Category Archives: MUSINGS

BACK IN THE SADDLE

My virtual-world friends David and Veronica, over at GypsyNesters, were featured on Huffington Post lifestyle page today.  I’m thrilled at their success, both in their chosen lifestyle and their growing notoriety.  I’m a firm believer in what they have to say about life after raising children being the next chapter, and not the end of the book.
On a personal level I’m happy because this latest milestone of theirs has prompted me to post on this blog, which, you might note, has not been a frequent habit of mine lately.
I’ve been following the GypstyNesters since about half-way through their first year of travels.  They are living the life I was supposed to; the life I’d been diligently preparing for much as the Nesters did, by eliminating debt, raising kids to be personally responsible, living simply, and paring down.
The details of how my wanderlust life would play out were a bit different than theirs.  My hubby was an over-the-road truck driver.  My plan was to quit my day job the minute the youngest graduated and hit the road as partner to a long haul trucker.  He already knew what living on the road entailed, and I’d gone with him for enough two-week stretches to have a good idea.
With an average of 310 days a year spent on the road, there wouldn’t be much sense in keeping a home with all its associated taxes and upkeep.  No mortgage, no taxes, no maintenance and no money spent on all of those things we fill our home with, not to mention the pastimes we pursue to “get out of the house” (think about that), AND a steady paycheck still coming in, equals saving for a damn comfortable retirement 10 years down the road.
Aside from that, I’ve been stifling the gypsy in my soul for most of my life.  While most teenagers faced with the prospect of having to move away from their high school and friends stamp their feet in whining protest, I needled my parents to pick up stakes and make the move they were holding off on until I’d graduated.
I’ve dreamed of running away with a traveling circus so often that sometimes I start to believe I did.
But fate had another plan for my empty nest years, and that’s why I belong to the portion of the GypsNesters’ audience who are living vicariously through their writing.  Hubby’s health took him off the road and the demands of long hours driving a motor home and setting up camp regularly aren’t advisable.
This leaves us with only one solution; that I must learn how to drive the truck and travel trailer we now own, or the motor home it could be traded for.
I once owned an F150 pickup. It wasn’t pretty – the situation, not the truck.  The truck itself was really quite pretty, all dressed up and everywhere to go, as I like to say – meaning fully loaded and four-wheel drive. 
The unpretty part was my inability to drive the behemoth that dwarfed me behind the wheel, without running over or backing over everything in my path.  You must understand that this comes from a woman who once backed her own Ranger pickup into the family full-size van in her own driveway.
Yes, yes.  I’ve heard all the lectures about inattentive driving and I’m not denying that I deserve them.  The point is, I am who I am and it’s probably not a wise thing to put me behind the wheel of any vehicle that’s too much larger than my beloved VW Bug.  And especially not when the co-passenger (my hubby) has a bad ticker.
Thus, my ineptness behind the wheel, along with my fears for the toll long hours of driving would take on my hubby have all but cut the wings of these empty nest birds.
So, why has reading about my friends’ continued adventures on the road got my juices going?  In the words of my beloved, departed mother – it would seem I’ve gotten “a wild hair up my ass again.”
I’ve started looking at Scamp trailers. They look like little marshmallows being towed along behind vehicles of all make and size, but can you imagine how gosh darned cute one would be rolling along behind a VW Bug?  (Don’t talk to me about engine size and towing capacity – where there is a will there is a way).  Talk about a Mickey Mouse rig – I’m sure I’d have no trouble at all maneuvering through any kind of traffic or terrain.
Back when David and Veronica were casting the net for their road warrior conveyance, one of their requirements was that it had to provide enough head room for David.  If you knew my hubby, you’d know that a little Scamp comes up lacking in both the height and girth dimensions.
This isn’t to say the ol’ boy is fat. At 6’2 and hailing from hearty European stock, my husband is a big, big man. Oddly, the Bug is quite roomy enough for him, but a Scamp’s table/bed leaves much to be desired in the stretching out department. The poor man would have to assume the fetal position to sleep.
My plan is to buy an old, worn-out model, gut it out and use it as a cargo trailer to haul our necessities, including one of those blow-up “guest” beds. Wherever we park, we can pop up the screen tent for our “outdoor” room, set up the grill, and put out the lawn chairs.  Coolers will serve double duty – when empty and dry, they will be cargo bins. Once set up, a quick trip to the nearest store and they’ll be filled with ice, food and beverages.
During the day, the empty scamp will be a roomy, walk-in dressing room.  At night, we’ll inflate the bed and have wall to wall sleeping space.  In the event of inclement weather, we can set the lawn chairs and a small table inside for the day.
If I have to say so myself, (and apparently I do, ‘cause hubby isn’t buying it) I think it’s an ingenious plan. So if you are out traveling the by ways of America keep your eyes open.  You might just see us and our Mini-Mouse-House scampering along. Don’t forget to wave!

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I CONFESS – I HAVE HAD A SECRET LOVE

It’s eight-thirty on a morning that is approaching the pseudo-summer days of fall and I’m enjoying a gourmet coffee and cranberry-walnut muffin. A welcome breeze is rustling the leaves of a maple tree that wraps its arms around the corner windows where I sit nestled into a quilt covered futon. I could almost reach out to pluck one of those leaves from a branch tip, yet the limbs are not scraping against the siding. They are at such a perfect distance it seems they have been carefully groomed to create this tree-house like sanctuary.

From the street below comes the sound of occasional traffic. Voices of passers-by float through the window screens on the breeze. I have read the news, caught up on correspondence and will soon be coiffed and off to a few boutiques I’ve been dying to explore. The city is peppered with such shops in neighborhoods of venerable brick storefronts; small enclaves rich with character that has not been assassinated by the blight of malls.

I have dreamed of living exactly like this, in a second floor walk-up with a porch overlooking the street below. I have dreamed of morning coffee with pastries, of lunches in a storybook bistro where I would be a fixture – the author working on her next novel.

Having grown up in a very small town, and spending all of my adult life living in a rural community where everything of convenience is at least thirty miles away, the wonder of what city life would be has been a constant companion whispering in my ear. But mine was a life of keeping a home, raising children and tending vegetable gardens – envied by my city sisters.

I’m certain this secret longing I’ve had to experience the life of a carefree woman in the city has been just that, a secret. I didn’t talk about it, I didn’t write about it. It wasn’t a life goal on my list. It was an undisclosed love and yet, somehow, my daughter has turned it into such accurate reality it’s as if she knew my secret all along.

I is she who brings me to this place that I have dreamed of. It is a magical place suspended in time for me – sitting here, I feel like a young ingénue with the world awaiting. Yet, as enamored as I am of this place, I caution myself. I must not usurp my daughter’s territory. I WILL not be one of those mothers living vicariously through her progeny.

I have a hunch she doesn’t quite see the romance in all of this that I do. Like any relationship, the lure of the city grows faint with time. Battling her way to and from work on traffic clogged thoroughfares cools love’s flame. As time wears on, the warts of the city can make the once handsome suitor begin to look a lot like a frog.

I know that one day she will look back on this time with the fond memories one holds for a love than cannot be recaptured. I am hopeful that until then, she can appreciate this moment in her life for what it is; her awakening into self. And I thank her, for sharing this time with me.

As for me, I plan to visit now and then to remind her what a “catch” her life is; just not so often as to make her bar the doors. After all, this little perch in the corner of the second floor porch, overlooking the not too busy street below, is her home, not mine. I’ll have to remain content with being a secret admirer.

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LET THE SUN SHINE IN

The weather this summer has been less than ideal; far less than ideal.  If it’s not raining for days and nights on end, it’s likely that the heat and humidity index is sufficient that I have crossed ironing my summer cotton wardrobe off my list.  I just put a shirt or shorts on all wrinkled and disheveled and after two minutes outdoors, they’re as smooth as permanent press.
It’s bad enough that my summer days have been limited ever since my birth in the land of the north.  Close to the Canadian border, I am lucky to count on June, July and August for temperatures high enough to pack away the Cuddl Duds and expose my sickly white flesh to those essential Vitamin D boosting rays of the sun.
I’ve gone through more than half of all the summers I’m ever going to get. The older I get, the more precious the salad days of sunshine and balmy breezes become to me.  Every single one that I am cheated out of fills me with resentment and an urge to shake my fist and rail at the gods of weather.
So far this summer I have been either cold and wet, or wet and sticky and I can’t get that darn quack, quack, waddle, waddle song out of my head. “We are nippersinkers, we’re in luck, if it rains all week just pretend you’re a duck.”
In fact, I’m so desperate that if I thought doing a sun dance at high noon in the village square, naked except for my rubber rain boots, would guarantee the next thirty days of summer unfold in the low 80s’ with a balmy western breeze (make that the last 30 days – one and the same around here),  I’d be shakin’ my tush off. 
Do the butt dance . . .
(_|_)   (_\_)   (_|_)   (_/_)   (_|_)   (_\_)
 . . . doo, doo, doo, doo . . .
Not sure that would have much affect on the weather, but it would certainly give new meaning to the name MAD Goddess around here.
I’ve got places to go, people to see and things to do that don’t accommodate rain dates.  I’ve been in my swimming pool twice this year – and one of those times was to bail the water down after a deluge so my air mattress wouldn’t float over the edge with the over flow.
The only thing this weather is good for is growing mushrooms and mold.  Come to think of it, this jungle climate has me feeling a lot like a moldy mushroom and at this age I could go bad real fast.
Maybe I could just install fluorescent lighting fixtures in my “sun” room, fit them out with tanning bulbs, turn the fan on, haul the deck furniture inside, mix up a pitcher of umbrella drinks and call the girls over for for a little age-preservation therapy.
. . . . . . mid
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