Hard-tail Mule

The much beloved St. Rebecca, my mother, wore out a fair share of switches on me, all put to the purpose of trying to raise me right. She successfully broke me of most of my worst habits. Some disagreeable personality traits, regrettably, continue as part of my behavior even now. Had the blessed St. Rebecca survived, no doubt she would have continued her efforts to straighten me out. She reminded me often that it did not matter how old I was or how big I had become (she meant that in its fullest definition), I was still subject to her guiding hand. One particular trait that she addressed but did not remedy was what she called my hard-tail mule complex. You are in the field plowing and the mule decides that the day is done, it heads for the barn and there is no stopping it. I am the same way. When I am finished, I am sure-enough done. I head for the barn. Worse, I become completely fixated on the barn.

With the West, the mountains, the mesas, the Indians, the canyons, the rafting, the open space, then the bobbin' behind me, in my mind I decided that the plowing was done and it was time to head to the barn. I am heading home. I have not taken my camera out of its case in three days. I have made no plans for any sightseeing. No side trips, no spontaneous investigations. Nothing. All I can see is US78 East to I-20 to UA 431 South to Country Road 248. Every mile I drive is forgotten once behind me. Billboards hold no interest. Historic markers are ignored. I am fixed on getting home. Nothing wrong with being determined to finish a project. But, as St. Rebecca would point out to me, don't miss the richness of the moment. Enjoy the journey, she would say. And, when I would not listen, she would head out to the hickory tree to retreive yet another switch to blisher my backside. I wish she were around to wear me out for how I am behaving today.