Today, I had lunch with a good friend. (Having lunch with friends is one thing I do when I’m not motivated to work on projects.) We met at our local greasy spoon for matching pimento cheese sandwiches, which is a story for another day, and spent two hours talking and talking. After lunch, we stepped outside and talked some more. Then, when I got home, I remembered it was Wednesday–as in Guest Post Wednesday. Well, darn it. I didn’t have anyone lined up. I e-mailed my friend frantically: Please write something for me! And so she did.
A good road trip only needs a few things. A packed bag, someone to sing with, and a bag of Bugles.
My mind may know I am on vacation but my heart wonʼt believe it until the corny aroma of a bag of Bugles fills the air. For the past twenty years, the shared communion of this salty food has been the start of many family adventures. Truth be told, I donʼt know exactly when or why this tradition started but I do know that it is here to stay.
My boys have no knowledge of a long car trip without having their fingers decorated with ten tasty Bugles. When the boys were young, the Bugles fit their fingertips like birthday hats. Now that they are bigger than I am, there is a delicate balancing act that happens. If a Bugle falls off of your fingertip you are not allowed to eat it. If you do, then things could get ugly. Itʼs a family rule.
We have managed to preserve the sanctity of the Bugle by not buying them to eat at home. In fact, the only approved place of purchase is at a gas station.
On the road.
In parts unknown.
We pile out of the minivan each in search of our favorite beverage knowing that my husband will return to the car with the coveted prize. Our adventure has begun!
In case it wasn’t clear, Texas Schmexas is on the look out for more Guest Posts. Shoot me an e-mail if you’d be willing to write something–anything–about community.