Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From my new porch and with a bottle of wine, my sister and I watched the last of yesterday's golden light bathe the meadow and the trees as if it was a performance only meant for us. Across the lane and over the fence, the rambling old house once manor to our 'carriage house' and my sister's 'barn,' glowed, too.
We are steeped in history here - European history, at least - much older than the places I have spent most of my adult life. You see it everywhere - in the houses, the barns, the stone walls along country roads. Much older, too, is my family connection to this place, from my childhood home just a mile across the valley, to early settlers, camping on the banks of the Schuylkill River. The responsibility of history feels weighty, the sense of family and a return to 'home' feels light.
