Considering the Future

Lately, Kim and I have been having an ongoing conversation about where we want to live when we "get old."  I think it's a normal discussion to be having when you're down to only one kid at home and you've got two empty bedrooms staring you in the face every day. 

We go round and round on where we should live.  I'm tired of spending time in my car and keep talking up the advantages of getting a condo or row house in the city.  Why?  Because I want to be able to walk out of my front door and have restaurant options.  It's that simple.  Kim, on the other hand, wants to live in a small town.  That town -- and her house -- needs to meet the following requirements:

• It has to be in a part of the country that has all four seasons.
• The house has to be on the water.
• She needs to be able to walk into town from the house.

I have to admit that her dream sounds nice, too.

The other complication to all this is that there are times that I can't imagine ever leaving this place.  Take yesterday afternoon.  I had just trimmed the crepe myrtles by the front walk.  I'd taken the limbs out into the woods behind the house, thrown them onto one of the piles of debris that's built up over the years, and was walking back towards the house.  I stepped out of the woods into the back yard and took a look around me.  The nandina that line the back patio were beginning to turn bronze.  The berries on the barberry bushes had begun to emerge.  The tulip poplar leaves were falling from the trees, leaving the lawn a mix of green, orange, and yellow.  I could hear a flock of geese honking in the distanance.

At that moment, everything was perfect.  "Why would I ever want to leave all this?" I asked myself.  I couldn't answer.  Eighteen hours later, I still can't.