Sprung!

Yesterday my little chunky baby and I were able to enjoy the fabulous weather and explore the neighborhood. While I didn't have any blooming Daffodils like they do in Central Illinois, there were plenty of stalks poking their heads out of the ground. The grass is showing its first signs of true green. (I am also reminded of walking around Charleston last spring with Iain following me saying, "Well, actually, Nora, those are Jonquils not Daffodils.")

My neighborhood is really cool, by the way. Most of the houses are at least seventy years old and every one is different. While many have been restored, there are also a fair number that are faded beauties in need of serious TLC. Often I find these houses to be even more intriguing than the impeccably decorated homes. As I peek in the back yard of some giant craftsman home and see a wooden and brick pergola that has nearly crumbled down I wonder about the prosperity that the owners or former owners enjoyed, and then the hard times that fell on them to allow such decay to take over. Is there some kind of modern-day Miss Havisham living inside allowing the house to fall into ruin? I believe that people in my generation have left only a tenuous connection to the past. In my mind, looking at old houses is a way to reinforce that connection. It is a chance to think about the people who have come before us. I'm sure sixty years ago there were other new mothers pushing a buggy around the neighborhood enjoying the first taste of spring and admiring all the other houses on the block. When I think about that I feel part of something much bigger than myself.