an ode to being a kid...and to finally letting it go

Yesterday was the last day for Victorian Christmas.

Periodically I get a little pang of longing for my hometown. There was that time last summer when I spent a whole day looking up real estate in Nevada City and I had to ban myself from the computer so I could return to productivity.

And then when we moved last Spring and I found the volumes of journals that I'd kept, painstakingly documenting in torturous detail every glance, word, or touch from various boys who had caught my eye. But through more mature eyes, I read between the lines to discover how those people, places, and events--some of which were unimportant side notes at the time--shaped me into the person I am today.

And then around October 4 1994, how there was a noticeable blip in the normalcy of my childhood when it all went away. I still remember getting into my parent's station wagon, and with the car parked and the late autumn sun creating a stifling mellow in the enclosed car, Sarah dropped the bomb that we were moving.

And we did.


I also noticed a change in my writing during that time. Behind all of the "We went skim boarding"s and "I met a new friend today"s, there was this proverbial elephant in the room with a giant sign reading "It Will Never Be The Same".

I was 16.

Now I'm 31, and somewhere in the last 15 years (I'm old, but awesome) I've figured out that Northern California is not the end-all for places to have a great childhood. (I know...duh. But I spent many self-centered moments at DHS debating with people who believed SG was created by God to be the only place in the world to raise a righteous and awesome posterity. (Sorry, Bill and Ted have been ghost writing for me.)) It's been a process of discovery, it has. Obviously we owe our happy growing up years to our parents, family, and friends. (and the opposite is most likely true as well.) And I have been blessed.

But I can't help it at Christmastime. I long to walk through downtown Nevada City at Victorian Christmas listening to the carols, roasting chestnuts over an open fire, and strolling through the shops decked out for Christmas. I remember the friendly faces, the Winfrey's barbershop (not to be excluded from the friendly faces), the Del Oro theater, the general feeling of acceptance, coming home to find that it wasn't just snowing...and sticking...downtown, and the trees...with or without snow. Those trees will always be in my blood.

Anyway, I'm sure we all have similar feelings about the places we grew up...thanks for enduring my little reminiscence (if, in fact you have endured), and if you've come with me this far, you might as well come with me a little farther and enjoy some google images of the place the kid in me calls home.

It was years before I could hear "I'll be home for Christmas" and not get really really sad at Christmastime. But now I really do feel that as long as I'm with my family, I am home for Christmas.

That was a really cheesy way to end, but what do you want...it's a cheesy post.

Merry Christmas.