Home From Camp

We took a long drive to our little camping spot last Wednesday. The latter part of the drive is especially nostalgic for me. We drove those same roads many times to visit my grandparents. I love when the flat straight roads start to meander a bit, and I catch glimpses of rolling hills. Queen Anne's Lace adds frills to the roadside like the tatting edging a little girl's dress, and the gardens have a little terracing to them giving the landscape a change of texture.

My imagination takes over when we pass some of the old abandoned home places. I start to wonder about the people who once lived there and planted the running roses that peek out from the overgrowth. Paintless wooden siding, broken windows, and cattle loitering on what used to be a lawn beckon my thoughts to run wild, and the wispy fog-like clouds laying low on the hills add a mysterious feel to the already ghostly scene. It's funny to me how a few hundred miles makes such a difference in scenery.

We had a great time even if we only had a day and a half of nice weather. I could have read, painted and daydreamed my time away, but my husband got very restless in the rain, so we came home early. I already miss the quietness and also the sounds. I miss the train whistle, the call of the whippoorwill, and the bird that I couldn't identify, but whose whistle sounded like a construction worker's cat calls. I miss the gurgling of the creek, and the constant hum of the insects, of course, I don't miss the insects themselves.

I miss cooking and eating out of doors, and reading while dangling my feet in the ice cold water, and exploring all of the little blooming plants in the edge of the woods.

Oh, well, hopefully it won't be our last trip, and I do feel refreshed. It will be nice to sleep in my own comfortable bed tonight.