You would probably call me an incredibly lucky person, and deep in my heart I know that's true. After all, I was just able to escape the midwester midwinter doldrums, and spend five days at my house in Naples, Florida. No matter that I spent a lot of time sitting at my computer, struggling with a couple of very lengthy reports from my office job. At least that computer was parked on the glass topped lanai table, with the warm southern Florida breeze rustling my hair (and my papers). Also got to spend some time catching up with my son and daughter in law, admiring the way they've crafted such a nice life for themselves at such a young age. The boy's got it "goin' on" as they say, and frankly, I'm sometimes envious. But that's fodder for another post... The real thing I want to talk about is how whenever I'm there, I am both dreading and wishing to come back here. Dreading, because, let's face it, my house here is old and outdated and grungy with age, while my house there is new, posh, and clean. My neighborhood here pretty much matches my house, and suffice it to say, my life here just trails right along in those same decrepit lines. However, this life here seems to still call out home to me. This old house and neighborhood has sheltered me from my first days as a young wife and mother, through raising my child and watching him fly far from here into his own life. My friends are all here, the things I do that enrich my life are here - in other words, everything that is real resides in this weatherbeaten, slightly run down place. In Naples, life is almost too good to be true. As beautiful as that is for a while, it leaves something to be desired, somthing gritty and unpolished, something that you can work to clean up and rejuvenate. Something that makes life worth a little more in the end.