"So few people come here and really make themselves at home. You went out there and slept like a baby."

I'll say.

Don't hate me because I'm here. I've been here for most of the afternoon. Most of it asleep.

It always seems to end like this; a time full of solitude ending with a drive to Atlanta, resulting in a Sunday-morning urge to write before the wakening of the house disturbs the morning quiet. Not a bad thing, really, for someone who has been suffering from something that, from the correct angle, holds a distinct resemblance of writer's block.

Silly us; we were too tired to check the weather when we stumbled into Casa Richardson last night. We awoke to discover that weather was being wreaked all around us today. That plan I had of getting up fairly early and driving home from Atlanta?

Three and a half hours' worth of meandering south and east on the back roads will bring you to a highway, which leads to a smaller road, which leads to a gravel road. Even if you turn off onto the gravel road, you might miss the driveway that appears to lead to nothing but a copse of trees.

Like many of the good things in life, there are no signs pointing to it that say "This is where you need to be." Just a mailbox and a fence for the horses.

Atlanta. Three-point-five hours of driving to get to the geek farm, where newborn goats were cuddled and cooed over, and dragon*con staff meeting was attended.

It rained. Of course.
I managed to get lost in Atlanta. Of course.

The plan: drive from Huntsville to Atlanta. Obtain Gareth, whose current sojourn in the States has not yet produced the need for a rental car. Drive Gareth back to Huntsville, so that he can have some face time with the locals over a three-day weekend.

Message window, Gareth, yesterday afternoon: "Greg has proposed I-20 exit 51a at 7:30pm EST - there's a McDonald's there apparently."