Lonely in Minnesota

Years ago I worked for a magazine that required me to travel a lot. I went to some great places met lots of interesting people, but basically I hated it. H was little then, and colleagues would joke that I started getting homesick while I was packing. They were wrong. I started getting homesick when I made my travel plans. Pathetic, I know, but there it is.

It’s now a little after 9 pm here, and I’m sitting in a depressingly empty house listening to Radio Heartland and feeling bereft. It’s not homesickness, but it’s close enough. I’m flying home tomorrow, but H’s 1994 Subaru station wagon left just about an hour ago, loaded Joad-like and carrying A1, A, H, sweet B, and Jasper the Wonderdog. They’re headed, by way of Chicago, to Rochester, New York, a 20-hour drive away. We’re hoping they sweep behind the snow storm that passed through here last night and is moving eastward. It’s a long drive, and it won’t be comfortable in the best conditions. I’ll be thinking of them and worrying about them until I hear they’re safe in that other Rochester.

All will be well again next week, when H, A, D and J the W arrive in Woodbury, bringing joy in that ratty old car.

Travel safely, my sweets.



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