Vacation Reading

Before anyone gets really upset with me, remember I am probably 15 years older than you with over half my life now in the rearview mirror. Want to trade ages?

I have a standard sized, black 24” piece of luggage. I bring it on all my trips because no matter how hard the zipper is to secure, it is almost surely guaranteed to weigh less than the 50 pound weight restriction. Also, I make my hubby get on the scale with it because I have absolutely no desire to see what I weigh, fully clothed, right before I am about to go and gain more weigh. Uh, uh.

When packing for vacation, most people would spend the majority of time pondering what to wear. There is the daytime climate and temperature to consider, but also the evening. I have always subscribed to the theory that having options is best.

Except, this is not how my mind works. I spend hours selecting my book options. Sure, I can buy a book at an airport, but what if they only have some cheesy best-sellers that hold no interest to me. Plus, I have about one hundred unread books here and I might have book-shopped in anticipation.

So like the weather, my vacation book choices must also take into account a multitude of situational factors like if there is traffic on the way to the airport because there's always traffic in Chicago, a plane delayed by weather because it's Chicago, climate changes at destination (sunshine vs. rain), daytime or nighttime, tipsy or not, heavy or light content, etc.. 

I need an airport read to satisfy any quick seconds I have as hubby walks off to get us coffee or glass of wine (poems). One for the 4 hour plane ride there, a pool option for when others are around because I get distracted by conversation (short story collection). Should I get a few hours all to myself when everyone else goes golfing, I will need one then (because I would probably finish the book from plane trip)! I will need one to read after hubby falls asleep. Lastly, I will need one for the trip home unless I see that a good movie will be playing eastbound from California.

See how my wheels spin?

You may be wondering how all these books affect my luggage weight, so let me explain. I usually carry on two, pack a few lighter ones in my suitcase then stick the heaviest one plus a few pairs of shoes and all the sunscreen into my husband’s bag because his never, ever approaches the weight maximum. And a girl’s got to have options.

Or just maybe, I should pack one big one to read when I can, but spend most of the time talking to the people I am with.That’s a tough one for a rather reserved, voracious reader. You know what I mean?

Yeah Write Micro-stories: Weekend Warriors

generationaljustice.net

Tipping his Stetson to a final sunset, Doc turned Betty towards Lost Valley to pack.

He slapped a tip envelope on the desk.

“Gotta fix some teeth so I can return.” [Wink]

Shouldering his duffel, he walked out to the waiting taxi.

It All Started With A Note...

On the kitchen counter asking her, “Please remember to go to the bank.” When had she forgotten to do anything?

Her frustration goes back quite a ways but not so far that she’s forgotten how happy she was not too long ago. She didn’t feel trapped by her life but devoid of choices. She only made those best for everyone. Everyone else.

Standing before him requesting a $10,000 cashier’s check, the teller failed to ask for identification. They knew her but usually did anyway. Instead of scolding the young man, she filed the information away.

Accompanying him to their security deposit box for the deed to the house, she grabbed it and her passport.

From that point forward, the decision had been made, in her mind. And a very short time spent on the phone determined which flight and when.

A word was never said to anyone (not true, except to her) although she had mentioned it in passing to him just one time before. She’d leave a note saying “Please don’t worry”.

A small bag was all she needed to grab when the taxi pulled into the driveway. It was the beginning of “her” life again for as short as that would be.

Pulling up curbside to the International Terminal, she sat frozen for what seemed like an hour until “Joe” startled her saying, “Mrs. F.?”

Next thing she really recalled was the family sitting down for dinner at 6:00 just as they always did. The only evidence, of anything, was her ripped up note deep in the bottom of a trashcan in the garage.

Calling her at dusk after the dishes, “Meet me in the street.” Where they always did.

The first words out of her friend’s mouth were, “You couldn’t do it.”

“Come with me.", she said.

“Where?”

“Paris.”

“I hate Paris.”

“Spain. But on the water.”

“Spain is perfect.”

Ten days later, they were sipping Rojo at a table in the Barri Gotic district of Barcelona.

Comfortably silent, happy, alone in their thoughts.