Walking: Our Own Moveable Feast

I re-read A Moveable Feast the week before we arrived in Paris to get into the spirit of Americans in the City of Light.  In one chapter Hemingway writes about how he couldn't write about Paris when he was in Paris.  He wrote about Michigan, where he spent his boyhood summers.  There is something about being transplanted from one place to another that makes details of the former place stand out vividly and make it easier to write about.

One thing I noticed about Alabama when we were home for Christmas is how gray-brown it is in the winter, especially when you drive by woods without the benefit of pine trees to provide some green.  But you can't tell that about Alabama from these pictures I took one freezing January day.  The sunniest days have sub-zero temperatures.

One of the best things about our living in North Yorkshire is that it taught our kids to walk "a fur piece" without complaining.  We didn't want two months in the land of cars to ruin them so we thought a walk in the woods was in order.  The day before this K.J. took James for a walk along the roadside where James was embarrassed to be seen walking "...like poor people.  This isn't England, Dad.  Everyone drives."  Oh, buddy.  

We saw deer tracks and busted up the ice on the shore of the lake, sending it flying.  You know it's cold when lakes in the south freeze.

The good news is everyone is faring well walking all over Paris.  Praise the Lord forever that I no longer have glass in my foot!  And the kids, who felt tired after the first few outings, are now walking everywhere like champs.  And James is no longer embarrassed because everyone--rich, poor, and in between--walks in Paris.