Martha and I had a disagreement this morning. Just before we were to wake the kids up for school, she wanted to talk about vacation plans for this year. I hate vacation plans. I hate thinking about vacation plans. I’m not like other men. Barbequeing, fishing, hunting, drinking, boating, you get the picture. I’m a reader, I’m a blogger, I’m a thinker, I’m a guitar picker–and yes occasionally a grinner. So at Seven AM I don’t want to be troubled with thoughts of packing a family of five into a minivan and driving hours of blacktop to end up in a little borrowed house trailer beside a lake with just enough time to set up, unpack, and crash on this borrowed bed.
Truthfully, my angst runs deeper than this. My family rarely took vacations when I was a child. My dad never thought to value vacations. They didn’t fit into our lives. My wife’s family did, and she does. For the last thirteen years of our marriage I have tried to value vacations, but deep in my heart it runs contrary to my nature. I get where we’re going and my whole being screams, “I should be at work in front of a computer doing what I do.” I guess that’s something broken in me that needs fixing. So be it. But of course I can’t sort all that out in the five minutes before we are to wake up our children for school. I tried to explain it, with hugs even. We’re agreeing to put it off for a while.
While my daughter watched “Clifford the Big Red Dog” this morning I sharpened my pocket knife and thought about 1.) working on my Fourth Step, 2.) blogging the Eleventh chapter of Eberhard Bethge’s Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Biography, and 3.) two blogs for my Hard Country site, one being a book review of David Fillingim’s book Redneck Liberation, and the other on Abjection and Burlesque in Hard Country in Barbara Ching’s book Wrong’s What I Do Best.
Welcome to my inner world. Hope it makes your day.