Strawberry Moraine

I love my parents' house.  I love that there is no way to get into it without crossing a stream, sneaking through trees, or wandering through the rose garden.  I love the pond, the fish, and the ducks.  I love the waterlilies and the the bog iris.  I love the ivy that has matured into a lush blanket across the entryway.  I love the flowers, the leaves, and the life.  I love the burning bushes, the columbines, the rosebuds, and the trees.  I love the scrub oak.  I love the aspens (especially the one that arches over the deck).  I love that we've built everything in the yard from scratch: the pond, the walkways, the decks, the gazebo, the stairs, the firepit, the stream. 

I love trimming the vines back from the stream every spring and fall, standing in the cool water on a hot day while I slowly get covered in mud.  I love the bleeding hearts.  I love the quiet by the pond, and I loved sharing a silence with Gram in the mornings as we watched the yard wake up, the sun warming our faces.  I love the way it looks in the snow.  I love the views of Mt. Olympus and I love that my parents designed the house to take advantage of the natural beauty surrounding us. 

I love the memories I have there.  I love that growing up I spent weekends with my parents working the dirt and learning about the garden.  I love the fact that our house is everyone's house; that my parents welcome anyone and everyone in need of shelter, food, or love.  I love that our family has grown to include people from all over the world because of this house.  I love absolutely everything about it.