Radio cranked, the family truckster humming along at 110 while the high Nevada desert passes by in a blur, I was suddenly struck by a wave of homesickness. I sure miss Montana.
Plastic grocery bags caught in the sagebrush, snapping in the wind next to the road, reminded me of home.
A week in southern California had been more than enough.
The food, always a prime motivator of our travel, was as good as it had been two years ago when we visited SoCal just before the pandemic hit. After five days though, Barb announced she’d had her fill of her favorite cuisine, Mexican. The next day she tol...