Foreign Climes

Dear You,

On my return from three weeks in the South, my muse suggested that it seemed I "had been in a foreign country." Judging by my senses this morning, I had.

When I stepped outside to fetch the newspaper, tiny ice pellets struck my glasses. The sky was shades of gray and leaves completely obscured my lawn and the flower beds. On the patio the four burning bushes had turned their greens to the red that named them. Later, at the grocery store, everyone was dressed in layers, and we all leaned into the wind as we walked the lot toward the entrance. Rosy cheeks indeed.

How different it was 1500 miles away and -- was it really just yesterday? Shorts and a tee shirt, palms tossing their heads gently to the sides against that blue-blue sky, long-legged birds wading at the side of the lake in search of their breakfasts, folks waving from their golf carts on the way to the course.

For one reason and another I have missed crossing oceans, and only the border to Canada has ever interrupted my travels. No stamps in my passport. How odd, then, that after all those years of being a stay-at-home I find myself going from one foreign place to another.