Christopher Street

Home...

When I am in my home, my own home, the one I pay for in Maryland, and I speak of the place I grew up, the place my parents still live, the place in Pennsylvania, I call it home. As in "I am going home to visit the folks this weekend." When I am in my parents home, I am invariably asked when I am going home and I know that they mean my own home. Odd how two places can be home at the same time.

We went home to visit the parents last weekend, as we usually do this time of year. We always go home at Christmas (and Memorial Day, and Labor Day and my birthday and Thanksgiving) , but we typically skip the travel during the first quarter of the year--the weather in the mountains is too unpredictable. Turns out that if it was unpredictable weather I was trying to avoid, I should have waited another couple weeks. Suffice to say that it's been a while since I drove on a road which was a solid sheet of ice when it was 58 degrees outside. You think that I kid, but I assure you, it happened. My husband already wrote all about it, better than I could have, so please read all about the ice here.

In addition to the weird, weird weather, there is not much to report from the home of my youth. My aunt bought a new house, and it is old and sturdy and full of character. It's also painted a butt-ugly shade of brown. She intends to repaint this spring, so we spent an afternoon studying paint chips and trying to decide what color will look OK with the brown roof. My Aunt wants peach, my Mom voted for sage. My vote was for a pale yellow--but I am fond of a yellow house. It's worth noting that the only colors that are really under consideration are about 17 shades of peach and an additional 17 shades of sage. I went off the board with my recommendation. Nothing shocking there. It didn't faze my aunt at all when she said "peach or sage" and I said "yellow". I've always been difficult that way.