The leaves are starting to turn yellow. They call this “fall,” but don’t be fooled: here it has a half-life of about a week, and then your radiator freezes!
For all its beauty, I dread another winter in this neighborhood. Eight to nine more months of building fires (yes, that long), mud and snow that lock us in the house… Moving once the ice sets in is nearly impossible, too. No carrying heavy boxes to the car, no way for trucks to back into the driveway. And after the first snow, the doormat will be lost till spring. Not a Taos whine, you understand—it’s really just the way this address works for half the year. If we were looking out through insulated glass, had a little solar gain, and didn’t have to fight the neighbors for a dry spot to park the car, I wouldn’t have anything to write about except the broken septic system, the goddamn dogs, and whatever nearby lunatic has a lifetime supply of firecrackers. At least we’ve never had a break-in (knock on wood), and I see stars at night to die for.
In my mind, 2010 was going to be our last year here, but this became The Summer My Sister Died. Not her fault, God knows, but everything got put on hold, especially looking for another house. She liked this place, so something else might be in play: if anyone would mess with my head from the other side, it’s her!—and if she did, I’d better listen. But what’s the Universe trying to say?
I figured out some time ago that years of bitching about housing (and the weather) say more about my psyche than physical circumstances, right or wrong, astrology, or what’s left of our zombie economy. After all, we have a roof over our heads and plenty to eat, at a time when thousands of Americans sleep in their cars at night and suck on candy bars. Meanwhile, something like half the people in the world have never used a toilet or a telephone. This does tend to concentrate the mind.
So it’s not the house, or Taos, or the cold. [See this 2006 post for contrast!] It’s only me, apparently in need of something else to use to flagellate myself. (This is understood, completely and with bells on. It’s just the grooves. You know, the grooves?) I’ve always had a hard time with houses, anyway—does this have anything with moving over 40 times before graduating from high school?!? If I were back in Maryland, I’d be complaining just the same about how hard it is to find the perfect spot…
I wear it like a blanket, wet and black with mildew. Bah! It stinks, and I have had enough. NAKED I GO THEN INTO THE WINTER BLAST!
(Freeze me, beat me, hang me from a lamppost, we will overcome.)
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{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
I know it wasn’t intended this way, but that made me smile
What do you mean? Of COURSE it was intended to make you smile! This is my farewell house rant (I hope). Now that I know *I’m* the problem, something’s going to shift!
I know what Carmel means. These grumbles are part of your shtick, frere John. If you ever got shut of all that trouble and travail, you wouldn’t hardly be yourself anymore. I look forward to many more rants (or let’s call them poetic descriptions) of the mud, cold, animal depredations and septic insufficiency out your way. You know you wouldn’t be at all happy with central heating and indoor parking. You may have your challenges, but you live free!
Oh, you’re absolutely right. There’s nothing I hate more than the chill of a centrally heated house: no place to feel real heat! And ranting is my schtick, to some extent.
But the housing thing is serious. Without a real “nest,” this Taos adventure could yet come to an ignominious end. Perhaps we’re not finding what we really want because we aren’t meant to be here, for example. Or maybe it’s because of my neurotic nitpicking and refusal to compromise, in which case I’m very lucky to still be married. What I’d like is to eliminate my own psychodrama as the cause, you see. Then at least we’d get to see what’s what.
I take your point. Didn’t mean to minimize your observation as to the underlying causes at work in your situation. We all need a nest. Real heat is good, but a release from self also helps. Good luck on all fronts, but, whatever comes, keep writing!
Gotta have a better nest. Year of looking at the rough edges, dirt, decay, etc. produce a self-reinforcing negative spiral. This place is a perfect bachelor pad in many ways, but even I could use a break from psycho neighbors and the mud. My wife is tough and one helluva trooper, as the saying goes, but I see the worry lines. She deserves lots better. If I had the nerve to post close-up photos of what’s inside the bathroom walls—those built of rough boards hung over uninsulated cinder blocks—my readers would try to set the cops on me.
One way or the other, this trip’s gotta end. I expect a positive resolution, though. I been herding them duckies.