Over the course of the holiday weekend, Jeff and I paused for a while to watch the space shuttle launch. I watched for both prurient and practical reasons. Not only did I want the shuttle to lift off safely, but I also was beginning to exhibit a senior citizen's "get off my lawn" opinion where the shuttle-gawking RV nation was concerned.

I'm at T minus seven.

Bet y'all didn't know that hypoglycemia can lead to the funnies. (I'm pretty good at putting in those non-sequitur-looking openers that turn out not to be non sequiturs at all.)So, for those of you who have been playing the home game, reading along here, or reading along on the techops boards, Patrick's mother's bone marrow transplant is tomorrow. Today is her last day of chemo prior to the transplant itself. Patrick's in Houston, the fam's all rallied and everything's as ready to go as it's gonna get.

I would also like to announce that thanks to my friends, who infected me with the World Cup bug, I did my part on Sunday afternoon to improve international relations.Blame the summer storm, the kind that often brew up here in the late afternoons, pinging the chimney with fat droplets and making Edmund suspect that the sky, really and truly, is falling. I'd settled in with my knitting and had intended to wait until the second half to go to the gym to watch France-Italy, but partway through the first half, the storm grew so fierce that our satellite reception went kaput.

I've had Talking Heads in, well, my head for most of the week. I started the trip with "Once In A Lifetime" and sang along until I had most of it.

"And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?"
— Talking Heads

South and east, I think, past the sprawl and congestion of Atlanta to the sprawl and congestion of yet another place, but one that has something I haven't seen in quite some time. Ocean.

Into the blue again, indeed.

You cannot take the measure of a place without experiencing it with your own senses. I do not know this place, not yet; I know bits and pieces of roads and intersections, and the interior of a gym rather well, and the photos on the walls of this house best of all. It's been a long time since I've done this sort of thing, traipsing cross-country to a place that I've never seen before in order to drop out of my life for a week or so at a time.

I've been disoriented.
It's improving.

When we drove by, it was tantalizing. "Right over there, over that wall, there's the beach," Gareth said. It was dark, and all I could see was a vast expanse of nothing that might, or might not, have held shifting shimmers of reflected light from the streetlights around us.

Gareth gunned it, and we were gone. The water would have to wait for the next morning.

To you, love, from across a timezone, my voice and my words to you.

Eight years married, ten years together; a third of my life now wrapped up in your presence. We've said this every year: it's not the ceremony that holds true importance, it's the everything that comes after that makes a marriage, and you, dear, I have loved more than anyone else I have known in my entire life.

I may fly away, but I am aware, oh so keenly aware, of where home is.

Here's to life. Yours, mine—and most importantly, ours.

Home soon.