The house in Fallbrook has always been something of a disaster area. Either the weeds are too high, and the dogs get foxtails in their noses or there are no weeds, or bushes of any other kind, and there is dust everywhere. Ther seems to be no happy medium, and don't get me started on all the crap . The family as a whole has managed to acquire so much junk that it puts all my foot lockers at fort riley to shame. Sadly some of these things, physical mementos and reminders of better days have been left exposed at one time or another to the elements and been tarnished by that exposure. I always feel a little disheartened coming home. Things continue to change and the landmarks of childhood, even if they were corporate, are fast disappearing.
What scares me most of all is that this is one of the last bastions that I can return to. Pretty much the only place I've taken leave to escape to, and every day I spend here I am acausted by the frailties of my parents. Far worse was the trip up to Watsonville. My Grandpa so far gone, that he is a shadow of his former self. All the stories that could have, and should have been told, lost now to the harsh and unrelenting progress of dementia, and possibly Alzheimer. Grandma, for all her opinions is just as bad. Her repeated questions about Kosovo, and so many other extremely BASIC issues left me feeling. . . old.
My parents bicker openly before me now, especially when it comes to driving. Patrick (my Brother) has taken the same do nothing hope it will all work out track that I once took and struggle with today. His mumbling has, if anything, gotten worse, and his wild aspirations made all the more unrealistic by the fact that the one thing he is truly good at these days is playing on his Xbox. It's truly disheartening.
The dogs, are not my dogs, though they certainly welcome me. Angel (Baraka's Grandson) is like a ghost. There are times he looks so much like Baraka that its truly scary, and i forget that it isn't my dog I'm looking at. Maddie, is so obsessed by food that she spent hours pawing at a kennel that had only a few bits of kibble in it. Windy is like a stranger to me even though i helped rais her as a puppy. and Sonka? dofus in the extreme, but not my dog. It seems Fred, the only NON-Ridgeback, is the only dog I really identify with. He sits, shakes and will love you forever just for a back rub. while playful he's not clumsy, or oafish. In short everything the Ridgeback is not. But he and Angel fight, and mom has neither the time nor energy to work with them. Hense he's got to go. Such a shame. He is a good dog, and it seems he found a home he likes.
I realized durring this trip that no matter where I will stray my heart will always long for that city by the bay. San Diego, for all its faults is my home, and I miss her so. The smell of the sea, the harbor so full of sights and things to do. The fog that rolls in in the morning, and burns off to reveal clear crisp days. How could I, a wayard travler not love it for all that it is. Kuwait, that flat featurless sand pit makes me realize there are such places as hell on Earth. If that is so then San Diego must be heaven. Never too hot, never too cold. I think my greatest woe in returning home is realizing that, eventually, I must leave again. Oh to stay.