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Show yf&jS&? Afk by Teri Gomes r uitfrftUt g j For relief, take two (two weeks, that is) I am not leaving on vacation this week. Or next week. Or even the week after But my friends are. One is already in Milan, another is off to Maine, and one went down to Moab. Even my own son is off with his soccer team to the land of pineapples and macadamia nuts-Hawaii. nuts-Hawaii. I have not yet figured out a way to steal even a day to drive to a peaceful spot for a little R and R. Once, two years ago, I stole a day and drove to Huntsville to visit the monastary there. For years I had heard tales of the mouth-watering flavored honeys and breads made there by the monks. And I heard tales of the lush peaceful grounds one could walk uninterrupted through for hours. Once could, I discovered upon arrival, if one was male. Female persons are allowed in the information center where the food items are sold and in the church only. The lush grounds were visible only through the cracks in the garden wall. The monastery, with its bread and honey (while delicious), wasn't exactly the promised land I had hoped for. A drive out in the county, which is the country, can be relaxing this time of year. Baby animals nuzzle their mothers in great green pastures enclosed by split-rail fences. The Kamas cafe serves a nice little salad and a stroll along Main Street there is like a walk backwards in time, say to about 1950. That can be enjoyable for a few hours. But I'm looking for at least a week and let's be honest here, a childless week. My husband can come as long as he understands that I need my space. And when I don't need my space, I need it filled. It's up to him to instinctively know which time is which. What I really need is the ocean Aquarians do, you know. I need to run in the sand, pick up sea shells, watch spectacular sunsets and eat cracked crab, a little sourdough and drink white wine. I need to dig my toes in the sand and listen to the gulls and feel the wind in my hair. I want to roll up my pants legs and throw on an oversized knit sweater and hear violins and discover decaffeinated decaffein-ated coffee. (You see how she's slipping? This woman doesn't even drink coffee!) And I need time. Long stretches of time uninterrupted by phone calls or offspring. Time to read cocktail-circuit best sellers. Trendy titles one can dip into all summer like rye rounds into pate: "Mayor," "Knock Wood," "The Hour," "Lord of the Dance," "Warday," "Caveat" and "The Haj." Summer reading, too, should include stacks of self-help books. This year I plan to focus on all the get-yourself-organized books. I figure if I'm organized enough I'll be naturally thin and rich for my efforts. (But not, too-too, mind you.) Today I tried cupping my hand over my ear and pretending it was a seashell. I didn't hear any waves. Or gulls. I looked asinine. My son asked if I had an earache. I shook my head. "Headache?" I shook my head. And it struck a vein with me that there is just no good word for what I was feeling. Vacationache is about as close as I can come. So, for now, I'll try to be content digging my toes in the sandy dirt left by he trench on Main Street. And I'll listen to the magpies and sigh. |