Oh, what a cruel day yesterday was! I was wearing short sleeves, getting too warm to wear a sweater. Driving on an errand, there were dozens of people walking for exercise, enjoying the weather. A warm breeze was blowing while the sun was shining… my ever “garden on my mind” started thinking spring. Only, instead of plants, I was thinking, “It’s time to move!”
Hubbs and I both came from families of nomads. My dad’s family moved between Indiana and California many times. Hubbs’ father’s family were the nomads, too. His grandfather, as a child, had traveled to Chetopa, Kansas in a covered wagon with HIS grandfather, from Steelville, Missouri. As a child, we moved frequently, and as a child, Hubbs moved frequently. I used to say that if I got a whiff of boxes, I was ready to move.
Yesterday was one of those days that brought visions of packing boxes, moving somewhere new. The breeze blew warmer air over me and my nomad blood started taunting me. “It’s time to move!” The warm day was a nice reprieve for the cold days still to come but the cruelty was feeling that need for adventure.
I had to tell her No. We’ve reached the stage in our lives where settling down has become necessary. I wonder if that old nag stomping and waving her head out in the pasture is remembering her early days of freedom when the warm winds blew through her mane. Sometimes, the memory is enough; the memory is the treasure that keeps ennui at bay while we are thankful for today.
MDT/Diana Bowden Moore
Photo by Alice Donovan Rouse via Unsplash
