“When I was little very few people ever came deliberately to our doorstep. But people were forever arriving at our house from far away, looking of course, for Harriman State Park, or the Arden House, or occasionally even for one of our distant neighbors’ houses.
Mom always told lost strangers to go back out to Route 17, head north or south or whatever and go on.
Despite the fact that Mom hated living ‘umpteen miles from civilization’ she complained about the intrusions, and eventually clearer signs appeared at the entrance to Arden explaining how to get to where they wanted to go because it wasn’t this way.
It wasn’t always going to be this way for me either. No, no. Someday I would live where people came to the door specifically to see me. They would come directly to my door, on purpose, knowing they’d get me when the door opened. Then they’d come in and we’d be friends. They’d even come back again.
They’d come back some more, and some more, and on purpose every time.”
These words are from a story from my childhood, and remind me that a night like this past Saturday night (see my post of 1/8/12) is indeed a dream come true. Not that I haven’t had plenty of similar fun nights with friends, but every time I get it right I am grateful I’ve figured out how to get people to my door. My past meets my present and I am grateful for what I have.