Home at Last

We were all happy to be home, this time last week.

Some minor jetlag the first couple days made it easy for Gale and me to start leaning towards bed around sunset. Being able and willing to rise a couple hours earlier than normal is a good summer habit. What would Mr Franklin say? Something about healthy, wealthy and wise? We do feel a smidgen healthier and maybe even wiser for what I suspect will be a short-lived practice. . . but the "wealthy" part is eclipsed by our current American Express and Visa statements.

I once again actually have a dogonmylap, as I type this. Charlie survived his extended stay at Susie's Country Inn admirably. Susie says he experienced some withdrawal symptoms at first, from not having a receptive lap available to him on-demand, but all indicators suggest he was treated kindly, attentively, and according to our--- OK, my--- detailed instructions. Once he started taking advantage of his networking opps during his several daily playtimes with the other guests, he reportedly snapped out of his funk.

To our relief, though, he did recognize us when he saw us waiting for him in the lobby on pick-up day, and he appeared to be glad to see us. Who knew he could do cartwheels and mid-air somersaults like that? And that was while we were still in the parking lot, trying to corral him for the ride home. So far, we've noticed only two bad habits he's picked up at "camp."  He barks for our attention, now. . . as opposed to sitting politely and gazing at us until we notice him. And country-western is his new music-of-choice on the radio. Could be worse.

Word from the Rocky Point Blueberry Farm, back on the right-hand coast, is that the crop on those well-tied and neatly-netted berries is ripening, at last. Their u-pick season begins tomorrow! Our two bushes here in the backyard are a bit behind, given that Rocky Point is a few latitude degrees further down the globe and few temperature degrees further up the thermometer. But I'm keeping my eye on our robins as they keep their beady eyes on our berries. No need to advertise to them when the u-pick season begins.

Regardless of this schizy NW weather, the jungle of weeds out back that were pretty-much under control when we left, the laundry, and the deficit of stamina and strength we're both feeling with our re-entry visits to the gym, it is wonderful to be back in the comfort and peace of our own home. I am by no means the passenger who barks for the flight attendant's attention or the guest who demands Josh Turner or Reba on the radio, when others around me might prefer Yoyo Ma. But neither am I a smiley-faced, hunky-dorey traveler. I almost always enjoy my destinations, and this trip was certainly no exception. But on this trip--on several fronts--"getting there" was nowhere near "half the fun." Who came up with that fetid drop of "wisdom," anyway? Certainly not Mr. Franklin.

Next post, at the risk of branding myself a boring, backyard chauveinist slug, I'll belabor what's not to like about traveling.