For several weeks I’ve felt the urge to visit a neighboring town–McKinney. It has been several years since I was there last, and I had seen and read references about the vital downtown area and the number of artists that have flocked to the city of late. One of my favorite mystery authors lives there: Deborah Crombie. I listened to an interview recently with author and textile artist Jill Luig, who also lives there. So I made plans to go on a Thursday while the kids were at school. But instead, I had to attend a funeral. Then I made plans to go on a Saturday morning with my daughter–it would be a girl’s morning out. She reneged on me, preferring to stay and play with her friends. So after two attempts, I finally made it this past Saturday with the husband in tow. He was a good sport. We had lunch at a very crowded place on the square called Spoons. He had enchiladas and I had a wrap. I should have had the pancakes. But the buttermilk pie was light and delicious. Then we walked around, popping into gift shops, antique stores, and a quilt shop. I’m not sure what I was expecting.
You know how sometimes you get that urge to do something or go somewhere. It’s like it’s calling you, demanding that you pay attention to it. That’s how I’d felt about going to McKinney and each stalled attempt seemed to reiterate in my mind the importance of the journey. But nothing happened! No great insight–no artsy moment–nothing much. It was very crowded and the traffic was terrible. The husband was patient but bored and then he had an all-out allergy attack. Almost as if he was allergic to the place. I’m still trying to figure out why I needed to make this trip.