There's a feeling of going home when I go to Grandma Polly's house. When I head northeast for a Virginia visit, I'm flooded with memories of my childhood. I remember spots on the interstate, going over the hills on Timberlake road, the anticipation of the last few blocks before we turn onto her street and the simple enthusiasm she greets us with. Her house, with its decorations and function, have not changed since I was a child. It's the best constant that I've had in my life, thank you Jesus.
I always had space to be a child there. Three generations of women grew up on that street, and the stories are plentiful. "We would only come inside to eat," was fuel to my childhood heart. I explored the neighborhood with my brothers in the same way that my mom did, and now I get to take my children there.
This weekend we took our circus to Grandma Polly's sanctuary for a four day visit. Burl and Fern have been asking to return, and I was eager to introduce her to Ridge and Lark.
It was a fantastic trip. She adored them. We saw some sites, did some things, and poked around. Nothing about that was as special as sitting on the floor on her den, playing with my children, and watching her laugh at us. She never stopped watching and she never stopped laughing. I loved it so.