Two Houses are Better Than One

My annual fear of flying started to build after I was nine years old. Once on the plane, I would hastily strap myself into the uncomfortable chair with a huge silver buckle that seemed the same size of my head. As a nervous kid, I’d then fiddle with the air conditioning vents, or anything else I could focus my attention on. I’d gulp my already eaten lunch back down my throat as the plane would speed down the runway at 300 miles per hour. Eventually, when the plane would reach altitude of 30 thousand feet in the sky, the horrific feeling of confined air pressure would burst inside of my ears leaving me in agony. At this point in the trip, the same thoughts usually plopped into my mind every year,” In a couple of hours, I’ll be in my place. Hang in there, Ty.” What kind of place, do you ask? Well, it wasn’t just one place. For me, there were two important places I journeyed to back and forth annually; my divorced parent’s homes. Eventually, I grew to respect traveling to ...