Wool Socks With a View
There comes a point when we all have to run away. For me, it's this Thanksgiving. This is the year when the two of us pack up our Sicilian lasagna and meatballs - along with homemade Reese cups and peanut butter cake (the closest thing to southern tradition in our home) - and head to the North Georgia mountains for cold air and renewal.
The drive reminds of many I once made. as a college student and newlywed, I'd always travel to Clarkesville to see mama and daddy and be renewed by mama's orange slice cake and dried apple pies. Years later, there's the one I always made the Tuesday before the traditional Thursday to pick up my Aunt Sophia and her decadent chocolate cake. We'd always stop by KFC on the way home for hot wings; that was our secret.
For this drive, it was only one cooler filled with pasta and sweets.
Now it's Thanksgiving morning and the parade is over, the fire is blazing, and memories are invading. Len is talking to his northern family - in animated Italian - and becoming the talker he swears he is not. I claim the fire and think of my children. We're spread on different continents, but even distant cities might as well be a world away. Thanksgiving will live primarily in my mind for the majority of years to come, a realization that I'm not sure I'm ready for. My children and Len's children lead faraway lives, our parents are gone and the immediate family are not close. so we will hold memories close and even though it's just the two of us, I'm beyond thankful. I'm grateful for the life I'm so privileged to lead.
So wool socks, keep me warm! Memories, keep me warm! It's almost time for lasagna.
Original Post | 11.28.2013
