For the first time in nearly a decade, we ventured over the mountains to feast with Husband’s folks for Thanksgiving.
Once home, we availed ourselves of a stately conifer and set to decking the halls for Christmas.
Besides merry-making, hall-decking, and shuttling offspring hither and yon to activities, I’ve been reading even more than usual lately, settling into a wintery hibernation-mode that accounts a bit for the radio silence here.
I thoroughly enjoyed Sally Field’s new memoir, In Pieces, which according to the author/screen legend was a labor of love that took six years to birth. I admire the honesty with which she shares her often sensitive story without apology, still managing to remain a perennial class-act.
I’m presently devouring Michelle Obama’s new book, Becoming, and gaining much insight and respect for our former first lady.
She shares about her upbringing, her education and early adulthood, and of course her time in the White House– which got me thinking…
Our house is a bit like the White House. I mean, certainly by name (The week we were wed I giddily recorded an outgoing message on our answering machine stating, “You’ve reached the White house, the President and First Lady aren’t available to take your call…”) , though not in grandeur, but in that due to the all-consuming, ’round the clock intensity of the constant rigorous work demanded and being accomplished, said public servants must reside on-site, ever on-call, mere moments away from stepping into action. Now, if that’s not a perfect picture of home-education, and also working from home, as Husband does, then I don’t know what is.
I wouldn’t trade it for anything.