Books and Journals
My Roadside Inn Motel Room
It was 36F this morning as I walked the area near where I am staying. There are no sidewalks. Just small corridors of roads and bungalows, yards stuffed with old car parts and garden debris, a black cat stared at me squeezed between two opposing fence lines. It felt good to walk. Scott loved to walk neighborhoods and hike when we traveled or on our \”stay at home days\” which were far and few between. I\’ve inherited his love of walking and exploring what is around me.
At the diner, I stopped to look at the breakfast menu taped on the window. Before I could focus my eyes on what the print offered, the owner barked \”we are not open until 8 a.m.\” as he pulled chairs from the enclosed dining area to place outside on the sidewalk fronting the restaurant. His white shirt splattered with kitchen grease tight across his abundant belly and lumbering walk cut the sting of his words. I know how hard kitchen work is. I remember coming home from late nights washing dishes and assisting at gourmet cooking classes, barely able to crawl up the stairs to bed. One morning, my back out, I fell out of bed and crawled to the bedroom door to pull myself up. Scott looked down at me from his nest of covers and pillows \”what are you doing?\”.
We both started laughing. What else can you do?
The brisk air, the unfamiliar neighborhood, the black cat, the encounter with the owner of the local diner, Scott\’s fleece jacket pulled tight around me, and the dreams of travel in the future pulling me down the road towards wonder and adventure heighten my spirits. I am feeling alive with a kiss of promise.