For the past ten years, I have had a remote control to operate my ceiling fan and light fixture (and set varying speeds and brightness, respectively), and I'll be damned if it has ever been within arm's reach when I wanted it. It is such a stupendously impressive failure of a luxury that I keep it around to remind myself what a charmed life I lead (it's like Downton Abbey but with even more tea)—and that I could probably use the exercise anyway.

Over the river and through the woods is exactly where my grandparents live. Their home is nestled comfortably in a forested plateau, smack dab in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee. The roads are unpaved and often unmarked, and if you ever pass another person—family, friend, or stranger—while traveling through the neighborhood, you are required by ancient law to wave at one another with all the love you can muster.

It is my favorite place in the whole wide world and home to my favorite people. A weekend visit was far too short.

Earlier tonight, my father said (apropos of nothing), "We should head over to GAT Guns and get our FOID cards, so we can defend ourselves against the Ebola zombies."

No part of that sentence went where I was expecting it to go, but I think that might be my favorite kind of sentence.