A Homebody's Lament

My friend Deb, who lives in Utah, climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro not one month ago. Right after she got back from Africa she went camping in the Grand Tetons for two weeks, returning two days ago. Today she is driving to Southern California for a few days, then will fly home in order to attend a family reunion in Northern Utah. This is all before she takes off for Nevada's Goshute Mountains where she will spend three or four snowy months living in a tent, trapping birds for research purposes. While Deb was seeing the world, I drove from Maine to New York, then to Pennsylvania for an afternoon, all in all being gone from home a total of four days.

Sometimes I feel like a dork, a loser, stuck at home with life passing me by. Other times I think, my paintings are my travel. I'm not sure which is right thinking, but I am sure that the travel bug has never bitten me. Mitch is always suggesting we go off in search of adventure, calling out the names of foreign lands to entice me, but all I think of is cancelled flights, bad food, long lines at security, stuffy hotel rooms with skimpy towels and windows that won't open, sightseeing with crowds and stomach cramps. I wish I wanted to have more fun, be more fun, run around and see new things, but really all I want is the ability to see the same old things more accurately and appreciate them.

On my daily walk, for at least the last two months, I have seen a crumpled, empty pack of Marlboro cigarettes. (See photo.) I approach the spot each day with growing excitement, as if I am about to meet up with an old friend, wondering if anyone has picked it up yet. Nobody has, which is kind of odd since litter is like the plague around South Freeport, a picturesque seaside village surrounded by even more picturesque woods. But there it remains, despite the crews of workmen who come out to trim the branches off of wires and put down fresh gravel on the side of the road, and the hordes of runners, bikers and hikers who pass by it daily. Now that's what I call interesting.