Grow Where You're Planted

Inexplicably, I read the Travel section of The New York Times first on Sunday mornings. I like to travel. Or, rather, I like to be somewhere else. It's the preparation that I dislike. Anyway, I sit down with that section before any other.

This morning's paper had an article about Norman Rockwell's New England. I have lived in Atlanta for 42 years. I will never be a native, as the natives remind me, although I have been in Atlanta longer than most anyone I know. My very early years, though, were spent in the Mid-West and North-East. Mom and Dad took us to see Plymouth Rock and Sturbridge Village and every iconic New England site you can imagine. Mom, whose taste I have always considered flawless, instilled in me an interest in Colonial and Early American life and furniture. So much so that I consider myself a closet New Englander despite my locale. I love the architecture, the history, the landscape, the food. Everything except the weather. And even that has grown on me.

The article this morning made me long for Mr. Rockwell's home. I love the thought of a village green, the clapboard siding and covered bridges and Sugar Maples of the North East.

After our breakfast of Dutch baby, K and I took our walk to the park right across the street. Arabia Mountain is a monadnock, a great exposed stone mountain.

We have our own, almost private, entrance to the park. A long gravel path leads through acres of Switch Grass and brambles, sapling pines and towering Tulip Poplars. We nearly always see deer and wild turkeys and Coyote tracks. It's about a mile or so to a beautiful lake at the foot of the mountain. We've even seen Otters playing there.

It's gorgeous, really. And we are almost always alone there, though I can't imagine why. It's a perfectly beautiful wilderness.

And this morning, the Red Maples and Sassafras and every other native tree were ablaze with fall color. As pretty as any imagined New England landscape. The lake reflected the bluest sky and the creeks feeding it were clothed in fallen leaves and pine needles. The air was crisp. A perfect morning.

I'm sure that Mr. Rockwell's backyard is beautiful. No doubt there is somewhere in every state to covet. Our walk reminded me how lucky we are to have such an unspoiled landscape at our doorstep. I have nothing to envy.

Thanks, but I'm happy right here.