We drove over a thousand miles in the past two days. With four kids in the backseat. The good news? We’re home. The bad news? Our 4-year old got car sick for the first time. (She called it a “car cold.”) The good news? She informed me that she was going to throw up and then very conveniently did so into an empty coffee cup. By the time we stopped the car for gasoline, she was perky and ready to eat chocolate donuts.
On our journey from Southern California to green Washington state, we passed an onion processing plant . . . we smelled it a mile before we saw it. We saw many trucks full of tomatoes and one full of peppers. We saw a truck carting a bunch of dingy white chickens to their fates. We smelled miles of cows, cows as far at the eye could see. We saw sheep, horses and miles and miles and miles of tan, desolate hills. We saw Mt. Shasta swathed in a shawl of white, cotton-batting clouds. We stopped to pee way more times than we stopped to get gasoline or eat which hardly seems possible if you consider that what goes in must come out . . . how does more come out than goes in?
The most tragic event occurred Friday. My husband, in his quest to get us out of our hotel room as quickly as possible, failed to notice my beloved pillow on the bed . . . and I didn’t take one last look around because I’d already been shooed out of the room. I called the hotel as soon as I realized my loss, but had to leave a telephone message. (I found myself in one of those crazy telephone loops where I didn’t get to talk to a real person about my crisis.) Tonight, my husband called again and alas, no one has seen my pillow.
Clearly, if I travel with my pillow, I am very attached to it. Was very attached to it.
Tomorrow, after I sleep in and get a crick in my neck, I’m going pillow shopping. And grocery shopping. Alone. Glory to God in the highest. It’s good to be home.