We rolled back into Georgia, salty, sandy and exhausted. Pa drove like a bat outa you-know-where, just trying to make it home before sleep overtook him. We had been napping all week at the beach and mid-afternoon called like a siren. Somehow, we made it back in one piece. My daughter and new son-in-love squeezed out from the mountain of luggage and headed back to their house. I'm always amazed at all the trees and greenery that greet us after our annual beach trip. Visitors to our fine state always comment on our leafy habitat. I don't think about it much until I come back from other places, then am in awe at the lush bounty awaiting.
The old house is musty as we come in. It forgets that people live here, when we go away. It takes it a couple of days to let go of the ancient dust. I light candles and diffuse essential oils, bringing it back to life. I guess I'll open the place up, even though Hurricane Sally is bringing the Gulf right on up here to rain on us. I also always forget how beautiful my house is, then walk from room to room looking at the amazing wood on the floors and the wavy stained glass beaming at me. I'm always glad that somehow it didn't burn down while we were gone. Nothing is forever, but I'd like it to last another century.
Monday comes and I hit the floor running. There's a lot on my plate, too much to bear sometimes, and there's nothing like a nice, long vacation to make you forget all that. There should be a law that we get a second week to do nothing, after we get back home. Either way, the work doesn't sleep and I'm hoofing it to get back some sort of equilibrium. Pa and I bought a camper that I'm going to overhaul. It's sitting out in the driveway, waiting for me to kiss it with vintage-colored paints and fabrics. I've bought supplies and they're piled up in the carport, but there's property to be sold and folks to be helped. I'll think about it tomorrow. But you know I'd rather be painting.
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