I think at one point I may have talked about this before. I have more than my share of wonderlust. I remember the amazement I felt the first time I flew to Great Britain. We came in over Ireland low and at first I didn't realize that all those white dots in the middle of those Irish Green Fields were actually real live sheep. Delightful.
I remember how it felt the first time I stood on a mountain in Dillon, Colorado and was shocked that at 9,000 feet there was so damned little oxygen. I remember thinking how much more beautiful the Tetons are than the Rockies. I remember falling in love with the Smokeys when I was just a teenager. How perplexed I felt as a very young child that the white sands of Flordia are part of the same Gulf that produces the brown sands of Galveston. I am a person who will get in a truck and drive to the Arctic Circle just for fun.
So this morning I am faced with irony. I got out of bed and propped open the back door to enjoy the fresh air just before a thunderstorm. I sat in the living room and thought about breakfast. Then the church bells started. It reminded me that I grew up about half a mile south of those church bells and that when I was ready to buy my own house I came back to roost about half a mile north of those bells. This morning those bells are playing carols. Right now, it's Little Town of Bethlehem. Those are my home bells. Sweet.Labels: personal urban drama, vacation |
