Inspiration Thursday! Missing home.

It seems like I just wrote about our vacation - stealing those last warm, sunny days - and fall blew into DC. I'm not complaining, mind you. Fall is one of my favorite seasons. Fall is when I acquired new school supplies in anticipation of a new school year. Fall is when the air becomes crisp. Fall brings the kind of sleeping weather where you can leave the windows open and wake up perfectly snug in a quilt.

Although I've lived in the DC area for 15 years now and have a home of my own, I tend to long for "home" this time of year - West Virginia is the home I long to see. When I was in college, our choir sang "My Home Among the Hills." There's a land of rolling mountains, where the sky is blue above. And though I may roam, I hurry home to the friendly hills I love... there autumn hill sides are bright with scarlet trees....

That's what I miss the most in this season, the rolling mountains of color. It's a sea of reds, greens, yellows, oranges or the harder to define colors like a coral or chartreuse that give my hills life in autumn. The color blankets the hills in undulating waves that coat the Appalachians like my quilt covers me in warmth. Although it's the end of their cycle, those leaves give a last burst of life that even now I see in my mind long after they're dust on a forest floor. It's life. It's comforting. It's home.

And so as it turns chilly, my feet itch to return to my home among the hills so I can tuck away another WV autumn in my heart.

Inspiration Thursday! Defining Vacation.

We just got back from vacation. A lovely vacation complete with a swimming pool, views of the water, walks on a deserted beach, kayak exploration, fresh seafood and sunsets beautiful enough to bring tears to your eyes. For many people I know, "vacation" means going to the beach: you pile your family into a car, you drive to the beach and you enjoy the sunshine. Period. I can't say, however, this was my experience growing up. Vacation - in my family - involved three possible scenarios.

The first scenario was a trip to Tennessee via Kentucky to visit family. Twice a year we'd pile into a car - a ~tiny~ Toyota Tercel in my teen years - and drive 12 to 14 hours on roads like the "Purchase Parkway" past "the castle" to spend at least two weeks at my grandparents farm. In Hornbeak. West Tennessee.

Those vacations were usually spent rowing on the lake behind my grandparents house, lassoing the Tennessee Walkers for some wild rides or roaming the fields or gardens that made up the farm. Occasionally we'd walk into the woods and swing on the swing my father put up for my grandmother. We'd stand at the top of the hill and pull our legs up to swing down the hill and oh so high on the other side. This is where I learned about "frog gigging", crafting a barbecue pit, had a wrestling match with a barbed wire fence that left a scar, and learned the importance of wearing shoes in copperhead country. At night we kids "performed" shows for the adults, sang around the piano or playing a deadly game of Chinese Checkers with my grandmother - the queen of Chinese Checkers. One memorable year, a little Shetland pony lived outside the window of my bedroom calling to me in the morning to get up and come out and play. This was most often my family's definition of vacation.

The second scenario was the working vacation. Mama was an artist who did shows up and down the East Coast. A "show" could be defined as an outdoor arts festival (with lightening, wind and rain), a museum exhibit or a convention floor fair with a 100,000 person gate. Again, we piled people, luggage, stock, display cases and a booth into or on top of that little Toyota Tercel and drove off to some far away place. We'd talk our hearts out trying to sell Mama's wares, answering questions like, "Are they made of fudge?" and, "How does she MAKE them?" knowing we'd all be richer for those sales if we could keep them talking long enough for Mama to close the deal.

And after the show was done, the booth taken down and whatever stock was left packed back into - or onto - the car, the treat would come. Mama would always find a way to do something special like taking us to a movie or spending a couple days exploring the area on our way home. Once, right before my sophomore year in high school, she took me on a shopping trip in the local mall where I got a raspberry beret a la Prince. I felt so wicked! Thankfully, Mama never fully understood what that was all about... or maybe she did?

The third scenario was an extra special treat. It was a "vacation" where we didn't visit family and we didn't have to work. Our sole purpose was to see something new and exciting, to stay in a hotel room and eat out - all things very exotic on my father's college professor salary. Mama would save up and find deals to make these trips. I can count these vacations on my fingers they were so rare. They were incredibly special and shaped our lives in ways my parents may have intended, but may not have imagined. One of these trips was a visit to DC when I was about eight. Standing behind their bench seat of our Buick LaSabre (prior to seat belt laws), I told my parents I'd work and live on Embassy Row when I grew up. And I did.

So no. We didn't go to the beach and spend a week on the water. We didn't pull out the beach chairs and pails, coolers and umbrellas. I only saw the ocean twice before my 20s and one of those times was in December (after a show).

This "going to the beach" thing is still new to me. I'm learning not to feel guilty with the luxury of it all. My constant is that just like my Mama, I save, find deals and work to make it the best adventure ever - or at least to feel like it is in the moment. And though "vacation" is defined differently than it was when I was a child, it's an adventure still. And that's a tradition I intend to treasure.