When I was a kid we always went to my grandparent's house during Christmas vacation.
It was my favorite place in the whole world.
There was family there, a familiar house, and lots of food and games and cousins.
I especially enjoyed the years when there was snow. We would play outside, making snowmen and sledding down 'the big hill' (which isn't so big anymore). Then we would come inside and dump our boots and snow suits and put our wet mittens on the floor furnace.
This thanksgiving we had snow, and friends and family and food and games. There were grandsons to play outside and make snow forts and snowballs, and sled down the steps.
They came in and dumped boots and snow pants and put their gloves to dry by the fireplace (and in the dryer).
I've come full circle.
I can't seem to find the words to explain how much those days at my grandparents meant to me. I've always valued history, especially family history, and their place meant the continuity of it to me.
It was just so special.
Now I have a place I love, and there is family that comes and talks and eats and plays and enjoys their time. There are kids who play with toys their parents played with and dump their stuff just like their parents did. Those kids are comfortable in my house and with their Papa and Gramma. I'm supervising my kitchen and my family is around me.
And I still can't explain exactly the way it makes my heart feel.
This is the only photo from this day,
but there are a lot more in our memories.
