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Marriage
We Could Not Go Home Again
One night we turned off the TV and looked at each other. “I want to go back,” my wife whispered. I knew this was not a good idea.
My wife and I had a camping trailer up on a small mountain in the Berkshires back in the mid-nineties. It was a community of a hundred or so campers, mostly there only on weekends. At that time I had a consulting business that often gave me the freedom of working wherever I had a computer, so we spent most of our summers on the mountain for ten years, making many friends and enjoying the beauty we had all around us.
From mid-May to Columbus day, that was our life. We’d usually come back home on Tuesdays, do whatever we needed to do around our home, and make the 150 mile trip back there on Thursday night if the forecast called for decent weather.
We’d started in a little travel trailer, which we never towed. The owner charged a small fee for leaving it over the winter months; we had no reason to drag it back and forth. It was cramped, the furnace didn’t work well, and the deck was rotting, but it overlooked a beautiful meadow and we were surrounded by friends.
Then some folks who lived up the mountain from us wanted to move to Florida, so we bought their large “park…
