A Foggy Mumble

We’re approaching the sixth hour of a near-total whiteout. Not from snow, either, but from fog.

This morning we watched the sun rise up over the horizon, changing the sky from black to blue, orange, and red.

No sooner had it cleared the hilltops in the distance, a flood of fog rushed in and engulfed us. It’s so thick and so dense, we can’t see our neighbor’s house, we can’t see the road, and we can’t see the end of the driveway before it turns and heads down the hill.

I’ve heard trains in the valley, but we can’t see them. If I stand still, I can see the fog faintly billowing past my face.

I’ve never experienced fog quite like this before, and it’s mesmerizing. It also evokes a combination of both concern and comfort.

Who knows where the break in the fog is or if we’d be able to see far enough ahead to travel safely anywhere. And yet, we’re tucked away on our hilltop homestead, quite literally concealed and hidden from the rest of society.

…and I kind of love it.

Earlier today I got a phone call from a friend, wanting to know how we were doing, what life was like out here, and if we had any regrets from moving.

When I explained our property, how the Lord worked it all out, and how we’ve been eating biscuits and gravy while being secluded by both fog and an uncharacteristic October snowstorm, she chuckled and said, “That’s not for everybody, but it’s exactly for you. From when I first met you, you’ve always wanted to be Ma Ingalls, and now you are.”

Well if I wasn’t tickled pink by that remark!

Of course I still have a lot to learn, let alone master, before I’m anywhere close to a genuine Ma Ingalls, but to share this little slice of her lifestyle is really rewarding.

And can’t you just picture it? Once we get our wood stove installed, you know I’ll be simmering a pot of stew on it’s top. There might be a batch of Johnny Cakes to have with it.

Next to the wood stove will be the rocking chair, coupled with my knitting basket.

That all sounds so dreamy to me. Not to everyone, I get it, but certainly to me.

And I guess, as we head in to this next week that brings an election followed closely by a mountain of unpredictability, uncertainty, and unrest, it’s the simple life and it’s appeal that I’m so especially thankful for.

Homemade biscuits. Home-canned stew. Cast iron cooking. Knitting. Chicken chores. Gardening. Stoking a fire in a wood stove. It really is so simple, yet so magnificent.

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