Well, here we are in our Pennsylvania home while others live in and care of our home in Massachusetts. The transition always takes time. In this rural, small town setting surrounded by mountains that once produced the best anthracite coal in the country, we have a different set of experiences than in our urban setting. In addition to beautiful scenery, we spend time with relatives and friends we don’t see during the rest of the year.
To stay active, we join the YMCA where we exercise looking out of a wall of windows that faces suburban looking homes, a farm, and mountains.
On our way home from the Y yesterday, we stopped at a small vegetable stand. An Amish boy appeared to help us buy the produce and jelly we had selected. All of a sudden he said “excuse me” and bolted through the corn fields. His team of horses had run away, all eight of them attached, pulling an empty wagon behind them. They were well ahead of him down the road and around the bend. We were helpless to help.
Then, out of nowhere, a van pulled up and a young girl hopped out to finish helping us with the sale. I recognized the runaway horses as those I had seen last year as I was walking on a treadmill. I had taken a picture of them as they passed by cars and galloped up a hill, past fairly new houses to what I knew must be their farm on the other side of the development. Now I was standing on the edge of that farm.
The young woman was as interested in us as we were in her, a car clearly identifying us as out-of-towners, and Tom standing there with a Red Sox shirt on. I was wondering to myself about the red van that had delivered her. I didn’t think the Amish drove cars. Maybe they were new order. Clearly, I would not see this scene in Arlington. I had a strong desire to belong in this place during the short time that we would be here. This too was home.