Pickles on the Porch

It's official. We are now Old Beach residents down here in the heart Virginia Beach.

We have moved in, and unpacked almost every box. Quite an undertaking, but we were motivated by sheer need to establish some sense of permanence for the goons.

Every sentimental piece of furniture we owned was damaged in some way in the move process. So what...no biggie. We are together for the meantime. All the material items that we did fine without for two months now seem superfluous. None of it is really important. Home is not made by the pictures on the wall and/or the seating arrangement in your living room. It is the memories, rituals and traditions that make your home a home.

Funny, with all the boxes unpacked and most of the pictures up on the walls I didn't feel like I was really home until I cracked open MY first jar of home-made icebox pickles (Uncle Elbert's recipe). Truth be known, I have had already had my fair share this summer albeit at my mom's house...so, they weren't really mine.

I enjoyed an entire mason jar of these perfect pickles while sitting on the back porch under the crepe myrtle tree.

I didn't feel the compulsive need to move or get something done. I only shifted ever so slightly every few minutes to catch the best whiff of the tangy saltiness in the ocean air.

Home sweet simple home.