My Cape Cod of the West

My sister-in-law says it is 8 degrees in Massachusetts this morning, with a wind chill of minus 11.

Today I am happy to be in Arizona!

A day of one’s own
(earlier this year)

Ready to hit the road [almost]

Finished multi-tasking (huh?)
Laundry
Checked email
Made pb and j sandwich
Grabbed other necessities for road trip (water, coffee, music, hat, sunglasses, etc., enough to fill a “this is not a plastic bottle” bag)

For thirty five years, she has been my best travel companion. Usually reliable, always beautiful, sometimes needy or tempermental . . . my 64 ½ dark blue Mustang convertible.
And we hit the road.

Gentle giants
They pass, I wink
They flash
On this upgrade, as they struggle,
I pass.

Orme/Dugas. Finally.
On my way to Jerome, my Cape Cod of the West. But why go directly when you can detour? I’d heard stories about this exit, and having the time and inclination to do so, did so. Explore, that is.

Off to the east lay Dugas. I drove 10 miles on mostly pavement. Beautiful vistas. A couple mailboxes. No traffic. After three miles of dirt road and still no traffic, I decided to head back under the viaduct to Dugas. There was supposed to be a private school there, but I never saw it. What I did see were trucks; must have been 20 big rigs. I won’t call them gentle giants here, because they roared along on this narrow road. Where to? Saw a sign for some kind of garden produce, but it didn’t look likely. Never did see the school. Hmm, this must be a case for Scully and Mulder (perhaps they’ll come out of retirement for it?)

In the neighborhood

In the neighborhood

Eighty-plus and going strong
On Tuesdays he manicures his yard
Cutting and trimming and edging

His veggies thrive
and we are among the first
to savor the sweetness

When it rains
He pulls his car out in the street for a good soak
Then chamoises it spotless in the garage

For 25 years, he has been
The champion of the neighborhood
Treating us all with goodies and kind words

I am sad to report that he is slowing down . . .

In my files, I looked for "New Year's of the Past" and instead found New York and New Orleans, and this:

One’s “stuff”

Care to analyze a collector of stuff?
A little bit of this, a little bit of that,
from friends and acquaintances,
Or found on the street
Or in a field
Or a valuable heirloom passed on by a relative?

Walls covered with photographs of the here and now
And some of the then
Favorite pieces of art
Some attached to a price tag
Most not
That need to be seen
On display
Readily visible to the roving eye

The stuff is mine
But folks come searching for their piece
Something given or remembered
Almost like an antique shop
With oohs and aahs

I can’t have this clutter
They say
But still
I believe
It warms their hearts
To know where to find

A place of their
thens

today is the first day . . .

i’m gonna run away and join the circus. oh wait, I don’t much like porta-potties or snaggle-toothed old men. and the young women? without dreams or even the chance of a dream? they make me sad.

so where can one run to anyway?