A Turkey-free Thanksgiving In June

On August 4, 1992, Wendy, Julian and I moved to the location that you see in today's image. Things were much different back then. Julian, for example, was only 6 months old. Wendy was an operatic gun for hire. I, now fighting back tears to write these words, had hair.

The property we bought in Cambridge-Narrows was beautiful, or so we thought. It featured a handful of arthritic Mugo pines, two obese globe cedars, and a satellite dish big enough to receive transmissions from Ork. Aside from these distractions, the location-location-location was perfect.

The house was clad in wide ass vinyl, an unnatural shade of bleached blue Smurf. It was hideous so we got rid of it in 2001, replacing it with delicious eastern cedar shingles. We also built the boat house in 2001, then sold the boat promptly afterwards. Doh (!), but it worked out just fine anyway.

Today the house and yard only vaguely resemble that which we originally bought. Everything looks better. Much better! Progress, inside and out, has evolved over the years. It's a satisfying feeling to love where you live, and I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to call this place home. I wake up every morning, look outside and feel inspired. Lucky me. This morning it's pouring outside and everything still looks magnificent.

He sees the world through rose-coloured glasses.

Ultimately, I do, though I occasionally peak around the sides of my r.c.glasses for a dose of reality. It reminds me of how fortunate I am. I then slip back into my rosy bubble and try not to read the morning news, though I must. It's hard to fathom what some people must see when they wake up, if they sleep at all.