Returning home after a month-long absence

When I was a child, my family took summer-long trips to Michigan, fleeing the Washington, D.C., area to immerse ourselves in the gentle, old-time, pine-trees-and-picnics climate of my parents' hometown. That precious time of reunion with the extended family encompassed teasing from my grandfather and lectures in hygiene from Grandma, who literally scrubbed me behind my ears, and tree-climbing and fishing with my cousin Robert who knew me better than anyone will ever know me again. The return drive, a five hundred-mile straight shot in our black '55 Ford stationwagon, took about ten hours, and always seemed to deliver us to a strange, impermanent place that was familiar but still not quite home. After such a long absence, it took a few days to adjust to being home.

Yesterday, I returned to Boise, Idaho, with India, the child of my old age, after a month's stay in Kentucky. I expected to experience an adjustment period similar to the strangeness I experienced in childhood, but that didn't happen. Everything was the same as when I left: the dishes still needed washing, the carpets were still hairy, piles of laundry stood exactly as they were left. Let's not go into the condition of the remains in the refrigerator. The postman, passing by just as we pulled into the driveway, circled back to bring us the month's accumulation, which didn't amount to much. It took no more than twenty-four hours to shuffle all the details of living into their respective compartments. I wonder if this is due to the fact that I don't intend to stay in Idaho much longer, or if it has to do with the accelerated speed of life that comes with the aging process.

I love getting older. It brings with it a tremendous sense of ease, the cessation of caring about matters that matter little. It also brings an intense curiosity about the nature of life among those who, too, are free from the cares of youth and middle-age. Does anyone out there hear me?