All my life, I have wished for my own home.
One that I would be able to plant flowers around and still be there to watch them bloom. A house that no-one would tell me what colors I could or could not paint.A house where I was my landlord, and I could tell me what to do and that would be a-okay.
During the first eleven years of single motherhood, my sons and I moved approximately twenty two times. Moving/vacation. I would pack the car with every necessary object that would fit, a few toys, clothes, blankets etc. Never furniture, we always left the salvaged stuff behind. The three person tent would go too and the mini coffee maker. These moves were our camping trips, our vacations.
Hey, let's go to visit Uncle B.- across the country, I'd say.
Taking everything we could fit, camping out under the stars, going to movie theaters in cities we don't know the names of, never seeing our school friends in the theater, strangers on our own stage.
Collecting rocks that look like potatoes in this state, petrified wood from that one. Swimming, soccer balls, soaking in hot springs, seeing buffalo and thinking they were boulders, until we yelled at them, and they began to move toward us, bad idea.
Seashell and rock collection on the 78 Jeep Wagoneer dashboard, purple and blue colored curtains in the back and gun racks with two enormous Super-Soaker 2oo, water guns affixed to them.
What a trip, moving/vacations.
Where have these past two weeks gone?
First semester off in over two years, summers included;
Playing like a school kid on summer vacation; pool party, river trips, reading novels on the hammock, live music under the tent at the crawdad boil, spicy.
and in the evening