Illusions of

I was given a hall pass to go down to Texas to see my parents last week.  I always have big plans to do some sort of travel-blogage.  I have great ideas, I plan on taking all kinds of pictures and what not.  Seriously, I have written some great stuff, albeit in my head, but it's good stuff, it just never makes the page.  I swear that I have a great travel guide to Sprintingthebelllap's Texas Panhandle, it's awesome, now if I could only get it out of this vast empty expanse of a brain and cultivate words and sentences.  Is that too much to ask for?

I always get in a hurry to get down to see the parental units that it turns into a race, where nature breaks are timed and the one gas stop is handled with NASCAR precision.  This is no time to stop and smell the roses.  I'm at the Flying J yelling at the dogs to do their business, we're on a time schedule that they seem to not have received the memo.  "You smelled that spot like 20times, go already!"  I'm sure the locals look at me as if to say "that boy aint right".  I'm being crazy thinking that I am 5mins behind schedule.

I cant wait to get to the place of my birth and hang out with those people that me and one other person call Mom and Dad.  Crazy runs in the family, and this apple did not fall far from the tree.  So when I am with the family I seem to not have anytime to write.  There is a constant barrage of food.  OK, I get that I am not big, and some might say skinny, but I eat.  I eat a lot, but I will never be able to eat enough to satisfy my Mom and Dad's idea of the ideal caloric intake.  "You want your Mom to make you some eggs and bacon?" my Dad says as we are watching wrestling at 9:30 at night.  We just ate like an hour ago, and I'm already getting hit with the question of eating.  So, just to show what a trooper I am, I ate a bowl of cereal.  "Sure you don't want any eggs, or maybe a waffle?" Dad questions as I am finishing said bowl of cereal.  Right, and I've only just gotten here.

I really do wish and hope that I will be able to write when I am home sometime.  There is just something about being in the house that I grew up in around family.  On the family farm, with the history, and all the ghosts.  Ghosts of my past, that just seem to be more real when I am on their turf, in their 'hood.  They are the ghosts of Christmas past, something like the "Ghosts of Sprintingthebelllap's Past".  The connections are so much more visceral in the vicinity of the past.  Oh, if only to be able to tap at a keyboard with the flood of emotions, smells, and sights.  It truly would be a cathartic experience to capture some of what is elicited when visiting home.