How Can I Miss You If You Won't Go Away?

I've spend the last couple of days at one of the resorts in our fair state, most of it listening to a rehash of the past legislative session. Not surprisingly, I spent tonight drinking.

When I called home to check on my family it appeared they were in the middle of a home invasion. The last time I heard anything that loud was when I fired an anti-tank weapon in basic training.

"What's up, Pappy?!" my oldest screamed when he answered the phone. Caller ID. Apparently my son lives in a holler.

"Nothing, Christ, put your mother on the phone."

"All right Pappy!!" he screamed even louder before bouncing the phone off the floor.

My wife got on, told me something about a bicycle I agreed to but still don't understand, and tried to hand the phone to one of the other kids. Neither wanted to talk to me, beyond shrieking something in the background about golf. Best I can tell, they've joined a new sect of Pentecostals, one that loudly worships tee-times.

I hung up and went out to the deck overlooking the water where a few of my colleagues had gathered. They'd all called home too and they all had that slightly shocked look, whether because of the call or the broader realization of what their lives have become, I can't say. I poured myself a drink from the communal bottle of whiskey, looked across the lake, and said, "I bet I could hit that radio antenna with a good rifle and a scope."

A couple of them took a drink and nodded in agreement. We spent the evening talking about our kids and legislation and ballistics and windage. I don't know what tonight says about me, but I don't think it's good.