My mother sometimes got onto me for daydreaming so much. I had a teacher or two over at Stonewall that agreed with her too. She always admonished me to quit my daydreaming. As though one could. Like most people I think I was meant to travel. Go places. Someplace where they speak different languages. Dress funny. Eat weird foods. Places so far away you might need to get on an airplane or a ship to get there. But to get on an airplane means going through x-rays, being patted down. Getting a passport. Well sure. Pat and I, being the forever optimists, renewed our passports some time back. I guess we did want to be squeezed into an uncomfortable seat and be hurtled at speeds at nearly the speed of sound to one of these strange places.

But then Covid came along with its masks and shots. And we found we could, if we had to, stay home. And let me say here, I am not some kind of poet, such as Henry David Thoreau. Old Henry stayed close to and wrote lots of poetry about Walden Pond. He had little inclination to leave his home in Concord, Massachusetts to tour around Europe and England and study other ponds. No, he had his pond and he looked in its shallows, its deep parts and finally speculated that each drop had its own rainbow. And that was that. He never seemed to tire of his stay-at-home life.

Not me. After the long winter months of staying at home just let me say here and now, I have tired of gazing at my own yard. I’ve studied my water puddles, my gopher hills, and my Box Elder tree enough. Ditto on my pecan and elm trees too. And I’m tired of hearing more and more stories about how the Covid Pandemic might tarry on another winter. And I’ve heard enough TV preachers too. I’d rather go to my own church. Every Sunday!

Recently, my wife and I decided to make a trip to Alabama. Yes indeed! We would visit our sister-in-law Cathy Ellis down in Brewton first and then go up toward Birmingham and see about my best cousins, in particular a cousin called “Alabama” Jimmy Bullard. Sure, it’s a long trip. And sure, I remembered that I am an Octogenarian as is my dear wife. I know how far it is, so I did not bother to mention this planned trip to any of my kids. I figured we could just do it. No sense worrying them.

But wait! My phone rang. It was Alabama Jimmy. His doctor has just told him he has cataracts and has to have them removed. Now. So, we have postponed the trip. While I still lust to hit the road, we will try again next spring when the Covid and the cataracts are hopefully gone. In the meanwhile, we will wait out the winter like two despondent Alaskan gold miners marooned in the snow, waiting till the dreary days of Covid and Box-Elder studies are over. At least we have church going again. There is that. I can resume enjoying the fellowship of my church family again on Sundays. So, maybe it’s not so bad.

But alas. I picked up a travel magazine just now and I saw a picture of an old couple sitting on a park bench overlooking the Badlands National Park in South Dakota. Their infinite view was to the South and they looked to be in love. I suddenly remembered a time my wife and I sat on that same bench admiring a mountain goat as it jumped nimbly from one rocky ledge to another. It was a beautiful scene in my day-dreamy mind. I don’t know if we looked in love or not, but it made me want to pack up and hit the highway. The park’s beauty looked a lot more appealing than my big back yard does. I don’t want to be like Henry David Thoreau. Writing about my woods and a pond all the time. Not me. Maybe old Thoreau just didn’t have a passport.

I hope all of you have a good week and are able to go to church Sunday. You don’t need a passport for either.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com