A week ago I left home on a last-minute road trip. My maternal grandmother isn't doing very well and my mom was planning to visit her, so I dropped the cats off at my other grandmother's, asked my much put-upon neighbors to watch the cabin and try not to let the pipes freeze, and hit the road to join them. It was a good trip. I stopped on my way through Portland to see a friend, had an out of control four hour lunch with Zach, re-bonded with my parents' dogs, spent some quality time with my mom, aunt, uncle, cousin and grandmother, loaded up on lefsa at the Norwegian bakery and spent way more hours behind the wheel than can possibly be good for me.
I'm really glad I went (and not just because my aunt loaded me up with quilting supplies!). I count it as one of the great and unexpected benefits of coming back home that I've reconnected with my mom's side of the family. I'm closer to all of them now than I have been at any point since my very early childhood. I love hearing the stories about their childhoods, and the stories they heard and can tell about relatives I'll never know. I love the stories about my roguish great-grandfather and much put-upon and not terribly nice great-grandmother. I love having this multi-generational connection to the soggy and sea-faring Pacific Northwest, so different from the multi-generational connection my father's family has to the arid grazing land of Southern Idaho. It feels good to know more about these roots.
But it feels REALLY good to be back home, with my cats, drinking tea by the fire in my quiet little cabin as the snow melts and drips from the tin roof.
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