Phoenix is a shimmering, simmering city in the Valley of the Sun.  Its weathercasters spend ten seconds on local weather, and then describe in gruesome detail the weather in the rest of the country.  Phoenicians will tell you its a dry heat, and it really only feels like the anteroom to hell for two-three months a year.

Thirty years ago, on the eve of the Los Angeles Summer Olympics, I left Phoenix to return to Maryland.  I’d been here almost four years, first a a house painter, then as a Front Office Manager at the Sheraton Scottsdale. Long story.

The day after we arrived in the Valley, we enjoyed a picnic lunch with Lauren, our transplanted cousin and niece, who unfortunately was flying east later in the day, for a funeral.

We also renewed acquaintance with Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Mark of Mesa, and with cousins Jason and Kim, and their very cool kids Alex and Max.

When we are on the road, day after day, the five of us, there are moments when it is just so fine to see a  familiar face.  As we sat in Kim and Jason’s beautiful, giant toyroom-of-a-house, we all relished the complete normalcy of an evening IN.  We have met up with long-lost relatives in restaurants, and it’s not the same.  Live and learn.

One thing to be wary of in our extended trip is the pace.  When it starts to feel like we are leaping from the car, snapping photos, and leaping back in, it’s probably time to slow down and take a campground day.  It is a tricky balance.  My tendency is to want to see it all, since “when will we be this close again?”

But six months is a marathon, not a sprint, and life in 192 square feet requires accommodations all around.  So we have been learning more about each other, as we’ve motored west, and we quietly often beam with pride at how the kids roll with the punches.   They live in the present and speak with an honesty that often serves to instruct the “teachers.”