Right of Way

If I were the boss of the world I would (among other things) require an annual mandatory refresher course on the proper way to conduct oneself at a four-way stop. Does nobody know what RIGHT OF WAY means? And I would make quarterly written exams mandatory for blatant repeat offenders. Yes, that means you, oh older, more mature, definitely wiser, bejewelled-fingered, cell phone talking, working professional urbanite in the Infinity SUV, looking perplexed and waving me on so helpfully when IT ISN'T MY GO!

And yes, if you happen to read lips, you heard me right.

You-Haul

Things I had forgotten about moving:

• Stuff multiplies - give or throw away 10 things, start feeling good about the progress you've made, then turn around and discover that, while your back was turned, the 3 shoe boxes of old photos from summer camp and science fair have reproduced the following illegitimate offspring: a pile of scrapbooks, a handful of elementary school track and field medals, and a stack of mysteriously unlabeled three-and-half-inch-floppy-disks.
• Once the boxes are packed and out of the house, you are only about 60% through the moving out process.
• You can never have enough newspaper on hand.
• What appears to be a stack of way too many boxes will, strangely, turn out to be far too few for the job.
• There is no good, safe, place to store a 3'x3' framed piece of of artwork for 3 months.
• Grandma B's china has been through this many times before, and it will probably survive one more move without requiring air-ride transport, a dedicated security detail, and a private storage vault.
• A person who pursues the greener grass on the other side of the fence with such frequency has no right whine about how difficult it might be to get to the other side of said fence.

Something new I've learned with this move:

• A girl who marries a boy who has a penchant for hanging pictures with excessive amounts of super-adherent-double-sided-tape should make sure that that same boy is around when it is time to remove those pictures.
• Sunny Sweeney provides motivational background music for efficient packing.

Abcdef...uh...

I have recently made the alarming discovery that I do not truly know my alaphabet. Oh sure, I can sing the song (even in french) but when it comes to indepentdently knowing that "I" comes after "H" or that "W" comes after "V" there is a hitch in my mental recall. This realization was eased upon me when I noticed that I am constantly muttering portions of the alphabet whenever I have to file something alphabetically. It seems that my memory can only recall this information in sing-songy snippets of the alphabet song.

This is a startling realization for me after a good 28 years of feeling that I really am pretty damn intelligent. Silly me.

2 Acres, an Appaloosa, and a GMC

It's becoming a reality! The conversation about moving out of town began over a year ago. We started working on the land deal in October. We waited on pins and needles through the county planning and zoning commission meeting, listening to the examiner hem and haw about "development" being "premature for the area" etc., etc., and finally received his reluctant blessing to turn our 2 acrea of dry ground and weeds into our dream. Is it pathetic for a girl to shed tears of relief and happiness over a planning and zoning meeting? I did. I cried. Then we went out for pie.

Now we jump through the hoops held up by builder, lender, fire district, utility company, and other permit grantors. We pick flooring, colors, fixtures, fight about how our little house will face on the lot, and worry about how many extra thousands of dollars will be required to run in the power. We put our little house in the subdivision up for sale, and hope that it sells before we start paying our new mortgage payment. We dream about trips to the mountains to cut fence rails, we talk about where we should plant trees, how we will use our land, if we will have a goat (I say yes, he says no). It is exciting, and scary, and seems too grown up to be something that we should be allowed to do. We don't know how to build a house!

Cutesy, maybe, but our new address will be Oasis Road. Here is the before:

View of our property from the north

Our Russian Olive trees from the east

Another view, past Roman, from the adjoining pasture

Goodbye to our little First House

Hopefully I will be posting the "after" pictures in a few months. Now if the interest rates could just hold steady...or even drop!

A Literary Crush

I tend to develop crushes on authors. It started with Mildred Walker, thanks to my mother's battered copy of Winter Wheat, and hasn't stopped yet. When a book is so enjoyable that it breaks my heart to reach the last page, then it makes sense that more from the same author might offer some relief. This was true of Walker, and, now that I have exhausted the library's offerings from Mildred Walker, I've had to move on.

So, how to choose the object of my next crush? That was a tough one. Thanks to Barnes & Noble classics and a $5 price tag, I picked up a copy of Willa Cather's My Antonia. Bingo. That was exactly what I have been looking for - another author who can write passionately about endless prairies and howling winters, whose characters are both regular and extraordinary, and whose ability to paint a picture of relationships without overt descriptions brings her stories to life. I gobbled it up and have now moved on to Death Comes for the Archbishop.

But what next? There are a number of Willa Cather's books on the shelves of my local library, but I will read slowly and savor them, because who knows when I will stumble upon another author whose stories make me feel so lonely and complete at the same time.

Now be warned, book-ies, this isn't edgy, self-important, summer-truffle-stuffed-breast-of-guinea-hen writing, it is meat-and-potatoes-and-homemade-apple-cider writing. It will either satisfy or bore you in the manner of home-cooked comfort food.

This, of course, is my humble opinion.