Today, we got back from our trip. We set out to see my grandparents, who live in southwestern Pennsylvania. I live in central Virginia. On the map, it doesn’t look very far, but there is a problem, and that problem is West Virginia.
I sent us on the route that took us for hours up the mountain and down the mountain, up the mountain and down the mountain. The scenery was trees. And mountains. And trees. Every once in a while, we’d see a house.
In one yard, there was a man on a riding mower, riding slowly. “Yes, I’m going to mow the lawn,” I said to Brandon. “But, you see, I’m going to do it reeeeeeal slow-like.”
Fifteen minutes later, Brandon asked, “How do these people get groceries?”
Later, we noticed a landscaping trend: partly buried wagon wheels flanking either side of the driveway. “Can you imagine giving directions?” I said. “Drive to the middle of nowhere. Turn left and drive another twelve miles.”
“It’s the one with the wagon wheels,” Brandon said. “No. The other one.”
Hey, I grew up in a little patch in the middle of nowhere that I loved too, but what I’m saying is, unless it’s your own patch, it’s not good driving.
Finally, we hit PA. If you’re around up there, do yourself a favor and get this fish sandwich from the Italian Club. They only have them on Fridays. Caleb recommends the shrimp.
I’ll back back, once I dig myself out of the mountain of vacation laundry.