Living in California was so last year; West Virginia is now my state of choice.
I'll pause here so you can get all the toothless and inbreeding jokes out of your system.
My son and his wife gifted me with my first grandbaby, so I uprooted myself from coastal paradise to settle within hollerin' range of my kin. (See how hip I already am with the hillbilly lingo?) I didn't think the livin' could get much better than Northern California, but a) I now have somebody to play with, and b) I live on the edge of God's outpost--I've got trees, mountain views, a pond replete with waterfowl, and roaming rights on 125-acres of hay fields. A brochure from the local tourism office distinguished my l'il corner of heaven as "the most scenic spot in Berkeley County". I'm not bragging, I'm just bringing the honor to your attention.
Ahem.
S'anyway, I live in an old farmhouse. "Old" as in part of it was built before the Revolutionary War. It is a little drafty. It is also a bit dusty. Oh, and it's infested with cluster flies, shovel-butt bugs (as my daughter refers to them), and yellow ladybugs. And there's virtually not one level floor, wall, or door. And no access to cable or FIOS.
BUT...I love this place. When I first walked in, the house enveloped me in the delicious and nutritious good energy of eight generations of Quakers. So I wear a sweater against the chill, keep the Dustbuster nearby to capture the pestilence and dust bunnies, and pass up cocktails because the funhouse staircase requires sobriety to ascend without peril.
Best of all, so very best of all, I'm only 4.6 miles away from my (toothless!) granddaughter.
Welcome back!
Posted by: Guy | June 07, 2009 at 08:06 AM
Hi Biscus--Thanks for stopping by!
Posted by: Candi Byrne | June 08, 2009 at 05:11 PM