Trailer Park Karma

Another Year, Another Haircut. And A Hawk.

A year back, Burb Dawg and I headed to camp by a lake in a 1-person (+1-dog) tent in freezing temperatures. I brought a block of the best frozen chicken beer chili in the world, heated it on my camp stove, and indulged in a single Lone Star. At midnight, we watched through the tent flap as fireworks shot up over the lake. 

It was one of my fondest New Year's Eves. 




This year, I teared up a bit, remembering how just looking out any window of my little house in The Sticks could take my breath away. The views are etched into my brain, and I pull them to mind regularly. If you ever see me with a stupid smile and a faraway gaze, that's probably where I am.

I'm not a fan of driving around the amateurs on New Year's Eve. If you can't drive cross-eyed without plowing into something or somebody, those of us who've mastered the skill wish you'd stay home. So I spent the day putzing about, pondering the evening's possibilities. That afternoon, I did laundry. Dinner might have been simply enough popcorn to feed 10 (with only The Editor and me to quibble over it), but what I craved was mussels marinara. Instead of the fancy champagne drink I learned about from The Republic's fancy monthly magazine, I considered settling for a couple of leftover glasses of the cheap red wine I used to marinate beef for the old folks' lunch earlier this week. And Burb Dawg got a nice long, ball-fetchin' walk at the little league field.

That's where the hawk comes in.

Have I mentioned how stupidly giddy I get when I see a hawk? The seven-year-old Dr. Doolittle fan in me likes to think hawks appear for my benefit. And that doesn't happen in Swamp City too often (unless you live in the Burbs, like I used to...)

The first time I saw this guy, he was soaring way, way overhead as I hung laundry. Hopefully none of my neighbors witnessed my jaw drop and goofy grin. But you can believe I stopped pinnin' washrags for a minute to watch. 

I saw him again from the backyard a few weeks later, with The Editor. Just a hawk, brownish and white from way down here, soaring around over Ratville.

Then on the last day of 2011... In between tossing the slime-and-dirt-covered ball for Burb Dawg and keeping a close eye on the chain link fence for the litter of tiny pups who squeeze out from under to say hello, I was enjoying the big flocks of grackles, doves, and parrots (yes, parrots) as they meandered and waddled, squawking and cooing, over the ball fields. It's pretty great to watch them all take off when the Dawg runs near, all flashes and flutters of bright green in the air. The flock, several hundred strong, decided the treetops were a safer perch, at least until our ball throwing took us beyond their realm. 



A few minutes later, a loud ruckus arose from behind me, and I turned to see grey, black, and green wings flapping frantically against the overcast backdrop. High over the scattering birds, my hawk friend dipped and dove. Just for me.

I walked home with Burb Dawg as he valiantly carried his jingle bell ball. Then without a smidge of hesitation, I cut off seven inches of my hair.

Happy New Year. 

Remembering The Homeless On The Longest Night

Today's the fabled longest night of the year, the Winter Solstice. It's also the day that groups gather around the country to reflect and remember our human kin who departed this incarnation from their homes on the streets.

"Each year since 1990, on or near the first day of winter and the longest night of the year, National Coalition for the Homeless (NCH), National Consumer Advisory Board (NCAB), and the National Health Care for the Homeless Council (NHCHC) has co-sponsored National Homeless Persons' Memorial Day to bring attention to the tragedy of homelessness and to remember our homeless friends who have paid the ultimate price for our nation's failure to end homelessness."
~from the NCH website

Here in Swamp City's barrio, there are plenty of homeless folks. Always have been, since it's a place ripe with mythology that draws hopeful souls from all over. We know some by name. We know some of their stories. The Editor, The Boy, and I are some of those crazy drivers who make you wait longer at a traffic light while we pass change, water, bananas, and granola bars through the window into grateful hands. Today, we'll be cooking some of Mira Dessy's crockpot snacks  for handing out to our friends near the freeway. There's also a gathering downtown to mark the day and say a few prayers.
"The Homeless" live in my heart in part because I've had direct opportunities to serve them at several different kinds of junctions: as a social worker, as a volunteer, as a passerby. I've also nearly been in their shoes a few times.

I sure hope you've heard that the numbers of homeless and those on the threshold are growing. And they're not all the stereotypical addicted men, although that's the more visible group. A recent report on NPR said "A new report from the National Center on Family Homelessness shows that the rate of homelessness among children in the U.S. has increased nearly 33 percent since 2007. This means roughly 1.6 million kids." The Huffington Post has a slideshow representing the "10 States With The Highest Rates" of child homelessness.
But you likely won't see them out there on the curb.

Back before the first Gulf War, I managed children's services at a battered women's shelter. Their stories were both similar and different from many homeless families. But I'll never forget the phone call I took from a well-meaning woman who wanted to bring her daycare kids on a field trip to hand out toys and visit with our shelter's children. "We think it will be good for them to see that these kids are no different," she said.

Her intentions were naively sweet. It IS a good thing for children to be taught compassion and that we're all alike at heart. But it's not such a good thing to feel like you're on display for the benefit of others' enlightenment, especially when you feel like your whole life is one tenuous link after another in a chain of chaos. We declined the daycare's offer.

If you can, take some time today to simply recognize how good you've got it. Dare to consider that not everyone "out there" is a ne'er-do-well cad. If you pass by any on your way to the shopping malls, take five minutes to ask them their name. Tell them yours. Wish them warmth, out loud, to their face. Every connection counts.

Luxuriant Life In a Cracked World

I am keenly aware, here in Swamp City as compared to The Sticks, of certain differences in life’s luxuriance.

Kinda funny, since things were busy dying out there, while here in the Swamp, things are... well... busy.

The drought that is cracking The Republic into pieces was not merely visible to the naked eye in The Sticks. It was palpable. You could breathe in the lack of water. Every part of my body felt it, and so, I guess, did every part of my existence out there, at least for a time.

When I returned to live in the Swamp's barrio, I was impressed by the green. It's not like I wasn't from here, and I even came back at least monthly if not more often during my rocky savannah sabbatical. So I know how so many things are at a different point in the spectrum of life in Swamp City. I think more than anything, I was dismayed by what I perceive to be the cavalier attitudes of residents here. But how can anyone not blissfully take for granted the luxury in which they live? Aren’t we supposed to? Should we not?

It's a question that's haunted me -- followed me -- all of my life. Does compassion in action equate somehow to discounting or devaluing our own wealth? If we roll in the dough of our own making, are we necessarily keeping others from having bread to eat?

And just in time to save me from my own mind, a piece of green shoots up from the hardly tended soil, imported all the way from London, Texas, in my favorite terra cotta pot.


Thanks to The Editor's planting, we may have garlic in the spring.

When It Rains, The Other Shoe Falls

When people ask about my job, and I foolishly reveal that "I'm a writer," I've learned to respond to follow-up questions with "It's not romantic."

That doesn't describe the half of it.

Being a freelance writer for a living is (for most of us) choosing to make "feast or famine" a regular, ongoing part of your existence. When there's work, you better take it, even if you think your plate's already full, because you can't predict when you’ll get your next job. And when there's not enough work... well, there's this little town called London in west central Texas you can move to...

If you've been following along, you know that I left my rocky savannah idyll and came back to Swamp City to catch a gravy train. The things we'll do to feed and clothe ourselves and our dependents, huh? And now, a week shy of my second month in the city, I'm already back to treading water as fast as I can, doing what I gotta do. When hunger's a part of your history -- and you wanna keep it neatly tucked right back there -- you'll bite off as much as you can chew when the bone is dangled. And if you bite off more than that, be prepared to choke a little or spit it out.

If there's one thing I know for sure (and there ain't much, so take what I got), it's that the other shoe WILL drop. It's not a question of if but when. The trick is seeing those harsh possibilities clearly and with a sense of wonder and amusement, not resignation or foreboding.

It's a hell of a trick.

All I have to do is think about the super-sized task pile on my plate, due in the next eight weeks, and my blood pressure goes up. So what do I do? I heap on a little more. The pile's now topped by a couple of books about being more like Buddha. Really.

One's called "Just One Thing: Developing a Buddha Brain One Simple Practice at a Time" by Rick Hanson, and the other is "Shortcuts to Inner Peace: 70 Simple Paths to Everyday Serenity" by Ashley Davis Bush. Neither is out yet -- they're both being published after my task pile should be cleared. My plan: Use whatever these galleys got in 'em in hopes of keepin’ my craw clear enough to get down what I bit off. And be found sane when it's all said and done. So you might not see the reviews until later. Much later. Like, holiday shopping time, maybe.

It's a damned good thing I found this at the store last night:

 

 

That's a Real Nice Squirrel, But It Ain't a Tree-Climbing Porcupine

So. Here I am. Camping in my new-to-me rental cottage in the same neighborhood where my parents grew up. There's plenty to tell on that topic, but for now I'm trying to focus on the good stuff. Like the critters.

Focusing on wildlife in the middle of a big city takes some doin', but I'm happy to say that my senses are a little more fine-tuned now, thanks to my stint in The Sticks. There's really not as much to see here in Swamp City, in terms of nature, that is.

During my last few weeks out there in The Sticks, I grieved mindfully about the move, which included consciously noticing my surroundings. And as either luck or simply the rewards of mindfulness would have it, the country critters were out in full force. They were always there, and yes, you've heard me carry on via Facebook and Twitter about the deer and the birds and the armadillos and the snakes, etc., the whole time I lived out there. But I made sure to enjoy them -- to really feel the "oohs" and "ahhs" and go nuts with the big grins -- during my last weeks there.

Like with the porcupine.

When The Editor and I were hanging at Karrie Sue's, strategizing this cross-state move, he asked out of the blue one day, "Are there porcupines in this state?"

"I don't know," I said, sorta amused that I didn't. I like thinking that I know everything there is to know about my state. It's a frame of mind that goes with The Republic territory.

Guess what appeared two nights later, waddling around the corner of my little house as we stood on my porch swillin' beer after a day of lifting things into the giant rental truck?

 

It was smaller than I'd imagined and a little patchy in the quills. The porcupine heeded its nose, stopped, sat on its hind legs, and sized us up as we stood gaping and whispering. I worried aloud about Burb Cat, who was outside somewhere. Then the critter swayed a little like it was drunk.

"We need to go inside!" I whispered in a panic. Rabies has been found out that way lately in wild things. The Editor stayed put on the porch, smiling with fascination and Lone Star excitement. Then the thing wandered off toward the burned out property next door. 

I went into Dr. Doolittle mode, fetched one of my hundreds of clean yogurt containers (and no, Editor Too, the plastic did not make the move to Swamp City), filled it with water, and tiptoed out to the acreage edge to leave it for the probably-diseased critter.

It was an exciting end to a few days of drudgery. Or so we thought.Mr. (or Ms.) Porcupine returned two more nights in a row, 9:30 sharp, while we caught our breath in the dry-sauna weather on my porch. And both of those nights were when our friend, who appeared to be feeling better and better, put on a real show for us.

He climbed the little tree by my driveway. With great ease. And silently.

We were so flabbergasted that our whispers became more like muffled squeals as we conjured up reasons our new friend may be tree-climbing. To eat eggs or baby birds, The Editor offered. To hide out and eat leaves for water, I pondered. At any rate, the little thing stayed up there until after we’d headed to bed, both nights.

It was an amazin’ sight to see.

Seriously doubt I'll be seeing that again, but for now, I'm marveling at whatever four-footed, winged, or scaled creature I happen upon here in Swamp City. Trying to, anyway.

(What we got is wild parrots in the pine tree.)

Uncle: The Move Back

Sitting on Karrie Sue's porch, faithful Burb Dawg by my side, The Boy still curled up under a quilt in the living room, I'm thinking of something The Editor said to me a few days ago.

"How does it feel to be homeless?" His grin conveyed that the question was a verbal tickle.

I was so thoroughly exhausted and still laden with a task list longer than my arm that I couldn't feel a thing. This morning, after having finally packed up and hauled my house-full to store at the edge of Swamp City, secured a rental abode deep in the heart of the swamp, and driven said Editor back to his Jeep at Karrie Sue's... I am feeling again. 

Dawn's first rays brought tears about my lovely London mornings -- cool, dry breezes, songbirds and wind chimes, and little else. The previous day's assaultive heat washed away. It's not unlike all that here at Karrie Sue's, save for the higher temps and humidity, and it's the similarity that brought it all back to me. So I let myself go there a bit.  

After a painful Sun salute (my first after several days of hefty lifting and long-haul driving), I meditated on my hostess's east-facing, wood-floored porch with a cup of French-pressed coffee in hand while the hummers had breakfast. Will the little buzzing birds visit me in the swamp?

And my mind veered to the new place. Wait 'til you see it. Almost the anti-farmhouse. Every floor tiled. Asphalt driveway covered by an aluminum carport. Washer/dryer hookups in my bedroom. And the funkiest spiral staircase I've ever seen, let alone lived with. Watch out for the pointy screws poking beneath each step.

I'll share the 70-year-old bungalow with The Editor. It's a big deal. He tried to rouse me about that the other night, as we collapsed in his tiny garage apartment that's so close to our new place you can smell it through the sticky city air. 

"We're gonna live together!" he said with an expectant, happy grin. I think I fell asleep immediately after that. Life's been like that for a couple of months: work work work of one kind or another at my computer, in the town library, next to the river, or from someone else's home, shuttling in my sweaty van back and forth between there and here and over there again, and crawling to bed before anyone else, comatose on first nod.

This morning, it came to me how homeless I've been for a long time. That's not a whine. Fact is, I think it's good. 

In a spot shaded from the hotter morning sun here on Karrie's porch, I lifted my hair over the back of the old school desk chair, the one in which I huddled next to my London wall heater last winte r, and leaned back, my legs stretched out in almost-full recline on the splintery wood. Everything in front of me was green and moist. My cranium felt full of spinning wheels and linked gears churning out first one task, then another. Monkey mind mode. But it was good. It's been a long time since there was space in my existence for un-focus, for not being compelled to zero in on One Thing At a Time while the others go unheard in my head 'til it's their turn for doin’. A long time since I just sat and listened to the noise instead of trying to turn it off.

I felt the homelessness, and all the fretting and scheming and hoping that goes along with it. It's not new to me, but this morning, I didn't mind it at all. For every plan, I know there's a molecule somewhere that can jar it awry, and I'm cool with that. 

There are loose ends to tie up out there still, but I've arrived again at my home: I am grateful to be this compound thing I am and have been thus far.
 
And for now, I have dog hair to vacuum, plants and laundry to load up, and another road to drive. After The Boy wakes up from his adolescent slumber. And another cup of coffee.

I Gave Notice Today

It's a big deal.

Working out here -- the work I do, that is -- has become almost impossible. And while I can hear the wheels turning in my landlord's mind ("Why can't she just get a job in town doing something like office work or waiting tables?"), there's a truth that I've arrived at during my struggles here in The Sticks:
What I do is more important than where I do it.

That's an important conclusion for me.

Ya see, the meaning of Trailer Park Karma, the phrase and the blog, is different from what most readers seem to have arrived at. It's not about RV'ing, though I now have tons of tweet-followers who thought maybe... I even have a little sub-niche of ex-pat retirees who figure I'm "on their side" -- but given I'll never retire and really don't even understand the word, it ain't about that either. It's not even about low-rent living, although sure, a lot of my posts lean that way. But having little money and just generally "doing without" is only a by-product of trailer park karma, albeit thickly entwined and certainly codependent, in my mind.

I can't succinctly sum up the meaning of trailer park karma, even though I feel it deeply and have no doubts about its presence and influence. It's kind of like music: When you label and pigeonhole it in an effort to simplify it, you suck a lot of the beauty right out of it, and it's no longer what it was to begin with. And you no longer see it. 

That's what Buddhism is  about: Seeing. Really. Seeing.

It's a lot harder to really see when one’s life is overfilled with sensory input on a constant basis. Back in Swamp City, well, if you live there or in any other metropolis, you probably know what I'm going to say. While I had absolutely no intentions or forethought about what living in The Sticks would do for my practice, the result has been nothing short of glorious. 


But that same glory-birthing circumstance -- the lessening of Stuff To Hear/See/Feel/Think About/Do -- has now led me to the end of this particular sojourn.

When you whittle away at your life's pieces, down to particles, and then wipe the atoms away with a final flourish, you've got this: Survival of the compound you know as yourself. And in this world, if you can't make your own food and shelter, you buy it. To do that, you gotta have money. And most of us earn it.

Earning money has become increasingly challenging in The Sticks. It is, after all, the reason places like this exist in the first place. Not many folks can earn a living in a place that (a) has very few, if any, places of business, and (b) is tenuously connected to those places that do have business. The owner of this property told me flat out, "It's so cheap because we can't get anyone to move out here." That fact appealed to me on many levels. Still does. One of the levels, the one where I have to earn a living, has become clogged up.

Back when broadband was new and I grabbed it up early, I remember telling friends that working on the Internet could often be a little like working in a burning building. The frequent breakdowns of the early system (I think I had three distinct entities involved in providing me Internet at that point) gave me ample "opportunities" to leave what I was doing and run over here and dash that blaze out, only to find that another had erupted over there... Now, of course, it's smooth sailing. But not here in The Sticks. 
Not even close. 

Remember dial-up?That's what nearly everyone out here still has -- and I knew that going in -- but it means that there's not a bunch of unhappy customers out this way. There's me with my aircard that delivers Just a Smidge Faster Than Dial-Up speed.

So I learned Rural Multitasking. That's where you :::click::: and then wander across the kitchen floor to wash dishes. A minute or so later, wander back :::click::: and then go feed the cat before wandering back to the kitchen... etc. It makes for a less sedentary life, I'll tell you that!But it can really raise your blood pressure, too, when the clicking you're doing is with the goal of making employers happy. And lately, after a fence builder's mishap on a ranch cut a main fiber-optic line... My attempts at working have looked more like showing up for work and wondering if you’re gonna find the building locked. 

So. Uncle. As much as the surroundings here make my spirit soar, and as much as Swamp City's don't... I gotta go back. I have to be able to get in the building, so to speak, and get my work done.
After all, I write to eat. And eating's not optional.

Besides, I miss The Boy. A lot. The downturn in income has made it more and more difficult to make the drive as often as I did when I first moved this way. Monthly isn't enough.

I'm going back to Swamp City, where I'll live almost smack dab in the middle of four million people, and walk Burb Dawg on concrete sidewalks and scoop up his poop, and listen to the sounds, smell the smells, bear the heat and humidity... and revel in it all. And tell y'all about it, too. More promptly!

How Much Practice Do I Want: London's Losing Its Charm

I know. I can't believe it either, and I never thought I'd say such a thing. But then, I never thought I'd live in London.

And ya know, it's been coming for several months. It's no surprise to me, even though you may be caught off-guard by my pronouncement. Disillusionment in a love relationship is probably most often a slow dissolving of gauzy haze, not an abrupt casting off of the veil. 

First, there was the increasing feeling of being a watched specimen. I expected it, sure, especially in the earliest months. But when I started friendly'n up to the Happy Hour crowd once a week, the air around my sanctuary in The Sticks started becoming a little stinky. (And that's metaphor. It actually smells great out here constantly, one of the things I'll miss when I'm... anyway...)

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the ins and outs of who hates who and why and how many generations back it goes. As soon as you start hearing all that, you eventually hear some detail that makes you think "Oops! I do that..." This part of the disillusion wasn't too tough to bear. I rolled with it, knowing it was part of living in a place this small and old.

And I didn't entirely mind the phone calls to check in on me when folks didn't see me when they expected to. I thought it was sweet. And that neighborly vigilance came in real handy when the neighbor's and part of my acreage was on fire while I was in Swamp City.

Plus I was kinda surprised that I didn't get begged invited to go to church across the road more often. I think the Methodists ha ve been extremely considerate of my sleeping in on Sundays, though I still do stick to the other side of the house, away from the front windows, from 9 to 10 AM.

But a few weeks ago, I was privy to a Happy Hour conversation that I'd rather not have been. It was damned uncomfortable at the time, but I didn't realize just how much it'd gotten under my skin until a couple of weeks later. I've actually skipped out on Happy Hour just to keep plowing through my recent piles of menial labor. But my absence was also partly because I'm a little wigged out.

At that last tea and beer-soaked gathering I'd attended, conversation centered on what is apparently a Resident Evil out this way: Renters.

I know people have a right to sit around and gripe when they're drinking with their friends. I don't begrudge them that opportunity to vent. But me being a Renter and all, well, I felt a little like the proverbial red-headed stepchild.

I didn't utter a word. And every single person at that table knows not only that I'm renting, but at least some of them (and possibly all) know that I've paid rent late a few times in recent months. Oh, I make up for it by reimbursing them the $15 per day late fees, but still... when you hear statements like, "Well, hell, the way the law is, they [we Renters] have the advantage," uttered after a story is told of one idea to get bad renters to leave: You pull the toilet out of the house...

It's Us versus Them out here. Not just regarding Renters & Owners, but nearly every other way you can categorize folks. Sure, it's like that everywhere, but in a microcosm like this, the smell of hate and fear gets really bad, really fast, and there's nowhere to escape it.

SO, you might be saying, why worry about a handful of people with nasty attitudes? Because that's all there is here. The Owners With Nasty Attitudes and the Renters (who I imagine have their own brand of attitude to boot). I'm surrounded. And alone. At least at happy hour, since I’m the only Renter there.

Add to the increasing stench the fact that gasoline's been $4 a gallon out here for a few months, making treks to see The Boy and The Editor and the rest of my loved ones in Swamp City downright unaffordable, and I essentially have more practice opportunities than I care for.

Then, they started ripping up Whiskey Road a few weeks back. But that's another whiney blogpost...

Bucolic Plague: The Dis-ease of Life on the Outskirts of Nowhere

by Karrie Sue Chambless

I grew up in a small town then spent my adult life livin’ in the bigger cities of Texas: Austin, Houston, and Dallas, and their suburbs.  As a young’n I dreamed of livin’ in even bigger cities, like Manhattan or Boston. I managed to visit Manhattan, but the only time I ever lived full-time outside Texas was a brief stay in Shreveport (a stay not really worth mentionin’: it’s just like Northeast Texas and it ain’t no big city.) I finally decided the country life was for me. 

A little over a year ago the Trailerpark Bodhisattva pulled up stakes and moved from Swamp City to a small town on the outskirts of nowhere, in the Texas Hill Country.  My first reaction was “I wanna live in the country in an old farmhouse!” I guess I wanted it bad enough cuz the Universe conspired to make that happen. I’d made a half-assed effort at looking for a job elsewhere, but when I lost my job in the Burbs of Swamp City, I knew I had to ramp it up a bit.

I’d been looking for work on the west side of Austin, but one summer afternoon after a nap, I had what I call Divine Inspiration, wonderin’ if there were any jobs to be had on the east side of town.  I’d recently been to Manor for a square dance and had also gone through Bastrop on a recent visit.  I looked online and both districts had jobs posted that I was qualified for, as well as interested in.  I filled out online applications, emailed my letter of recommendation, and made some phone calls.  

In the space of a couple of weeks I’d had an interview, a job offer, friends to stay with in Bastrop, and a signed contract.  It was a whirlwind process that I can only credit as the work of Divine Intervention (and I say that cuz my only other alternative was to work as a barista as the local Starbucks.)  

So, I had a job. Next up -- the farmhouse in the country, too.  I found the perfect place on Craigslist. My dog, Otis, and I went to check it out. We fell in love with a 100-year-old farmhouse on an acre in the middle of cattle ranches.  After a year in a one bedroom apartment, we were both ready for the peace and quiet of the country.  I sat with a friend listing the pros and cons of my prospective residence.  The list of pros was long:  trees, cows, a whole acre, neighbors all a few acres away, peace and quiet.  The only drawback was that it’s an hour away from Austin.  But how could I not choose to live in such a heavenly place?

It truly is heavenly.  And you’d think with only havin’ one item on the “Cons” list, I couldn’t go wrong.  And for almost a year, it’s been just right.  After teaching school all day, I enjoy the solitude, havin’ no neighbors around, walkin’ the caliche road without leashin’ my dawg, and swimmin’ in the well-fed stock pond.  And I know many of you have enjoyed my farm-life photos.  But let’s face it, an hour is a long drive to make if you wanna just go hang out in Austin, cuz ya gotta drive another hour just to get home.  Pretty tough to do on a weeknight and not be dragged out the next day.  And with gas prices continuing to climb, it not only eats up my time, it also takes a toll on the wallet.  

Troubles and worries start slippin’ away the moment I turn down the highway heading home every day.  It’s about the only therapy I can afford, since I spend about an hour in “the chair.”  I figure gas costs about the same as an hour of therapy.  It’s better, though, cuz there’s no talking and there're trees.  Seems like every time I head down that ol‘ caliche road, I breathe a sigh of relief.  Then I start chokin‘ on the dust from the road that fills up my entire car, every cranny and crevice.  Even my CD player has fallen victim to the dirt; it’s so clogged up it won’t play.

A nearby grocery store would be nice, too.  Next year I’ll be teaching in the country, and there are no good grocery stores out here.  I drive by one every work day and hafta make myself stop.  You may have heard me mention I don’t like to shop. The Trailerpark Bodhisattva recently commented on my empty cupboards in a recent limerick, even.  The combination of my distaste for it plus the complete inconvenience of goin’ to the store may well lead me to starvation.  
I suppose the biggest kicker is the limits it places on my social life.  True, I moved out here for a rest from the hustle and bustle, bein’ on the go all the time, but I may be ready for a little more spontaneity. Any social interactions I have take a lot of planning, packin’ an overnight bag for me and my dawg, and a bit of travel time. Not only would I like to be able to see more of my peeps in Austin, I’d like to be able to go to church more often and participate in the activities offered throughout the week, actually go out and meet new people, make new friends.

Still, the city does not appeal to me much.  And though I’m keepin’ an eye out for a place closer to town, it’s gonna hafta be another slice of heaven.  You don’t recover from the Bucolic Plague overnight.

[Editor's note: Karrie Sue, aka Principessa di Rosanky, is throwin' a party at her digs. Y'all are welcome to read more about it at "Sweet Summer Solstice In Swanky Rosanky"...]

ADHD Weekly Med(itation)s: 5-15-11 (Our Opening Farewell)

This day-long existence without phone or Internet (or food purchased with a debit card, or ATM to get cash to buy said food) has actually been quite refreshing for me. If I'd had my face in the computer as usual, I would've missed this fascinating bit of backyard bug life. 

 

Plus I shaved my legs. Think I should tell the folks around here that the Universe lined up this Unplugged Vacation for me?

The only other kid here who's my son's age is versed in the old fashioned notion of Visiting. Every now and then, he wanders to my house, just to chat and usually to help do something like unload my groceries or sweep my porch. I hope my boy has picked up some of that archaic behavior.

Burb Dawg had something to add this week: "See that dead skunk. That's mine. Aaaand... that deer? Mine. And what's that?? :::psssst::: It's mine, too."

I hope her visits here helped make the last weeks of Neighbor Dawg's life enjoyable. I know she really liked hearing me say "You're a good dog," in a high-pitched Mommy Voice. Sometimes that's all it takes in this world. A little praise from a mom.