The Product of Her Parents

Last night I was restless. The weather was perfect, but I’d exhausted all my excuses to be outside. I didn’t feel like raking or any other yard work (I’d had my fill of chores), and Star’s knees aren’t yet quite up to the long hike I felt like taking. So, I borrowed a page from my Dad’s book. “Hey, kids, you want to go for a ride?”

Leaving Harry engrossed in a program on the television, the dogs and I drove up to the wind turbines outside of town, up on the hill. Lincoln only has two so far, which is ludicrous when you consider the amount of wind and space we get here. I took the back roads, and when the huge pinwheels towered overhead and we’d gotten as close as we could, I turned off the Dogmobile’s engine and we listened to the sound of Nature empowering Man. JoLee was suspicious; Star was unimpressed. But I love the idea of wind powering the city. I wish I’d been in a position to invest in one of the huge windmills looming over us, the wind swooshing through their vanes. (And yes, I do realize how odd it seems that I would use gasoline to visit the "wind farm.")

On my way back home, dawdling along the country roads and watching the birds fly and the sun set, I came to the realization that I directly inherited my Gypsy Heart and my Farmer Feet from my parents.

Dad was the Gypsy. He was always taking us on car rides, exploring the countryside, driving up through the Colorado foothills. Everyone would pile into the car and off we would go, with no clear idea of any particular destination - just to “go for a ride.” Often, we would go in the early evening, when Dad said we’d have the best chance of seeing wildlife. I remember straining to see those phantom deer he would claim he saw, but I don’t think I actually ever saw one - not on one of those rides, anyway.

Mom, on the other hand, provided the Farmer Feet of the equation. A true home-body, she was most comfortable sitting at the kitchen table, the hub and heart of the household, where she could keep track of everything that happened. Mom never went visiting neighbors; they always came to her door. They’d knock and then come on in, knowing Mom would have coffee and a snack of some sort for them.

This double blessing I’ve inherited can be a double-edged sword. I love my home and hearth, and although I’m starting to become more comfortable with people just dropping by, I doubt I will ever be as gracious about unxpected guests as Mother was. But nothing seems to be able to completely cure that craving for the open road. Being on a road trip is like a drug for me - and the nicer the weather, the more my Gypy heart strains to fly.

At least now I know how I got this crazy “disease” for which there seems no cure. And when I really stop to think about it, I’m very lucky - I’m happy no matter whether I’m at home or on the road!