Packing up the car for a trip is always my husband’s job. I gather; he packs. I grimace; he grimaces more. With all our loco local grocery shopping, tomorrow may even result in some gnashing of teeth.
We leave with way more than we brought…
There are the 20 pounds of fresh shrimp, last Saturday’s catch from the Gulf; aren’t we lucky the “Shrimp Man’s” call on my friend Wynona’s parents coincided with our visit?
Then there are the 20 pounds of fresh grapefruit from “the valley” that Randall’s grocery store was selling for 20 cents a pound; one of Don’s co-workers just happened to advertise the special at Monday night’s business dinner.
And if our Gulf Coast grocery luck holds, we will also have 20 pounds of freshly made tortillas; our plan is to stop at Central Market tomorrow morning on our way home.
Buying 60 pounds of local groceries to carry with us 500 miles north is probably not in the spirit of buying local. But sometimes it’s so worth stretching the boundaries of trunks and slogans.
Today my mind flits between two homes. Neither are mine.
The first, of course, is here in Brazosport. Spending time amongst familiar surroundings and faces is always good. Yet, there is something about returning to a place that makes one feel as if they are returning to life from the grave. It’s a bit chilling to think this way, but I’m not the only one to have these thoughts. In an email yesterday, a local friend wrote these words — “Rhonda and I just hang our heads and say, “We sure do miss Janell….”.
Perhaps I need to read Thomas Wolfe’s final novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” I anticipate a few gifts waiting in this title, which may speak to where I am in life right now.
And where am I today in life? I am haunted by that seasonal song first sung by Bing Crosby — “I’ll be Home for Christmas” — realizing for the first time, that this song will never be true for me again. Home and the hope of new gatherings of family around the fireplace that Mom kept burning bright all died with Mom.
In my mind today are thoughts of Dad and the nursing home where he now lives. It is Tuesday after all, and every Tuesday afternoon is devoted to spending time with Dad. I wonder how Daddy is today. Is he more there than not? Friends are kind to ask after Daddy’s state of health. To one friend yesterday, I recall saying that Dad was just a shell of his former self. And that his shell was really broken and fragile, carried by others from one place to another, to attend to the business of living.
Daddy will never be home again. And I don’t just mean the home he shared with Mom, but the the here-and-now home of this world. And these seashells that litter the beach, that we pick up on our long walks with our dogs…these seashells remind me of Daddy. Some are paper-thin just like Daddy’s skin, a little frayed around the edges. Rarely do I find a shell left fully intact from its rough and tumble ride on the surf. Most of the washed up shells on the beach are mere shadows of their former glory. I pick them up carefully and wash out their sandy remains to take them home with me. They will become a sacred souvenir to remind me of my time here at the beach.
One unexpected gift of our trip is it will allow me to once again go home for Christmas. I’ll go bearing gifts of washed up broken seashells from this eastern sandy shore that so far has been absent of visible sun and blue skies.
It will be to my own home that I go, the one that sits in Mesta Park. If one doesn’t leave home for long, one can go home again and it will feel and smell like home and nothing much important will have changed. Except for this one change: There in Mesta Park, I will become the home to which my family goes to for Christmas.
I kept missing turn-offs today as I was negotiating Lake Jackson’s crazy curved roads. Twice I ended up taking the long route to friend’s homes. After my second roundabout, I couldn’t help laughing at myself; apparently, the absence that makes hearts grow fonder also makes memory grow fainter.
I never lost my sense of direction, but I admit to losing my local driving mojo. Today reminded me of those first weeks of Brazosport life in the mid-80s, when I drove around town looking for a familiar landmark. Within Lake Jackson, there are few shortcuts but many scenic ways to get from one point to another.
Lake Jackson has been written up in national publications more than once for their street names; trees and flowers name streets here, unless it’s one of the few that end in ‘Way.’
Most of the ‘Way’ streets take you to the heart of downtown. This Way and That Way and Parking Way and Winding Way and Circle Way and Center Way are major downtown arteries.
Further afield, just north of town, are two more Ways. Neither directly leads to downtown proper, though both intersect with This Way. Any Way is a residential street while His Way is more driveway than street. To follow the narrow paved path of His Way lands you and your car in the local Nazarene Church parking lot.
I didn’t drive on any of the Way streets today. But I did find my own way to a few familiar landmarks. I was a little late of course.
an everyday life 