Heading home from Washington D.C. one summer, my wife suggested we visit Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson, our nation’s third president and author of the Declaration of Independence.
I told her maybe next time.
As we rolled into Tennessee, she wanted us to detour through the Smoky Mountains. I relented, pouting the whole way.
They say getting there is half the fun. I say getting and staying there is all the fun.
When I’m staring at a long drive at the end of a trip, I turn grumpy.
Pack the bags. Load the car. Hug the friends and family.
It’s time to go.
My lack of patience is a weakness, one I’ve perfected through decades of practice. It’s too late to change.
Besides, if home were so bad, we wouldn’t enjoy returning.