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Rte. 90

Pop's hops

 Cayuga Lake

A tangle of Sumac

Because there are no grapevines, close ups of the white caps on the lake, nor cornfields, this is an imperfect representation of the finger lakes in late November. Thankfully,  I did not spend my weekend with a camera. Now I am trying to ease myself back into the swing, which is not an  easy task during the holidays. 

We are trying to figure out how to move back home. It's difficult. We like the Pioneer valley so much. The schools are pretty well funded, diverse culturally and socioeconomically. The valley is well known for it's large writer/artist population. We have jobs here, although the security of them is not super tight. Our insurance through the university is fabulous. 

There is something to be said for having a "place" that is separate from where you grew up and where many of your people live. I can't explain it. It somehow makes one feel grown up and interesting. And yet, "home" for us still means the Finger lakes. I walk into my parent's house or my in-laws and I sigh inside. Suddenly there are 3-4 or maybe more, extra people to help me with my children. All of a sudden, we are not the only ones in charge. We have acommon history. We are understood, our jokes are funny for the right reason. The cornfields are there, the lake. Pie. My dad's ridiculous puns that require 5 minutes of brain activity to make sense of. My mom's patience and endless supply of craft supplies. Sharon's baked goods and patience. Paul's habit of calling everyone under the age of 60 "kid". Quakers. Pie.