
I grew up in rural Iowa, where "traveling" meant a car trip to South Dakota to visit relatives. Or possibly Minnesota to see old family friends. I vaguely remember Dad flying out of the small Sioux City airport. Except for an out-of-the-ordinary trip to the west coast when I was 7, the midwest was my stomping ground.

I've traveled a bit with my husband, even overseas, but last week was my first trip away on a plane by myself. (I know, I'm a "late" bloomer as far as worldliness is involved.) I flew to south Florida to visit my daughter who teaches in a private school.

My oldest daughter is teaching Latin and Ancient History in a private boarding school in Florida. As a loving and caring mom it was important that I go and visit her at her school. Especially during the deepest winter in Minnesota.
While my youngest daughter was in record breaking low temperatures north of Duluth, I was looking at the beach and palm trees. Though the temperature in Florida was unusually low, I didn't mind wearing my jacket to walk in the sand.
No comments:
Post a Comment