Monday, June 30 – Road-Weary, Rain-Soaked, and Home Again

Let’s be honest: we did not want to leave.

Monday morning was slow. We dragged our feet—and paws—getting up late, taking a leisurely loop around the Sheraton’s dog path, and barely making it to breakfast before the doors closed. (Kenobi handled the delay with his usual charm and patience, though he did shoot me a few “We’re really doing this?” glances.)

When I first planned this route home, I swear I had it figured at about five hours. But plugging in the destination on Sunday? Seven. Over seven, actually. What?? Sure, the trip home always feels longer, but this time it was. Add gas stops, bladder breaks, and a certain dog’s unwillingness to be rushed, and we finally pulled into Jacksonville eight hours later—rain pouring, wipers squeaking, both of us grumpy.

There’s just something about the return drive. Heading out on a road trip is full of possibility—so much to see and do, the miles fly by with anticipation. But heading home? There’s comfort in it, yes. Sleeping in my own bed, my quiet sanctuary of a room, is one of life’s best rewards. But it also comes with the less glamorous reality: laundry, cleaning, and the aftermath of a week away from the garden.

When we finally rolled into the driveway, Kenobi made his opinion very clear: he refused to get out of the car. Just stared at me like, “This isn’t Grand Marais. This isn’t even Rustica. I’m not falling for this.”

Eventually, I coaxed him out and we both trudged around the yard to survey the damage. We’d left just before the heat wave hit, and it shows. No irises sprouting, a few of the shade plants scorched, and every basket and potted flower completely gone—crispy, wilted casualties of June sun and absence. (Honestly, what message does a basket of death send at your front door?)

But there were survivors, and even a few unexpected wins.

The basil is thriving, the dill hanging in there, and one rogue tomato plant—likely from last year’s dropped seed—has exploded with growth and blooms, nearly doubled in size while I was away. It’s the kind of surprise that makes you believe in nature’s quiet optimism.

The squash and cucumbers are a mystery—nothing visible, though it’s possible someone helped themselves. Who knows. The sunflowers are doing their best, a few zinnias have started blooming, and some determined gladiolas are stretching toward the sky. The lilies are spent, but they had their moment.

So no, it’s not quite the lush garden I left behind. But it’s hanging in there—weathered, scrappy, resilient, like most good things.

And now we’re home. The laundry is humming. The rain is still falling. The baskets will be replanted—something bright, something bold. Something that says: “Welcome. We’re still blooming.”