A Postcard from the Road

I am still on vacation.  In my mind's eye, this trip is like one of those European tours people took for a year in the days of Henry James. Only we haven't seen many cathedrals, mostly small country churches, not including the beautiful church in Lancaster, PA, where we attended a cousin's wedding, and the majestic Marytown near our old home in Illinois where we went to Mass with my friend who is dying of cancer.  Plus we have only been gone a little over a month now.  In a week, we'll be on the road back to the bay and the oil stained gulf.

The internet at my parents' house is intermittently interrupted. I've been frustrated by slow speed and periodic disconnections while using the computer. Over the past couple of days, I've been struggling to scan and upload old family photos that we've been sorting. Irritatingly ineffective use of time. 

But being offline has provided much more time for reading and visiting, more visiting than reading.  Not being a natural sanguine, I sometimes tire from all the cheerful conversation, although I don't regret in the least that I spent time with the cousins instead of writing a blog post.  Anthony Esolen wrote a great article on cousins for Touchstone Magazine, I think, a number of years ago, that perfectly expressed the joy of these relationships that can be picked up after time and distance have worked mutations in our bodies.  So even though my hearing has suffered after spending time with the next generation of 18 cousins, its sacrifice is worth the benefit of knowing my children will have a crowd at their weddings and funerals if they maintain these relationships.  They can reminisce about trudging over dunes (see Betty Duffy's description), fishing, lake ick, farm chores at "Camp St. Isidore" (directed by Nana and Pop), and Superman ice cream at the Cool Spot.

The other trick of spending time with family, instead of virtual friends, is that you have to put up with crabbiness. Apologies to my family for my own crabby days.  Meanwhile, while I had a pity party day for petty, if not purely hormonally induced, reasons, my poor husband spent the Fourth of July getting ready for a visit from some senators.  The only fireworks over Kandahar were real rockets in the distance.  He called last night while we were watching the televised displays of the Macy's Fourth of July Celebration in New York City (with "Broadway Inspirational Singers".) The kids had already seen the fireworks displays at the county fair grounds and the show put on by their uncle and grandfather in the front yard, so we didn't load them up for a third night of pyrotechnics.  But they were full of reports to their father of the fun they have been having. Then when it was my turn to talk on the phone, I went into the laundry list of activities over the past couple of days - visit here, visit there, birthday party on the 3rd for my now 8 year old daughter and her cousin born a couple hours later, church picnic for my parents' parish priest who is moving from managing 5 small parishes to having just 2, failed nursing of an orphaned rabbit, etc.

So when I finally let my husband talk, it's no surprise he sounded a little dejected to be missing all the fun.  He's also going to miss our son's birthday next week, the last days of summer, and the start of school.  I've probably taken enough photos to fill a couple of albums with memories he won't share. So my private pity party seems even more petty.  Compound it by reading this quote in A Right to Be Merry this morning: "... the Poor Clares who live by the Gospel never worry about things, knowing that things will be around when needed. This complete dependence on our divine Provider breathes the spirit of love and simple joy which so happily ensnared my heart during the first months of my monastic life. I still exult in it."  A good reminder to exult in the joys of domestic life, also. And offer up some hopeful prayers that my husband will find some joys in the monastic like setting of the base.  Before too long we'll be sitting with him on the couch with those photos, filling in the gaps.