Vacation Discovery
Last summer’s vacation took us to visit friends in the Allegheny Mountains. I know I was supposed to post pictures.
Lush forests.
Crystal streams.
Winding trails.
Honestly, you can google better pictures than we’d have taken.
But after many months, I understand this vacation wasn’t about scenery anyway.
It was about small moments each day.
Mary and Mindy have a big dog, Tater, who tugged at my heart the first time I met him when he was young. Mary had held him while I seated myself upright in a recliner. The second she let go, he barreled across the room, leaped into my lap, reclined both of us, and covered my face, ears, and neck in his version of kisses. My laughter only encouraged him. When he adored someone, you were his.
When Mary and I went antique shopping, Cliff sat outside with the dog in the fenced yard, marveling at Tater’s speed for chasing tossed toys. I suspect they napped in the shade, too. Safely sleeping side by side, bound by their dreaming souls.
This summer, based on Mary’s serious health reports about Tater, he wasn’t barreling anymore. Still, he was glad, in his own old dog way, we’d returned.
On this current trip, Mary and Mindy took me to Lily Dale, New York. A quaint 19th century community for people curious about self-discovery through all things spiritual. We took turns with a psychic, but the best part for me was sitting outside with Mary and then Mindy without scrolling for Breaking News. We were each other’s Breaking News—having revelatory conversations those people glued to screens miss.
And there was the Pickle Incident.
The previous day at a restaurant lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich (my go-to meal for talking and swallowing easily during conversation) arrived with two pickles. Anyone like me knows each sandwich bite requires a dill bite. When I asked for more pickles, I received several for an extra dollar. At our Lily Dale lunch, Mary explained my pickle obsession to Mindy.
They forked their dills onto my plate.
Real friends understand what makes you happy.
During the visit, Cliff and I stayed at a Victorian B&B with stairs, of course. Cliff’s stroke has made steps hard to maneuver. During the climb one morning outside, he fell toward me. I braced him, unsure how to coach him up the steps without taking both of us down.
Out of nowhere, a tall, blond man appeared and said, “Looks like you could use help.” He put his arms around Cliff and guided him up. I rushed to open the door and turned back to thank the man, but he was gone. I’ll never know where he came from or how he vanished across the wide yard.
But he saved us from potential disaster.
No. Scenery did not matter on this vacation.
Experiences did—the ones we can explain and the ones we can’t.
They put Tater down a few months ago. In some ways, our trip last summer was about honoring a sweet old dog who slowly delivered his favorite toy to me when we arrived.
He couldn’t leap anymore.
But his heart still did.
