Home, Sweet Home

I saw it before I felt it. The green, green grass of home. I watched as my plane began it's descent into PDX and the ground rose up to meet us. I was home. The familiar airport stretched out before me and I welcomed it, but refrained from actually kissing the ground.

Then I crossed the threshold of the airport doors and the cool, crisp, damp breeze of Oregon greeted me and I couldn't help but smile.

Not a single person made eye contact with me. No man tipped his hat and said, "Ma'am" as I passed by. No one held a door for me.

Ahhh....liberal, rude Oregon, how I love thee.

Ha ha ha.

Actually, we could all learn a little bit from those Southerns. Their friendliness is refreshing and their courtesy admirable. The air is a little thick and they have two different time zone in one state (how backward is that?), but they invite total strangers into their homes and even let you trade up for better seats at an Alan Jackson concert. They still say the Pledge and they carry guns. It's lovely in many ways.

That, and they know how to tear it up and defend/support a friend.

But as I sit here and look around my little home, the home that my girl slaved away cleaning today, I can only sigh with relief to be home among my kin.

It's good to be home, but don't worry southern friend. I'll be back. I know the war isn't over and that there are many battle yet to fight. This Yankee won't let you down or forget the importance of the fight before us.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm three hours ahead of you and my eyes are refusing to stay open.

Good night sweet Pacific Northwest, I'm glad to be home.