Too old to go home again

My little family and I ventured into the wilds of Missouri this weekend to visit my parents and others.

I am convinced that Missouri is enigma. We live in a bustling suburb, an Old Navy on ever corner. But 30 minutes outside of our town, there is nothing but farm land. It never fails to amaze -- the rolling hills, cows, sheep, trailers and mountains of rusting machinery just for added decoration. The street names roll from Main and Central to Strehlman Ford, Schlintzer Lane and Dierking Road. German and Lutheran are prerequisites to live in the wilds.

Speaking of sheep (there's a segue) my dad is convinced that sheep are becoming more popular on surrounding farms because the mask the smell of cooked meth. Beware to all sheep farmers, we know you're meth dealers in disguise! But I digress.

My parents live on an 80-acre spread that is literally 45 minutes outside of St. Louis, population 4 million. But from their back porch, vistas of farm land and valleys.

We made this visit to celebrate my little sister's birthday and the recent addition of a 2 carat diamond on her left hand.

I have never made a trip home, and left thinking how much I wished I lived there again. In fact, I always flee, muttering to my husband about how lucky I am to be "normal" considering I was raised there. Side note: I am far from normal, but that's beside the point.

This time, I was looking forward to the trip. It's been so stessful at the yet-to-be-named tax preparation company that I actually relished the thought of escaping into the cedar-ridge views of my childhood bedroom.

And yet... when I walked into the house, hugs and kisses from mom, my dad peeked his head around the kitchen door, and said, "Michele, I just read the funniest thing in my Hunting and Trapping magazine."

I should have brought some alcohol.