Out This Door

Some trips are windshield trips—we get in the car and look through the windshield counting the deer and the antelope, noting where we will spend time next time.

Some trips are spree trips—ticking the miles off by taking the scenic highway to get there and stay awhile maybe two days maybe three, getting to know the lay of the land.

Some trips are explore trips—another interpretive sign to stop at for the gamble of a hidden gem or not worth getting the dogs leashed up.

Sometimes we boondock. Sometimes we reserve full hook ups. Sometimes we cross our fingers. Sometimes we change our minds.

As we drive, we dream about the next road trip. As we fly, we watch the tracker and dream about the next skip across the pond.

Our transportation might change—planes, trains, automobiles, boats, boots, booties. Someday a kayak, meh on a bike, but not ruling anything out.

Some nights are filled with twinkling stars and other nights with twinkling Christmas lights and neon. There’s typically a glass of wine and flannel involved in either case.

I harvest photographs—plants, dog portraits, curiosities, trying not to take the real thing but sometimes the memory alone isn’t enough. Later the photographs stir up sanguine memories of sights and sounds and smells while the pinecone on the shelf becomes lifeless.

And it all begins by going

out this door.