The road to my house.

Dear friends,

This is the road to my house.

As you can see from the photo, today is a little overcast. Pretty breezy, but a beautiful 64 degrees. Autumn is in full splendor.

I had one heck of a week, working 42 hours in the last three days alone. But on this glorious Sunday, I paused on my way to the grocery store to snap a photo because, otherwise, how would you ever believe me when I say I live in one of America’s most beautiful spots?

It’s clear now, isn’t it, why Mr. Mom and Parker are so happy with our little patch of paradise, our 15 acres of wooded bliss, chock full of wildlife living under the big Missouri sky?

And me? I complain a lot about those darn hills. (Especially when I’m running up and down them, as I did four times last week — hooray for me!) But I never fail to appreciate their beauty, or the ways in which they delight our spirits even as they exhaust my incline-weary running stride.

I’m right where I told you I would be today. On the sofa, with a a cup of coffee and stack of magazines and my laptop. I’m narrowing down tonight’s supper menu, which will likely be a whole roasted hen, wild rice and Basmati dressing with sausage and sage, cheese grits and corn pudding, and sauteed kale with garlic and red onion. Between the view and the menu, I can’t think of anything more restorative to fill my short weekend respite.

With gratitude {for a glorious Sunday and a three-day work week starting tomorrow},

Joan, who might be disappointed if at least one reader doesn’t note how insanely steep and unrelenting the hills are, thereby commiserating with the flatlander who hasn’t yet made her peace with running in this part of the world