For whatever reason, it has been grand central station here-all afternoon.

Tim O. called me.

Tim, the 41 year old, I dated when I was 20, who I went to Washington, D.C. with on July 4th 2003 five years AFTER we broke up, called me.

And honestly, I don't know exactly what I think of that.

When I left La Crosse in 97-98, it was during the winter semester break. Despite a handful of straglers left behind, the campus was quite dead.

The night before my departure, Julia rapped on the window. I let her into the apartment, and we talked briefly, being that we were in the same situation. Viterbo college was no longer allowing us to be students at thier institution. We were meeting one last time (her and I) and be taking seperate paths.

I had once thought of writting letters or contacting my "friends" via some means, but when it came down to it, I just left. No note, no letter. No forwarding address. I just left.

Years later, aquaintences I ran into-again, would simple state that I disapeared, like a fart in the wind. For a period of two years. I'm sure the rumor mill handled the affairs quite nicely. the truth is-no one knew for certain where I was or how to get ahold of me. Just as well.

After work today, I'm concidering unplugging the phones, and sleeping.....

Frank called yesterday. We have been playing a game of phone tag. Supposed to call him back, and Mary has some "big news" to talk to me about. But first, unplug the phones and sleep. That is the plan for today, and I am sticking to it.

Luke 15: 11-32

My mom cried from the moment I took down the cardboard sign, hung to the light-post outside the family home. The black lettering read: Good Luck Kevin-Your Friends. The crying didn't cease untill two hours later, when they droped me off at college.

I came back. In sorrow, in humility, longing for fresh taco's, meatloaf, and saftey.

Five years later, she cried again. When furniture was packed into the U-haul, the green corsica (Louie) was filled with my clothes, and we ventured the four hour drive, into another state. Another place.

I went back home on Saturday.

The lawn was freshly manicured, in front of the white ranch style house. I placed the parking break on, shut off the motor. Grabed the vase with freshly picked flowers from my garden, and sauntered to the front door. I looked in. Disaster.

Toys thrown about, conversation, chatter, children running about. I could look in, entry was not possible. Munchkins are best coralled behind locked doors. The ringing of the door bell alarmed.

Short, sweet, painless, unexpected. Hugs, a few crocidile tears held back, a welcome.

Tipped off my dad, prior to embarkation. Confirming that yes, indeed-I'd come home. I'd put aside the barricades: my personal issues, grievences, and other bullshit, to make peace.

Because, driving through green bluffs, small farming communities, over the river and through the woods, can be therapeutic. The mind wanders, the Civic follows the way. It knows the way. There is no navigation required. I had a "full tank and some chips".

The visit was short, uneventful, pleseant. I was able to inject a few hours of HGTV into the veins. I slept. Hung Porkchop by his feet, chased Rutabega and no-name around the house. I laughed. A little.

Motivation was simple:

Earthquakes happen. Tornados appear out of the air, and kill. Mechanical hearts don't last forever. People die. Shit happens.

And as my parents age, I realise the more time I spend with them, the more quality time I spend with them, the more I share with them, the more, the more, the MOOR-the closer I find a peace.

The bungalow needed some cleaning today, which has been my main distraction. In a suitcase I found some old letters and came across a time capsel I had done in Middle school during the year 1988. We opened them up at our 5 year class reunion (year 2000), and they got stuck in a pile, unearthed this afternoon. With the onslaught of my current thoughts, it seemed quite fitting:
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