It’s fun being new enough to an area that you can afford yourself the guilty pleasure of exploring your own city, and yet your updated car tag entitles you to complain about all those damn tourists. Not that were are really the touristy types…

Learning the area constitutes more than locating fresh vegetables, finding suitable mexican food, and adopting a new watering hole. Following hiking paths, finding river access, and exploring the less than obvious experiences that go unadvertised on towering billboards.

This week brought seven inches of rain in two days. Nature reminds me how inconsequential I am. It’s hard to believe the following photos were snapped at the same creek. From swimming hole to white water rapids. It’s a radical change of momentum for a single canvas. Who knew Mother Nature was a manic depressive?

This is a secondary submission for Poetry Friday as sponsored by the lovely Mona. It doesn’t belong at the cat’s place, so I will store the memory here. The word for Poetry Friday is cut.

After the eight grade, the private school I attended closed. My parents enrolled me in public high school rather than than bus me with my classmates. Transferring from a class of seventeen to a class of two hundred and fifty was sobering. I didn’t fear the diversity, the larger classes or the mysteries of the cafeteria but I resented the Hell out of being torn from my safety zone. At fourteen, the sun practically rises and sets drawn by the force of adolescent ego.

I knew a few kids at the new school, but with varying class schedules and hormonal crashes, I flopped around like a fish out of water trying desperately to find a place to belong. Throughout my tenure, I tried to blend in with various groups ranging from outcasts, to nerds, to cool kids, and foreign exchange students. I was never a good blend with any, but managed to be non-threatening enough to be tolerated by most groups.

As a quiet freshman who doodled constantly in the margins of notebooks, I was quickly recruited to decorate for various dances. I painted backdrops for at least five dances I didn’t attend. It was through one of those after school drawing, painting soda sucking afternoons I met Gwen.

I was drawn to her in one of those adolescent girl crush, you’re older and you have more insight into the high school pecking order, please guide me and rescue me from my own naivety, sort of ways. She was two years older, but she was in my homeroom, so I suspect academics weren’t a priority for her. She was friendly, and what I perceived to be cool, in an off the radar way.

We were painting murals or some such activity and she realized I noticed the horizontal scars intersecting her right and left wrist. She made some flip comment about it, and I was too polite to inquire further. Until that moment, I never considered the purpose which motivated an act of self-destruction. I supposed at the time, that she must have had a reason yet I was too squeamish to consider what it might be. I never thought any different of her because of it. I was intelligent enough to realize my life experience was too limited to grasp the why, but I was relieved she hadn’t been successful. Now, I regret my reasons were largely selfish. The truth is I couldn’t imagine navigating the hallowed halls of education without Gwen’s guidance that first year.

Gwen earned enough credit to move to a junior homeroom the following year, and I didn’t see her as often. By mid-term, she was suspended for bringing alcohol on the bus. A few days into her suspension, she withdrew from school. I never saw her again. I heard a rumor my senior year that she was pregnant, but I never heard confirmation.

Occasionally I wonder where her path led. I was acquainted with her, but I can’t claim to know her or her problems any better than she knew me or mine. At times when I close my eyes, I see her hands, beautiful, delicate, but no less troubled.

I was set to post about the negotiations the Mister and I have been engaged in about an upcoming wedding. When I turned on the news channel to keep me company through my first cup of coffee and saw the tributes to fallen vets, it seemed inconsequential…at least until tomorrow.

It bothers me that we are still occupying a foreign country five years later, and it really disturbs me that our nation’s presence might have conceivably created more problems than it solved, depending upon which media outlet you choose as your source. I freely admit, I’m not very knowledgeable about the politics of war, but I am observant of the wastefulness of government.

I resent implications by our current executive branch that a citizen who does not support the war should have his or her patriotism called into question. Sure, I feign anarchist leanings, I think democracy sucks, but I recognize it’s the best system we have. I appreciate and have always supported the men and woman in uniform who defend my right to descent. For some it might seem somewhat paradoxical, but I don’t feel the least bit conflicted. I don’t hold those serving this country responsible for poor decisions made by those leading it.

When I walk through the airport, I am often awestruck by the number of troops I see dashing between the concourses, backpacks and laptops in tow. I see them hanging out with their teammates, calling their spouses, and reading magazines. They exhibit extraordinary discipline and ordinary ease. I have not yet been able to bring myself to speak to any directly and thank them personally. When I see others address them, many shift uncomfortably. Feeling awkward about the attention, in the same way I feel awkward about the hero worship.

Though the words always escape in the moment, my gratitude lives on. Thanks to those who believe in things I do not, thanks to those who have given up more than I can imagine, your sacrifices do not pass unnoticed or unappreciated.

My dad during the Korean conflict. A pragmatic man, he enlisted in the Air Force because he didn’t want to be drafted into the Army. He served one tour as an electrician keeping the runway lights functional. He was fortunate to return home. Years later, he couldn’t wire a light switch worth a damn. Use it or lose it.

Part One is here, and Part Two is here.

I didn’t think much of the unscheduled stop, I felt like the agent was grasping at straws trying to keep us engaged. He had already shown us eight properties that fell under the, “What in the Hell were you thinking, dude?” category.

He didn’t have the listing information with him on this particular house and he managed to lowball the owner’s asking price which was still more than we planned on investing.

The home looked rather inconspicuous from the street. It was on a slopped double lot, and looked to be on the smallish side. It was deceptive in its quaintness. We were surprised to discover the house had cathedral ceilings with skylights in some rooms. The living areas were spacious, the floor plan flowed, most of the living space was on a single level,the master bath had been remodeled, and there was a sun room which I immediately declared as studio space…

The Mister and the agent were both surprised I had a new first choice. My new favorite gradually became the Mister’s favorite. Our favorite turned out to be a real problem… the misestimated asking price, was already beyond our budget. The Mister asked what I thought, and I told him I thought our agent was an asshole. Not intentionally, just thoughtlessly. The house was a unique property for the area, and had not attracted much interest. For the Mister and me it would be a good fit.

Refusing to jeopardize our financial stability,we made an insulting offer on our new favorite. We knew our limit, and agreed to walk away when necessary. We had three prospective properties and were willing to pursue the others. After our initial offer, I turned my attention to our second and third choices. The first choice seemed out of reach and I didn’t want to spend too much time dwelling on it.

After several days of negotiations, offers and counter offers, we were shocked when they accepted our last counter offer. Neither the Mister, the realtor, nor myself considered the prospect of a successful negotiation. We were playing the game on the off chance something would happen, not anticipating that it might.

We close on the property next month. Our house is officially on the market, Friday. We will move next month, even if our current hasn’t sold yet. I think this is really going to happen this time.

An Aside: I really intended to make this a two parter, but my FIL was having trouble with his remaining eye. The staff at the care facility thought he might have cancer in his good eye, because his vision has been so poor recently. We (Mister Hombre & me) didn’t think it was cancer, (and we have SOOOOO many medical credentials in this house), but we wanted word from a board certified physician, instead of Web MD. I wanted to be reasonably certain our plans were firm before making any announcements, hence the nail biter as I waited for the eye exam results

Thanks for sticking with me!