Home on the Range

I woke up on Saturday morning, surrounded by pastel green walls and fresh, white linens. Poor Husband’s feet were hanging off the bottom of the small bed. Light was streaming through the windows and I knew, without a doubt, that the weather outside was perfect.

I threw on the new nightgown that my mother gave me and squinted around the room until I found my glasses. The time on the stove read 7:45 am. I smiled, realizing that I never wake up early when I’m in my dinky, urban apartment. After all, the only thing to wake up to is my husband and he’s usually sound asleep, underneath the down comforter. It’s too easy to snuggle up beside him and drift back into my psychotic (pregnancy induced) dream world.

At (my parent’s) home, I head straight outside, where I find my dad pulling weeds and raking up rocks. I’m barefoot and he gives me a tour of his garden. My feet are a lot softer than they used to be, but I force myself to hobble around on the gravel. This year, he has installed an automatic watering system. I sit back in the sunlight, listen to the birds chirping, watch the cats wrestle, and occasionally lunge after Beau’s ball. That dog loves to fetch and is darn good at it, too.

Looking back on my childhood has always made me smile. This weekend, though, was the first time that I realized how much I miss living in a small town. Each day feels longer and fuller. The sense of hurry is absent. I don’t have to attend a million events, or go shopping, or drive at least 20 minutes to get anywhere. There’s more time to do the things that really matter, like visiting with family and getting some fresh air.

I think I’m tired of the big city.