It is frustrating to let so many days go by in between posts, only to write and be totally repetitive. “Hey, I’m traveling!” “Oh, I went on this trip too.” “Yep — going places — again!”
Shaddup, already, girl!
Well, I went on another little trip — a mini one this time in order to visit my sister at her lake cabin. I don’t know if visiting relatives can necessarily constitute a trip, especially when those relatives are a handful of hours away, but hey, I left home (again) and returned a few days later, hence a trip . . . no?
This was a last hurrah, of sorts, for teacher inservices begin on Monday, August 16. I felt that I had to get out of town just one last time in order to sow my not-so-wild oats. (Funny what parenting does to those formerly wild oats, eh?)
Then again, perhaps I was running away from my domestic duties, for my laundry pile is becoming frightening and all the household chores I’ve been keeping up with all summer are overtaking my home like some sort of monster. I ran. I ran for the hills.
I enjoyed a relaxing weekend, however. We had some good (but HOT) weather, which is fine when one has access to a boat and a lake. We spent some hours toolin’ around the lake and letting the kiddos swim, and we headed to a nearby small town in order to support a local candidate for sheriff. There’s something so comforting about a small town celebration. Most of the line-up is predictable: candidates, beauty queens, fire trucks, policemen, a few tractors, and a smattering of classic cars. The scene is probably the same all across the USA, each celebration hosting its own cutesy name that reflects some aspect of the town’s history or legacy — Railroad Days, Sweet Corn Days, etc. People line the city streets with their lawn chairs, sipping bottles of water or bottles of beer, the kids clutching Wal-Mart bags in preparation for their mega candy haul . . . then the town’s fire truck begins blasting its sirens, causing toddlers to commence crying — that is, until the first load of candy hits the street, then all is forgiven. Every year is basically the same, no matter which small town celebration you attend, but it’s a comforting sort of predictability.
At the start of the parade, I noticed that the grand marshalls were seated on a horse-drawn wagon. Not surprising, really, but I always think about those horribly tragic news stories where the horses got spooked and people were killed or injured. (Yep — that’s me — thinking about the worst case scenario during what should be a relaxing afternoon!) Honestly, I wonder why people are surprised by these stories, especially when I notice where this particular horse-drawn wagon was positioned: behind the Legion float, that had randomly-firing guns, and in front of the fire trucks that were blasting their sirens. Gee, I wonder why some horses get spooked.
In short, the weekend was relaxing and I am now sinking into my regular routine of not being able to sleep and getting up way too early because I’m afraid that I forgot to do something. That was last night for me, and now I’ve been up for a couple hours after basically tossing and turning all night. The school year is staring me in the face . . . and I’m trying to calmly meet its gaze.