(Current location, Batavia, NY, a town in upstate New York which has at least four different ways to pronounce it and we’re probably still not saying it correctly.)

Something strange happened as I stepped out of our hotel this morning into the heavy, warm, humid air of Ohio. Memories rushed me, and it was as if I were for the first time in many years eating a dessert my grandmother had made me but I’d forgotten about. The mugginess, the trees, the farms, the gray air—suddenly I remembered all about living in Virginia for five years and thought, “Wait a minute—I LIKE this!”

Driving through Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York has felt like the states are welcoming me back (we’d visited here a few times over a decade ago), like they’re that friend you had in high school that you forgot all about until she friends you on Facebook, and you think, “Oh yeah! YOU! Oh, I forgot you! I’m so glad we’re together again!”

The east coast is my forgotten high school friend. Every mile I’m getting more excited to renew our friendship.

Why yes, I do DO feel welcomed!

Shortly after this I heard my 5 and 9-year-olds in the back seat having the following conversation:

“Housebuilder and General Grievous want to come over to play.”

“Ok, but we have to move the silly putty and get out the magnifying glass.”

I just don’t know, I really don’t.

I have to put in a plug about my kids—my three oldest take turns driving and willingly take the younger ones to the restrooms, get them treats, and make sure no one’s missing. Everyone has tasks, and they are all good about retrieving the radios to be recharged, getting everyone’s bags and coolers into the hotel, and packing everything up again. This cart below will be packed to the top before it gets to the elevator:

(Shortly after this, another woman used this trolley putting on it three small grocery bags. I nearly scoffed and said, “Lady, THAT’S not the way to use that trolley!”)

I don’t even have to deal with my 5-year-old at night because his 20-year-old brother takes care of him. I am incredibly grateful that they are all remaining good-natured, cheerful, and willing each day. They wake up on time, get themselves to the breakfast buffet (which is the BEST part of each day—all kinds of food that I didn’t have to make and that I don’t have to clean up!) then they make seating arrangements, my 18 and 20-year-old trading off driving the minivan depending upon who’s the least tired, my 17-year-old acts as servant to his siblings sitting behind us in the big van, and the 13-year-old is my husband’s navigator in the moving truck.

I thought today, on our 29^th wedding anniversary, that my husband and I have been blessed with incredibly good kids, and that they are who they are not because of anything we’ve done raising them, but because they came to us that way. We don’t deserve any of it, I know.

I’m writing today from Batavia, NY, which isn’t too far away from Toledo, OH, and although Siri had us get on and off and on and off the freeway around Cleveland pointlessly (but we got lots of views of it, as you can see below), that’s not why we made so little progress.

We took a detour to Kirtland, OH, for four hours where we visited the Mormon church sites where the early pioneers were in the 1830s and saw their store, houses, sawmill, and ashery.

(I had NO idea such a thing existed: burn ashes?! That’s like watering water!)

We then took a tour of the Kirtland Temple owned by the Community of Christ and heard the same history, but with different angles which proved to be excellent family discussion during lunch at yet another Wendy’s (although my 17 year old snuck in a Little Caesar’s pizza), comparing the different takes on the history.

Twelve years ago we did the tour of the Kirtland Temple where the young tour guide pointed out only the architecture, but this time a preacher of the Church of Christ named Rick led the tour. He actually talked about the spiritual significance of the structure, and led our group of fourteen tourists in singing the first verse of “The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning.” That’s always been my favorite hymn, and I will never be able to forget the experience of our few out-of-tune voices singing it there in the room where it was first performed and where so many important and fantastic experiences occurred. It was all I could do to keep from tearing up. Our tone-deaf singing actually sounded good together, for probably the first and last time ever.

We got into our hotel room at a decent hour (before 9 pm!) for once, and compared notes about if the pleasant toll booth worker was perhaps a different gender than they were dressed up to be. My husband now has foot cramps, and my sons are punching his feet to make them feel better. It’s not working, but still they valiantly try with even more punches. I’m doing a load of laundry now, enjoying the broken dryer which runs continuously without any coins needed, wondering what else I could throw in there just for fun.

Tomorrow we’re heading to Palmyra, NY for some touring and then on to New Hampshire, where I’ve always wanted to visit and always wanted to say this:

(Interesting note–that movie was actually filmed in Virginia where we used to live, so actually we WERE in the movie New Hampshire, not the real one. Actually, none of that was really interesting, so just never mind.)