This weekend, we went back to the mountain town where McMoose and I went to college and oh, how the mountains feed the soul. Every time we travel (anywhere, really,) McMoose has to endure a constant stream of, "Let's move here because of the way I picture our life unfolding if we were in this exact place." And it's not because of any real desire to leave where we are, but it's just so tempting to imagine all the different lives we could lead.
We could live in DC or New York City or Boston and spend our days on various commuter trains, experiencing life in a throng of humanity. We could live in the a Leave It To Beaver kind of suburb, where the lawns would always be mowed and the picket fences would never become discolored and children would play in groups on the street. (Actually, we might need to do some time traveling and reality-breaching for that one, mightn't we?) We could live on a farm on a mountain with our chickens and our goats (not cows, never cows) and wake up to the fog rolling off our front porch every morning. I can imagine a multitude of lives for us and I want to live them all.
And then, we come home to the cats and the cozy bed and the nooks filled with toys and books and the house that holds our real-lives and I remember that here, actually, is a rather nice place to be. (Though I could do without the snake and its supply of frozen mice and the caterpillars that may or may not still be alive in their little box of dirt. Whose idea was it, anyway, to bring in caterpillars that burrow instead of ones that spin cocoons?)
We could live in DC or New York City or Boston and spend our days on various commuter trains, experiencing life in a throng of humanity. We could live in the a Leave It To Beaver kind of suburb, where the lawns would always be mowed and the picket fences would never become discolored and children would play in groups on the street. (Actually, we might need to do some time traveling and reality-breaching for that one, mightn't we?) We could live on a farm on a mountain with our chickens and our goats (not cows, never cows) and wake up to the fog rolling off our front porch every morning. I can imagine a multitude of lives for us and I want to live them all.
And then, we come home to the cats and the cozy bed and the nooks filled with toys and books and the house that holds our real-lives and I remember that here, actually, is a rather nice place to be. (Though I could do without the snake and its supply of frozen mice and the caterpillars that may or may not still be alive in their little box of dirt. Whose idea was it, anyway, to bring in caterpillars that burrow instead of ones that spin cocoons?)
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