Home sweet home

July 27, 2012

I have fond memories of my childhood. Growing up in the flat land of North Dakota meant grass huts for building forts, sunsets that painted the sky every color of the rainbow, and enough snow to build a two bedroom, one bath house with a view. (of the fence) Ah,  snow. Even though it’s summer and I haven’t actually attempted to eat snow in at least 25 years, I still remember how it tastes, like earthy ice fluff that disappears on your tongue. And I remember how it feels to lay in  cushion of snow, breathing in the crisp winter air, and feeling . . . safe. And then I remember football games in the fall, with leaves crunching under foot, shivering in a sweater, (because as long as winter jackets weren’t worn, it wasn’t winter yet) and sipping on hot cocoa while checking out the boys. 

Ahem, cheering on the home team!

As these memories come flooding back I can’t help but wonder if I am cheating my children of the same childhood. Will they appreciate a thousand acres of prairie grass? They certainly have never tasted snow.  And while I was shivering in sweaters, my children know of a different “fall” where mercury sits above 100 for days on end. Will they appreciate the reasons I left the place I hold so dear? Or do I hold memories in such a fond place because I am no longer a part of it? Adolescence reemerges, where do I belong???

*to be continued . . .


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