And it seems to be making itself quite at home. The snow fell in its lazy, graceful patterns, as only snow can do, and it hasn’t left us yet. We’re settled in until March or so. Secretly, I’m thrilled.
The only sadness is that I live in Indiana. Where we don’t often get snow in great quantities, and we don’t believe in hills. Never, ever, in all of my days, did I think either of those things would fall under the “con” category of a locale. But, they do. And I catch myself thinking such irrational thoughts as, “I could move further north again,” or, “I would love to live in the mountains, where my driveway is a mile long and my snowshoes are a necessity.”
But then I remind myself that I like the beach. And that beach time isn’t really conducive to either snow or mountain living. And then my thoughts wander to moving back to MI, where there are hills and where the snow abounds. But also where the summers are beautiful and the great lakes are within a lazy, Sunday afternoon drive. But move back? What am I thinking? That is something I said that I would never. ever. do. Ever.
It’s the holidays that make me sentimental about the homeland. It happens every year. Without fail. There’s just something wonderful about being home. And seeing friends from the olden days. Snuggling on the couch to watch a movie. Mom cooking dinner. Almond paste in the cookies. Snowshoes. Skis. And country roads (take me home).