When I first started this blog last fall, I named it Beach Memo because I really, truly thought, before long, I would actually be writing it from the beach. That was the plan. To move to the beach.
But you know what they say about plans.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
We did move. But we didn’t move to the beach. We kinda moved to the opposite of the beach. Instead of a view of the ocean, we now have a view of a mountain. I don’t even know what mountain it is, such is my unfamiliarity with this place we are endeavoring to make home.
How did this happen? Well, it basically all comes down to the birds and the bees.
We found out last Christmas that we were going to become grandparents. And right then, everything changed. We already faced a distance of nearly 250 miles between us and the grandchild that was on the way. Moving to the beach would likely add another 100 miles to that distance.
And that was unacceptable.
And as much as I love the beach, I love my family more.
So, after 25 years, we pulled up stakes and moved to a tiny town in West Virginia.
At the entrance to our neighborhood, there is a cow pasture. There is one grocery store. It basically seems to be a little town that sprung up around a highway interchange: a couple of hotels, a couple of fast food places, a couple of gas stations.
But the little town we now call home has one feature that overrides all other considerations: It’s 13 miles from our granddaughter. And that makes me a happy grandmommy.