Well, here I am, back from a three-week pilgrimage to the Lower 48, in what’s rapidly become a family tradition of leaving town precisely during the best times of year to be in Juneau. I’ll say it again: world-class vacation destinations make world-class “staycation” destinations, especially for those of us on permanent “staycation.”

Anyway, this past trip down south we actually went down South, as in well below the Mason-Dixon Line. And because my family insists on doing everything in as effortful a way as possible — especially when it comes to “recreational” travel — we also went up north, deep into to New England. Neither of these is a particularly auspicious place for someone wearing a Yankees cap. I’m surprised I didn’t get punched.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed a certain measure of contiguous U.S.-style fun — got a sunburn, sat in traffic, waited an hour to get into Cheesecake Factory, sat in more traffic, hit up five different trampoline parks, used Google Maps, ate tomatoes that were actually red. But honestly, I spent a majority of my vacation counting the days until the return trip home.

That’s the thing about Juneau: nothing makes you appreciate living here like leaving here.

In fact, that’s kind of the point of travel in general, especially if you reside in one of the most beautiful places on earth (that uses U.S. currency). Still, people burn out on paradise, and getting away — even to the heart of Red Sox country — can be curiously refreshing. Like an Altoid.

I guess that’s what they mean when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Although, I have to say, that barely scratches the surface of all the things absence can do.

First and foremost, absence makes the mail pile up.

Pursuant to that, absence makes magazine subscriptions seem like a real waste. Contemplating this most recent stack of back issues — including all the so-called educational titles I keep ordering for my kids every time a telemarketer calls (I work from home; I’m starved for conversation) — I can’t help but feel we pay hundreds of dollars a year to have garbage delivered to our house.

Absence makes the grass grow longer. Seriously, it looks like one of those earth-after-human-civilization documentaries out there. And I live in an especially tidy part of town, too; my neighbor literally touches up his lawn with scissors and a ruler.

Quick tangent: this summer alone, I’ve read several news items from across the country describing various incidents in which one guy shoots another guy after that guy’s dog drops a deuce in his nicely manicured yard. Proof, yet again, that guns don’t kill people — dog poop kills people.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes.

Absence jams my DVR with programs I’m never going to watch, yet won’t delete, either. These invariably consist of “Nova” episodes and whatever weekend-long marathon A&E happened to air while I was gone. By the way, since when does a reality TV show about a fast food chain run by Marky Mark’s brother constitute either “Art” or “Entertainment”? Better still: why did I set a series recording for “Wahlburgers” in the first place? Even better still: why, in 2018, do I still pay for cable?

There’s more:

Absence liquefies produce. It also makes homemade penicillin grow on that leftover salmon I swore I’d put into an omelet but then never did.

Absence makes the garbage disposal break. Come to think of it, presence makes the garbage disposal break, too. That’s a garbage disposal’s charm, I guess, constantly breaking. What else is there to love?

Absence makes me wonder where that weird smell is coming from. Fearing that’s how our house always smells, absence then makes me dig through old boxes in search of my incense burner from college.

Absence makes me wish I hadn’t forgotten to set up something vis a vis the feeding of our pet goldfish. Although, a small part of me is glad to flush them, because they were kind of a pain to take care of and never fought each other, no matter how hard I pounded on the side of the tank.

Absence also makes me wish I’d cleaned the bathrooms before we left, instead of allowing them to “cure” for nearly a month. At the very least, I could’ve checked for floaters. Maybe that’s got something to do with the aforementioned weird smell?

But perhaps most importantly, absence makes me forget any complaints I may have had about Juneau prior to stepping aboard any southbound flight. Seriously. I even find myself loving that ridiculous whale sculpture, now. Although a Trader Joe’s would still be nice.

• Geoff Kirsch is an award-winning Juneau-based writer and humorist. “Slack Tide” appears every second and fourth Sunday.