I remember a day a few weeks ago when it rained and rained. The mountains above us were socked-in, and as I looked out the window, mist rolled down their sides, blowing wraithlike through the pines, and hanging around everything like the hazy edges of an old memory. Thunder followed, clapping overhead with a suddenness that made me jump and which set the windows rattling. Sheets of cold raindrops sliced through the mist, wasting their energy against the shingles, before flowing off the roof and across the grounds. It rained and rained, sometimes drizzling and sometimes torrential, but in the house the fireplace was crackling and filled with a cheery treasure of glowing coals.
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That is my kind of weather. And that is my type of home. You know, like one of those Thomas Kinkade painted homes. The antique, yet very well kept up, english cottages surrounded by tall tress and a winding creek. The lights glowing through the windows and the chimney always smoking. Inside you know there is a family. One without a television. They just finished dinner, yet they stay seated, talking as a family, as one unit. Little Curtis and his brother Tim both have peas left on their plate. They don't like peas. Dad's got nothing but chicken bones littering his plate. Their bellies are full, their cheeks are red, they are smiling. Their cheeks hurt from laughing so much. And even though it is cold enough outside to shave the feathers off a goose, they are warm and comforted by the crackling fire in the other room. This is bliss.
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