Packing to leave on Sunday is the worst. You'd think I'd be used to it by now after 4 million miles, but I'm not. In fact, for some reason, it's getting harder.
While the folks around us readied themselves for Sunday mass, I commenced to disgorge the dining room table of an unruly mound of clean laundry, rolling up bib overalls and stuffing them into my red and black Stoops Freightliner duffle bag, a door prize from a 2017 company safety picnic held well before the pandemic sent such events the way of the dinosaur. Then there was the hanging of the shirts, the stowing of socks and undies into their respective compartments. And as I packed, my other half, Jumper, was transfixed upon her phone, watching the weather out West.
"Have you seen the weather in Wyoming, dear?" she said.
"Nope, and I'm not looking at it."
"Oh - Kay."
One of those OKs that bore the imprimatur, let's say, of a long-suffering trucker's wife. Elongated O, followed by a singsongy K. A portent of imminent doom, followed by a kind of resignation.
