I don’t remember how old I was when I went to my first “slumber party.”  Fourth grade?  Fifth?  A girl from school invited eight or ten girls over to her house and we brought sleeping bags.  We played typical slumber party games, like sticking our hands in a bowl of cold spaghetti while blindfolded, being told it was worms.  Maybe we played “Truth or Dare.”

We didn’t sleep much.

The next day when I went home, I was sad and everything in my own little suburban house seemed small, ugly, and boring.  The slumber party house was bigger, prettier, and more exciting.  I was weepy.  I didn’t tell my mother what I was thinking; she said “you’re just tired.”

Vacations and travel are kind of like slumber parties.  There’s the anticipation of the trip and the visit, the enjoyment of something different, and the exhaustion of travel.  I felt kind of weepy yesterday when I got back to The Coop and I could almost hear my mother saying “you’re just tired.

I am just tired.

Everything here in New England is pretty much the way I left it.

My zinnias and my nasturtiums bloomed while I was gone; that was a lovely surprise.

My friend Carol is anxious to hear Part 2 of my train story and I’ve been thinking about how to write it.  I told her I might do it today, but I didn’t realize how tired I would be by the time I got back to New England.  I know she’ll understand.

It’s back to work and the vagaries of the wheel.