Is your suitcase packed?

Mine is not. I am not an easy or an enthusiastic traveler. But this leads to a lot of inner conflict. I am surrounded by addicted travelers: one friend just returned from Machu Picchu; another leaves tomorrow for three weeks in India; yet another goes to Australia in April for three weeks. I have neighbors, longtime friends, who go to Europe twice a year. When I confessed to them one night at supper that I don’t much like to travel, he looked at me in amazement. “Judy, I’ve never met anyone like that.”

Too often, I feel that not wanting to travel indicates some sort of deficiency in me. Perhaps I’m not adventuresome; maybe I’m not intellectually curious, which would lead to the inescapable conclusion that I’m boring. Whatever, none of this is helped by the fact that my youngest daughter, Jordan, is a travel agent. And she keeps putting temptation in my path.

But it’s true. I’m happy as a clam in my cottage. I like my own bed. I hate to leave my dog. Travel doesn’t have the siren call for me that it does for many. Yes, I have traveled a good deal in my life—mostly within the continental U.S. but as a child I went to Canada a lot, and I have been to Hawaii—a wonderful trip that I loved—and to Scotland, the land of my ancestors—a trip that will always be a highlight of my life. I’ve been to most of the western and midwestern states in our country, with a few ventures into New York and Florida (hated the latter) and lots of trips to North Carolina. The things about travel is that once I do it, I enjoy it.

And yes, there are places on my bucket list. If I could snap my fingers and be there, I’d go back to Scotland in a flash. I’d like to ride the Royal Scot, the luxury train that winds through the Highlands. As a substitute, I might like to take the train across western Canada. My one trip to New York City was pretty much a disaster, but maybe I’d like to go back, mostly because we have beloved relatives there. New England in the fall beckons to me, as do the Outer Banks of the Carolinas. Jordan and I had reservations for a Great Lakes cruise last summer, but I got too sick to go, and I’ve not worked my enthusiasm back up about that. I’m pretty content to travel by car (with someone else driving) in Texas to see my kids.

I have one friend, also a writer, who doesn’t much like to travel and finds it hard as we age (that’s a factor in my travel reluctance also). She posits that seniors often retire and travel because they have nothing else to fill their days. I sometimes think some people travel so they don’t have to stop and think about their lives and the empty days. These theories of course don’t apply to everyone—some of the most interesting and vital people I know are those who travel. Which leads me back to my inadequacy.

I’m going to Tomball TX in April—four hours by car—to celebrate my oldest son’s50th birthday. And next Christmas I’ll go with my whole family to a vacation house in Blanco TX. Now that’s my kind of travel. Scotland in my dreams. Texas is my reality.

Remodeling by committee

I am blessed to be surrounded by so many people who care about me. I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am. But they are also full of advice. Lewis Bundock, the half of my contractor team that I usually deal with, declares that we are redoing the bathroom by committee, and it’s probably true. Everyone has a suggestion, even a criticism. Tonight the bathroom is essentially done, except for the glass around the shower and the glass for the long vanity mirror and the one in the original medicine chest—both of which will be beveled, now that beveled glass is cheaper to reproduce. Meantime I can begin to move things back into my bathroom, which will be a great joy—and I can use the commode instead of wending my way through the whole house at three in the morning.

But tonight, some members of the unofficial committee were critical—of the work and of me. (I hasten to add that Jordan was not here.) The paint on the drawer fronts needs another coat, and the patch spots need more covering. My response is that if it passes Lewis’ inspection, which it did, it’s good enough for me. No, they responded, he’s the contractor—you’re the customer. So I went in and looked again—wood grain shows a bit in the drawers, but they are new wood. I found on little blurp on the molding around the medicine cabinet, but it doesn’t bother me at all.  I guess the criticism bothers me more. Lewis and his brother, Jim, have taken extraordinary care of me and my house for about twenty-two years, and I’m not going to get critical now. Most people think they do outstanding work—even the city inspector told me that. And I remember a detail-oriented friend from out of town looking at a new wood floor they’d supervised and saying, “Now that’s quality work.”

I find the same thing with my bum hip and leg—most people have a suggestion, another cure, something I should be doing and am not. I figure once I put myself in the hands of a physician, I should trust him or her (in this case, both). Not blindly. I realize that we must each be our own health advocate these days, and I try to ask intelligent questions rather than blindly accepting a doctor’s advice. But once I’m convinced that a therapy is right for me, I don’t want a chorus of other ideas.

I think what I’m saying is that I’m a reasonably intelligent person, and I can chart my own course through life. I am so grateful to have so many around me who love and care for me, but I want a little room to lead my life as I see fit. I’ve muddled through for a lot of years—I’ll probably make it a few more.

And know, dear committee members, that I love each and every one of you.