I never moved as a child.  Not even once.  I was always jealous of my friends when they moved to a newer, bigger, better or different house or place, and mostly coveted their family’s ability to evolve and change when it felt like mine was always the same.  

As an adult I recognize and appreciate the consistency of what was, for the most part, a lovely childhood.  I had trees to climb, yards to run in, animals to play with, fields to lounge in, books to read and most importantly, time to kill.  It left plenty of time to pretend and imagine, and I spent most of it thinking of beautiful, antique and mysterious “other” places I’d like to visit.  I was fortunate to have a home life so agreeable and comfortable I could afford to devote most of my time wishing to be some place else.  Should it have been more precarious, I know, I wouldn’t have dared.

Having gone from Missouri to New York to San Francisco then LA and now back, I know this is the first move to really “jar” me.  Perhaps it’s having moved in the winter, in part, but I know it must be the age, too.  Things don’t seem as easy and unremarkable now, as they have before.  I know, for example, while I’ll certainly have other gardens, I’ll never have the garden with the yellow rose bush and flower box of pansies I just left behind, and I don’t have the people that went along with it, here, either.  

There are others that are equally important and wonderful here, but in very different ways, and it’s easy to become wistful at the cumbersome geography of it all.  

But, today was a nice.  A comfortable morning people I love (Moses and Kitty, if I may call Kitty a person, which she is, in fact, not, but close enough.  I couldn’t love a person more, I know): warm buttermilk biscuits and New York apples with brown sugar, butter, cinnamon and a little vanilla.  Home.  Now I just need a Christmas Tree!


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