Dawn Reader

Dawn Reader
from Open Door Coffee Co.; Hudson, OH; Oct. 26, 2016

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Home from the Hills

There seems only a small correlation between how long you're gone from home and how much you have to do when you get there. We were in western Massachusetts only a few days (we left Tuesday morning for the family celebration of my mom's 96th birthday, got back late Friday afternoon--560 mi each way), yet the parade of demands awaiting us seems to stretch to the horizon--and beyond. Here's a wee list of what we've done since we got home, presented not in order of importance but in the order of my remembering ... always tenuous:

  • get gas in the car (we were nearly empty when we got home)
  • go to grocery store for things we will need until our regular shopping "date" (Thursday afternoons--chosen because the stores aren't all that crowded then)
  • go to Post Office to pick up held mail; sort said mail (99% junk these days)
  • update my Quicken files, entering the expenses we incurred on the journey
  • update my journal (I was pretty good about keeping it while we were in Mass.--but pretty is just a generous, self-flattering word to replace not very)
  • deal with some email/messages that were difficult to deal with on an iPhone in the car 
  • text family members that we'd arrived home safely; my waggish son, by the way, having received my text ("Home"), replied: "Office," which is where he was, I guess
  • print out and file pages from my Daily Doggerel blog  (I keep hard copies of all the drivel I publish online)
  • re-package and prepare for shipping a book that came while we were gone--a book I'd already bought earlier (I seem to do this more and more as I age and decline into dotage)
  • remember how to use our new-ish Keurig
  • laundry
  • turn the heat back up on the hot-water heater (we always drop it while we're gone)
  • get the furnace ready (when we left it was in the mid-90s; today, the furnace is on, and I'm no longer wearing shorts-and-sandals, my default warm-weather uniform)
  • check and deal with the voice-mails on the home phone (only two: a reminder of an appointment with a doctor, a sales pitch from someone earnest)
  • sleep
  • watch squirrel (as I am now) trotting across the yard with a black walnut in his mouth and feeling grateful that I'm not a squirrel
  • think about cool things I thought about on the trip that, upon return, don't seem all that cool
  • hook up computers to their home base
  • reclaim "my" seat at the local coffee shops (employing violence, if necessary)
  • feel a flood of gratitude for my mom, brothers, niece and nephew--whom we saw in Mass.--and for the others whom we could not see for various reasons
  • feel a second surge for being home--for having a home--for Joyce ...

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