In 1997, I took an unforgettable roadtrip with my parents in late July and early August up to Bartibogue, New Brunswick and then down the entirety of the New England seaboard. This trip did, however, interrupt my love affair with the library that summer.

While on that trip, my father took a picture of sign outside the Weathervane Restaurant in Kittery, Maine...which is ironically where the husband worked the summer before our paths first crossed. Crazy, right? 

Anyway, just before we turned the trusty family station wagon back toward Indiana, my ever-loving mother {an incredible 30+ year educator} insisted we make a stop in Plymouth, Massachusetts, just north of Cape Cod. Little did I know that 13 years later I would be working in the area--and living only 45 miles from the site of the first Thanksgiving.
Hipstamatic Print by {av}
Yesterday, during my adventure at Eastside Marketplace, I spied these locally grown cranberries. From my drives to Plymouth last November, I remember what a surprise it was to see red fields of cranberries on Route 3. I grew up in the Midwest, so all I knew of cranberry bogs stemmed from the OceanSpray commercials

Seeing these beautiful bundles of cranberries in the grocery yesterday made me smile. The beauty of the bogs helped the loneliness of my drives pass...and strangely made me feel a little more at home in a new place. In the quiet of the fields, I could close my eyes and imagine myself driving through the cornfields in southern Indiana. Since I won't be able to make it home for Thanksgiving, maybe I can convince the husband to take a drive toward Plymouth this weekend and bring a little piece of home to me...