A few weekends ago, I took the family to a cabin in the woods overlooking a lake.  I was hoping for a simple relaxing time together where I could read my book, build a fire, cook us a few nice meals.  I found a simple state park and booked us there without giving it a lot of thought.

Upon showing up, Mom expressed that we were “in Minnesota,” her home state and spent the weekend delighted by the lake, the deer, the few remaining fall leaves on the mostly bare trees around us.  Whatever it was that triggered the feeling of being in Minnesota, I cannot be certain.  But Mom was happy.  She spent much of the weekend in a rocking chair in front of my efforts to build a fire — pathetic the first night and better the second night!

I suspect that the feel of a small space shared with family in the beginnings of winter evoked deep memories of her childhood in that cold state.  Of course perhaps that is her crazy daughter over analyzing the world. It may have been simply seeing the lake outside.

Mom often requests to go home. I don’t know exactly what she is hoping for in that home, but apparently we found it for a weekend. Minnesota is not such a long drive after all.