I’ve written time and time again about how writing takes dedication.  It takes commitment.  It takes your full concentration.  Well, so do your parents.  My dad became ill during my parents’ first week in their new home.  He ended up in the hospital while my mom remained in the middle of stacks of boxes, unsure of even where her silverware was hiding.  My husband and I headed for not-so-sunny Florida and helped set up their household in between visits to the hospital and sleeping in a very uncomfortable bed.  It was a pretty bad week.  Like a true writer, though, I kept filing away my experiences for later examination and use.  For example, what type of person thinks it is okay to let his dog sprawl out on the couch in a hotel lobby?  I want to know more about the two older women who came to the grocery store in a golf cart and bought flowers and wine.  Why is the security guard at the front of my parents’ neighborhood taking his job way too seriously?  Then there’s Dee, my parents’ friendly neighbor, who was raised in the Bahamas and told us the history of her home country as well as making us a pie from the oranges off my parents’ tree.  My dad’s brother, Uncle Bo, was in town, too.  I grew up with my dad’s family but have not had a lot of chances to see them in my adult life.  Every time I spend time with them, though, I remember how quirky, funny, and downright odd my dad’s family can be.  Scotch-Irish, they are born story-tellers.  They are not much into watching television or reading; but they can keep you occupied for hours with their tall tales.  Spending time with my dad’s family reminds me of who I am and where I come from.  It reaffirms what I do.  So, I didn’t write a single word while I was away, but I guess I was on a sort of a research trip.  It’s nice to be home again, though, and feel the keys beneath my fingers.