ON THE ROAD AGAIN

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Every now and then I’m bitten by the travel bug. I usually get a big red welt, my arm swells up and my face gets all puffy. I think I’m allergic. My wife and I have been thinking about retirement a lot lately. (I’m actually already semi-retired. My wife says I can call myself anything I want, but if she has to get up and go to work every morning, I better be getting up, too.) My wife wants to do some traveling when we retire, and when I say some I of course mean never actually staying in our house again. There is an old show tune that goes:
Home is made for comin’ from,
For dreams of goin’ to.
Which with any luck will never come true.
It pretty much sums up my wife’s idea of the perfect retirement. Home is just a place to store all the junk you acquired while you were traveling—drop it off and head out to get some more junk. I think it’s hereditary. Her mother was the same way: always wanting to be anywhere but home. My wife has that gene. My kids and I have a running joke that it’s always Mom’s job to turn off the lights after everyone has gone, because she’s always the last one to leave. Her whole family is like that. She has a brother who sold his house a few years ago. Now he lives in a motor home and travels south in the winter and north in the summer–Hell for me would involve living in an RV forever.
I’m a homebody first and foremost. I like sleeping in my own bed and using my own bathroom. Oh sure, we’ve taken trips; fishing, camping out west, and we even spent eleven days in Alaska a few years ago. Even then my wife had to keep me busy doing things so I wouldn’t notice I wasn’t at home. Sort of like the way you wave a shiny object in front of a dog so it doesn’t notice you’re expressing its anal glands.
I’m sure part of my problem of not wanting to travel is also hereditary. I remember taking exactly one family vacation when I was little. We went out to the Black Hills of South Dakota. I think my mom might have held a gun on my dad the entire time we were there in order to get him to stay for the whole week.
“Okay, it’s another mountain, big deal. We’ve all seen pictures of presidents before. Now put the pistol down so we can go home.”
Part of my problem is as a writer I can go anywhere I want in my head without ever leaving my house. I can be rich and eat lunch in the finest restaurants of Paris, travel to Rome for dinner and still be able to sleep in my own bed at night. I can live in the Old West and still watch my TV at night from my comfortable recliner. Oh sure, often people end up getting killed, but I get to use my own toilet, and that’s what’s really important.
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About thewritingdeputy

Joel Jurrens was a deputy sheriff for 26 years until he retired in 2013. He has published three novels: In The Sticks, Graves of His Personal Liking and County Ops: The Vengeance of Gable Fitzgerald. He tries to keep his blog light and humorous and sometimes downright silly.
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One Response to ON THE ROAD AGAIN

  1. Skye-writer says:

    I come from just such a mixed heritage. My dad felt that his time in the Navy during WWII (he never left the states) was all the traveling he needed in his lifetime. My mom didn’t have a gun to hold to his head so their travels were few. So, I’m a mix of the two. I love to travel and have had some incredible trips (including two years in the Peace Corps spent in the South Pacific while I was in my 50s.) But I also love my home, my bed and my little corner of the world, both to be in and to come home to.

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