At Home on the Road

Sometimes I wonder why I bother calling this column “Homesick Blues” when it never seems as if I am around enough to have a home to be sick of…or is that ‘a home of which to be sick?’ Haven’t they repealed the Law of Prepositions? I thought I saw something about it on CNN.

Anyway, after four days and 2500 miles of Virginia, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kentucky, Tennessee again and Virginia (thankfully) again, I now only have to think about three more out-of-town stays before I go back to work, when I will be out of town for four months. I always thought that my wife kept lots of pictures of me around because she was a glutton for punishment, but it turns out that she does that so she will remember what I look like so that when I return home, she doesn’t mistake me for a prowler and drill me with a few .40-caliber rounds from her Glock. Which would be unpleasant, at least for me and whoever has to mop up.

Not that I am a stranger in my own home. At least not any stranger than I am anywhere else at any time. Take from that what you will.

November is going to be chock full of miles traveled for this Appomattox Wandering Boy. First there is a weekend trip up to Connecticut to deliver a horse. As I have never been in New England proper before (I don’t believe Philadelphia counts), I am looking forward to seeing the place and poking fun at the locals’ accents.

After two weeks at home, which should be sufficient for me to recover from the injuries inflicted on my by angry New Englanders who took umbrage to my making sport of their vocal inflections, it will be off to Virginia Beach or maybe Chesapeake or Norfolk or one of those places by the ocean for a gala week of work-related training. I look forward to many sleepless nights…not because I am uncomfortable away from home, but because I will no doubt be getting plenty of sleep in the classroom. I hope the hotel has cable, or at least someone in the next room who talks very loudly on the phone about personal matters. That is always kind of fun.

I will get home from that just in time to prepare for another horse-delivery trip, this one to Illinois, and that will coincide with a stay with my family in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving. It’s been a while since I have been back to the old homestead – well, as much a homestead as one can make out of a quarter acre – and I’m pretty sure my folks didn’t keep my room the way I left it. I’m hoping they have at least cleaned it a little since then, or at least picked up the dirty underwear. The less said about that, the better. Then again, maybe the underwear has gotten up and left of its own accord…but then, even less should be said about that, I suppose. Ew. Forget I said anything.

Finally, after all the trips are done, I shall return once again to my beloved little patch of red clay paradise in Appomattox County and enjoy the dwindling day or two before I am whisked off once again to the Pacific…somewhere in Korea, I’m guessing.

The next time I come home, I swear I am not leaving. The world can come to me. You want to see me? Come visit. You want a horse? Come and get it. I’m not moving. I will be sitting on my deck or in my garden room with either a cold drink or a hot cup of coffee. No appointment necessary. If I’m feeding the horses, hey, you can wait a few minutes. It won’t kill you.

At least, not as long as you announce yourself before my wife gets out the Glock.