Here we are.
Well, here we are.
It was a move. I won't go into the gory details, but you know how it is. You pack, you ready yourself to move, and then you try to move and you move and you move and you move and the shit, it just won't fit! Where did you get all this shit? You thought you just went through all this the last time you moved. You thought you got rid of all the crap, but no- it bred, deep in the recesses of your closet where you left it after the next move, saying, "Oh, by the next time I'm ready to move, I'll have time to go through this and get rid of all this shit," and you never do, and then, when you are ready to move, you find out that not only is all that shit still there, but it bred with some of your partner's shit and they had little baby shit and since it's been a while since you moved, that shit has matured to puberty and had children of its own, and now you can't kick out this whole little family of shit, even if it is just crap, shit, garbage, because, well, it's sentimental and it's family, and maybe you might need that shit someday...sigh. SO- you break your back and you move all the shit and have to rent an extra storage bin, but that's okay- because by the next time you are ready to move, you will have time to go through all this shit and get rid of it. Right?
But we, and all our shit, are here. Well, most of our shit is at a storage bin 40 miles away (conveniently residing in the same town as the Super Walmart), but the pertinent shit is here and we are here and that is all that matters.
It has been rainy and cloudy today, so no stars. I took Sadie Girl, our fearless guard Lab (ha- she barks and barks at 'intruders' and then, when the intruder is inside, she attacks and licks him or her to death), out for a short walk during a respite in the deluge today and discovered all these forgotten memories in the space of a quarter mile.
Hey, there's the Joyner house- empty now, since my friends' father is in the rest home. We used to play tag in that yard, and that's where I bit a piece out of my pal Sonny's hand and caused his mother to call my great-grandma in consternation. I smiled at the memory- I scarred a future Episcopal priest. Surely I am going to hell. But hey, I told him to let me loose or I would bite him, so that's fair warning. All's fair in love and sixth grade tag. I'm sure he forgives me now, being a man of the cloth.
And that's David Lloyd's house, still pretty after all this time, green metal roof and wrap around porch that I covet. Oh, to have a wrap around porch.
And there's the field across the street where they still plant something- used to be corn , but it's not high enough to be corn now- maybe they're planting soybeans? Wish I knew enough about plants to go and check. But I will check later on this summer to see if I can see the lights that used to bounce around the field at twilight...sure, it's just St Elmo's Fire...that's what those learned people will tell you anyway. We'll tell you that we're not so sure.
We. It doesn't take long being down here to become we again, and not they, those learned people. The soil does something to you, and when you're back in touch with it, it's hard to deny its pull, its spell, its magic. I have a hard time keeping my shoes on, and when they come off, well, it'll all be over then. I'm afraid I'll root myself and never be able to leave again...
At least, until the next time I need to get to the Super Walmart, only 40 miles away.
It was a move. I won't go into the gory details, but you know how it is. You pack, you ready yourself to move, and then you try to move and you move and you move and you move and the shit, it just won't fit! Where did you get all this shit? You thought you just went through all this the last time you moved. You thought you got rid of all the crap, but no- it bred, deep in the recesses of your closet where you left it after the next move, saying, "Oh, by the next time I'm ready to move, I'll have time to go through this and get rid of all this shit," and you never do, and then, when you are ready to move, you find out that not only is all that shit still there, but it bred with some of your partner's shit and they had little baby shit and since it's been a while since you moved, that shit has matured to puberty and had children of its own, and now you can't kick out this whole little family of shit, even if it is just crap, shit, garbage, because, well, it's sentimental and it's family, and maybe you might need that shit someday...sigh. SO- you break your back and you move all the shit and have to rent an extra storage bin, but that's okay- because by the next time you are ready to move, you will have time to go through all this shit and get rid of it. Right?
But we, and all our shit, are here. Well, most of our shit is at a storage bin 40 miles away (conveniently residing in the same town as the Super Walmart), but the pertinent shit is here and we are here and that is all that matters.
It has been rainy and cloudy today, so no stars. I took Sadie Girl, our fearless guard Lab (ha- she barks and barks at 'intruders' and then, when the intruder is inside, she attacks and licks him or her to death), out for a short walk during a respite in the deluge today and discovered all these forgotten memories in the space of a quarter mile.
Hey, there's the Joyner house- empty now, since my friends' father is in the rest home. We used to play tag in that yard, and that's where I bit a piece out of my pal Sonny's hand and caused his mother to call my great-grandma in consternation. I smiled at the memory- I scarred a future Episcopal priest. Surely I am going to hell. But hey, I told him to let me loose or I would bite him, so that's fair warning. All's fair in love and sixth grade tag. I'm sure he forgives me now, being a man of the cloth.
And that's David Lloyd's house, still pretty after all this time, green metal roof and wrap around porch that I covet. Oh, to have a wrap around porch.
And there's the field across the street where they still plant something- used to be corn , but it's not high enough to be corn now- maybe they're planting soybeans? Wish I knew enough about plants to go and check. But I will check later on this summer to see if I can see the lights that used to bounce around the field at twilight...sure, it's just St Elmo's Fire...that's what those learned people will tell you anyway. We'll tell you that we're not so sure.
We. It doesn't take long being down here to become we again, and not they, those learned people. The soil does something to you, and when you're back in touch with it, it's hard to deny its pull, its spell, its magic. I have a hard time keeping my shoes on, and when they come off, well, it'll all be over then. I'm afraid I'll root myself and never be able to leave again...
At least, until the next time I need to get to the Super Walmart, only 40 miles away.
posted by gabrielle at 9:15 PM
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