Here I sit on the Fourth of July, Independence Day, and I wonder just where all of my holidays went. Everyone else has gone to the beach, the barbeque, the picnic or the fireworks — somewhere, anywhere — and here I sit typing bits of imaginary black ink onto the screen of my computer.
I am 70 years old now and, as I think back, I realize that I have not had any "holidays" as others think of them with the planning and the packing and the general busyness of going hither and yon and having to interact with plans of others.
Thankfully I have also not had to deal with crabby children in a car demanding, "Are we there yet?" or "Make him (or her) STOP IT!" until my teeth fairly itch with the need to say something that psychiatrists will malign me for some 20 years down the road.
And I haven't had to deal with a mate that is in some other time frame, planet or — in extreme circumstances — universe while in-laws fret and fuss in the background. I know that this exists and I am truly grateful that I missed that part of life.
Still, you would think that I would have had some sort of busy-type of holiday sometime in all of those years. But, no, I have not.
It is my fault of course, no doubt about it. A great deal of this can be attributed to the fact that I am not into the whole transport thing. My trucks never had a great deal of dependable mileage in them — they were definitely "local" vehicles, being the sort that was good enough for the grocery store, the feed store and a load of hay from a nearby farmer but needing the knowledge that they could be rescued by an understanding mechanic that was familiar with the peculiar exigencies of their impending internal failings.
It is not fun to be faced with a picky computer-trained mechanic and a truck that needs a shade-tree genius.
I know this from hard experience.
And I do not fly. The idea of rushing to the airport, finding a particular spot to turn in my paperwork and get it approved and then rushing off to sit and wait to be called fills me with apprehension. What if I just don't see the take-off time? What if I can't find the line to go and stand in?
The very idea of being trapped in a metal object with that many strangers for any length of time is enough to make me queasy, much less the idea that I can't simply get out if it all becomes too much — but I understand that the act of getting out before the plane reaches its destination is frowned upon by others in the plane even if I were that desperate.
No, air travel is definitely not my cup of tea. Ditto for sea travel for most of the same reasons. I would love to see Scotland, Ireland and Wales and I can hardly wait until they build the bridge. I would even rent a truck for that trip.
So there it is. My holidays were mainly spent on the farm and often in the barn. It's not such a bad thing. I am not noticeably social. One afternoon in public usually exhausts my ability to smile and engage in badinage. I am not a social drinker or even a solitary drinker. Not that I am against the odd shot of this or that form of antifreeze in the winter but that's only when I am finally in the house for the night.
I really don't mind arranging treats for dogs, cats and horses. They are not like picky people who might say, "I would have thought a pinch of tarragon would have done this a bit better!"
The animals just tie right in and thoroughly enjoy anything you do for them gastronomically speaking. Horses feel that if one piece of apple is good two or three is a whole lot better. I have yet to meet a dog or cat that turned down a bit of turkey skin.
I do remember one Thanksgiving on which I accepted an invitation to dinner with a nearby friend and then a later invitation to dessert with another friend later that evening. It was so unusual for me that I was teasingly accused of being a social butterfly. It was lovely, at least until I returned to my little trailer to find that the cat had eaten the leftover sweet potatoes that were prepared with orange juice, brown sugar and brandy and suffered what the vet I called said was probably only a "digestive indiscretion."
Whatever it was called, I spent an ugly hour cleaning it up.
But that's another story.
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