lure of far away places, I wonder how I never took my parents' feelings into consideration. Perhaps it's the secret power of parenting that we know if we restrict a dream, it somehow forces it's way to the surface with or without parental blessings.
This house is home for me. No matter how far I roam it always will be. I carry her memories with me everyday of my life. It is here I learned to stitch, unearthed history lessons in plastered walls, had the first kiss from the boy who would become my husband, and where I drafted the story of my life. It is here that my mom hugged away my teenage tears and I learned that if I fell I could always get up to try again. I am lucky that my parents still live here. I can go home to hear the floorboards creak out past tales, pull on the latches, and hear my father complain about someone using all the hot water in this one bathroom house. When I see my Dad in this photo, standing to the right side of the house, I laugh knowing he is complaining about having to suffer like Puritans in the fierce New England winters. Though they complain, they will never leave. This is their home. It is a mythical place my husband and I hope to find one day.
So today, from Galveston's shores I wander through my thoughts of home, marvel at the stunning beauty of freshly fallen snow so far away, and adjust my toes in the sun-warmed sands so thankful that the only shoveling I will be doing will be in my garden. But y'all have fun up there!
LOVE & HOME
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