There is a stack of reading material waiting for me this weekend. 

I had hoped to enjoy it last weekend, but there were other festivities to attend, places to go, and obligations to meet.

My hobbies are often relegated to the ends of the days, the early mornings or the late evenings, and lately it is no secret that writing has gobbled up every bit of spare time, like Pac-Man eating dots. I’m running from the ghosts who are seeking to take my remaining lives, but occasionally I get a Power Pellet or a piece of fruit, earning an extra burst of energy, resulting in a 2:00 am bedtime.

But a writer is also a reader, and I’m tired of reading my own muddled musings. 

And as God makes all things beautiful in His time, it was meant that this weekend would be my own little reading vacation.

Seems like everyone else is going out of town on real vacation, either to Pigeon Forge for a Smoky Mountain Memorial Day weekend blowout, or to PCB for a senior trip, where rented scooters and golf carts will be crashed in a haze of drunken dares over the next week. Some families are packing up to head out on a Western road trip adventure, a journey to rival the Oregon Trail voyages of old.

I bet those pioneers would readily trade in the open prairie, a covered wagon, and dried beans for an interstate, an Airstream, and a Golden Corral.

But me? I’ll be on the porch, and I’ll start my summer by reading the leftover Ulta circulars from the last two months. It’s much cheaper shopping than the real thing, and I can sniff the perfume samples while listening for the whirr of hummingbird wings.

Next will be the local newspaper, where I will catch up on the end-of-season baseball and softball highlights, and maybe clip a picture of the hometown teams. I’ll read the front page articles and feel sorry for someone whose misfortune or loss became a headline. I’ll scan the back page, always a full-color ad for Gateway Foodland, the best grocery store in the world. Would I have bought the ground round or the chicken breast the week of April 23rd?   

(Note: I’ve never seen the shelves bare at a Gateway Foodland grocery store. Are you battling milk and bread runs in anticipation of an ice storm? Are you a victim of toilet paper hoarding associated with pandemics and tariff wars? Are you in need of a jug of peanut oil for frying your Thanksgiving turkey? Don’t attempt the crowds at those big box behemoths. Find you a Gateway, and you will survive.) 

There are the April and May issues of Southern Living, where Rick Bragg’s exquisite essays await on the last pages. There are also recipes to be evaluated both for ease and authenticity. SL, you’ve gotten a little more adventurous each year with your recipe recommendations, but please remember your primary readership grew up on fried chicken, pimento cheese, banana pudding, and pinto beans.

And thanks to Mr. Bragg for always elevating the humble pinto bean. He was raised right. Maybe he has included a description of eating a second helping of his mother’s pintos and ham on Easter Sunday. He’s done it before, and the simple memory of it makes me feel as if I’m sitting down to enjoy a steaming bowl myself, complete with a chunk of fresh cornbread plopped in the middle, soaking up the juice.

And finally, there are two books borrowed from my sister, their hardback corners gnawed off by one of their dogs, most likely Opal Kate. Sweet Opal, named in honor of her birth month of last October, will chew your arm, your hand, your leg, your shoe. But smart dog, she left the pages alone.

So I will finish From Strength to Strength and learn better ways to live out the remaining years of my life, and I will begin The Women and be transported to the field hospitals of the Vietnam War, just in time for Memorial Day weekend.

I won’t be at the lake or the mountains or the beach, but I’ll sip a bitter cup of Kona coffee and consider Pearl Harbor and pineapple fields. 

How wonderful that I can travel without leaving my front porch. I’ve already gone lots of places in anticipation, and I’ll roam far and wide tomorrow, thanks to my stack.

Youngest Daughter noticed my reading materials on the table, next to the firepit.

“What are you going to do, burn it all?”

Why yes, I will savor each page of all those newspapers, magazines, and books like a consuming fire, every printed word fueling that little blaze within me that relishes language, thought, and idea. 

The rain will fall this weekend, but I won’t be frustrated with cabin fever, drenched beach towels, or a postponed dinner cruise.

Time will move slowly, and the hummingbirds will stay in the trees, dozing during the showers. 

I’ll be sitting on my porch in my own nest, wrapped in a blanket if it’s too cool, with dog-eaten covers in my hands and worlds without end in my mind.