Leaving is never so easy as saying hello.
The whippoorwill outside my window tunes its song
as the sun readies itself for its morning stretch
vaguely past the eastern horizon.

The odometer respools as you stare ahead,
counting bags or trinkets—or layovers—in your mind,
while I search for the correct iteration
of farewell for you.

Your flight leaves in forty minutes,
in which time you must complete the march
from counter to metal detector to counter, again,
while I take the car and drive back home,

with the knowledge that the space of a weekend

This is my birthday present to myself.

I spent the night playing with friends and laughing and pouring the occasional drink or two. We played cards and sent everyone except John (who is staying with us) home. We talked, he and I, until five a.m.—about Kenya, parents, siblings, past dates, love, life, and everything in between.

It is 5:20 on the day of my birthday. A year ago today, right about now, I was with Andy and Jen in New Jersey, preparing to take a train into New York. For my first taste of Manhattan.Through a typo while posting last year's NYC pictures, I marked a set of pictures as being from the Empire State Building when they were, in fact, from the top of World Trade Center 1. I made a comment to a netfriend about a picture of him at the same place; he said, "No, Amy, that's not ESB."

I miss my little, friendly, Huntsville airport. It was, once, my favorite place to fly out of, but after September 11, I think it is safe to say that the airport I once knew is gone. Perhaps forever.

Yesterday afternoon I drove to the airport to pick up John; my first visit to an airport in several months. I'd nurtured some vain and tiny hope that perhaps reasonability would have prevailed in Huntsville, and that airport security would not have shut down the metered parking.As I pulled around to the front of the airport, I realized two things: one, that metered parking was closed off by a large volume of orange cones, and two, that I'd have to circle around the airport because there was no place to turn off.

The swath of orange cones was disturbing in its own right, but even more so were the three camouflage-colored Humvees guarding them. No one sat in the vehicles, but there were numerous men dressed in camouflage and carrying weapons.

Ready or not, here we go. Geekfest number three officially drops into gear tomorrow. John flies in at just after two p.m., weather and planes and schedules and everything else permitting. He has our home number and my cell number, and hopefully I won't receive a call.

Calls from travelers generally aren't good news, so I'll hope for a silent phone tomorrow.

Not sure why I'm so quiet and tired and introspective about it all at this point. One might suppose it's my brain gearing up for what's going to be a long and tiring weekend. The house is ready for visitors—or, well, will be as soon as I tidy the kitchen tomorrow (always the chore that should wait until last). Guest bathroom's ready, as is the guest bedroom. The living room is generally tidied and picked up, despite my current thoughtline that says perhaps I should tidy the coffee table up a bit.

Perhaps this is the week in which I let others speak for me? I'd fully intended to write a full-blown entry today, but my findings a few minutes ago mean that I think I'm going to let someone else's words speak for me again today.

The letter is dated May 10, 2001. I have been looking for it since June, and it reappeared about twenty minutes ago while I was cleaning out under my desk. It is in my grandmother's handwriting, and it details her apple butter recipe:

I use a crock pot to cook the apples in—that way it is not necessary to stand and stir a lot. Then, too, the apples to do not stick to the cookware as bad as when using an open pot.

"Slice apples into the crockpot—fill it full—put about 3 or 4 cups of sugar on top and let it set overnight. Add spices—cinnamon, allspice & a little nutmeg—about 1 tsp. each or whatever suits your taste—cook 3 or 4 hours.*

I've occasionally toyed around with the idea of reprinting pieces that friends send to me. I've done it once before, when Jeff gave me a piece that I wanted to post. This morning, I received another piece that made me laugh so much that I had to share it. I may do more of this in the future; I have not yet decided. They're not necessarily formal pieces; they're bits of writing that catch my fancy and that I think are worth sharing.

Without further introduction, here's a little piece by Will Brooke which didn't have a title, but I've started calling "The Breakfast You'll Have."

Do you ever have these totally unreasonable desires for a breakfast that is about 3 times the size of you the morning after drinking stupidly?