I went home Sunday to do a whirlwind tour of the hometown. The list of things I tackled:
Played fetch with the dogs.
Went canoeing with dad and the dogs.
Saw a couple of old friends- ate a fudgicle at their place, just like old times :)
Did some trap shooting with Dad.
Saw my old boss and went to dinner with her and her husband.
Sue and Dad got me this canvas jacket as an early birthday present. It was probably the best thing about me while trap shooting; I was verrrry rusty. I think I only 'winged' a few, and didn't really nail any. As I recall I used to be a lot better (i.e. Not so terrible), but I guess that'll happen when you're out of practice for about five years. Won't be hitting the tournaments anytime soon, that's for sure.
Here's dad releasing a few dozen clay pigeons into the wild (most of them make it).
It was a wonderful trip. The drive was good; there were lots of sulfur butterflies fluttering around and filling the median, which made me happy. I've got a soft spot for these common and rather unimpressive butterflies. Unfortunately, a handful of them frolicked right on into the path of the car... cringe.
There's something nice about going home that I'm just starting to realize. I realize, too, that is by no means a unique theory, but here it is. There's something really great about visiting your hometown. The people there know you as few people can. My hometown homies (hey parents, hey boss, hey old buddies!) remember when I had braces, when I got my truck stuck in the driveway, how I dragged everyone to post prom, and what a blissfully ignorant dork I was. Before I was making life decisions and deciding who I wanted to be, I was just... me. And I like that there are people who remember that person. I'm an adult now, living in 'the city' and I've got all sorts of things that describe and define me, but the church ladies and the high school teachers and friends' parents see right through all that. And I love it.