When my grandparents were younger, they used to go on a lot of vacations in Nevada. They felt thefoxy lure of Vegas many a time, but the swoon song of budget hotels and fancy buffets in Laughlin won their hearts for good in the long run. I imagine congregations of bleary eyed old people smiling out the windows of a greyhound bus, bickering gently with the companion who has known them for decades, watching the treelines turn to desertscape, the brown rich earth to dust.
The kids are sick this week, giving us some down town and a good dose of daydreaming for me. Ideas are forming, making complex shapes in this unexpected cradle of rest. My heart itches to tell stories from the side of the highway, to explore old casinos off the beaten path, but it just isn’t so. I make do with the view from a window and a good dose of Facebook Chat to connect. I think of how lucky my grandmother was to have such a boon of community at her fingertips for her whole life.
My skin is changing. Everything changes. I chose to embrace a life filled with change, which is sometimes exhausting. Peppered with the flecks of sun I remember so clearly on my mother’s hands at my age, I see my body transform with the miles I put beneath. Daylight once again steps up as my vice, even in the standoff of Phoenix-hot-concrete summer. I can’t believe how much I missed the blazing, overwhelming, intoxicating drench of the sun. 114 degrees? I’ll take it. Keep me warm. Keep me dry. Leave my life predictable in some way, shape, or form.
There’s no wind here. And when it does blow, it blows warm. Old fashioned. Full of dust.
Rally up. Hit the road.
We’re heading down to Laughlin this week.