Back in the Land of the Cold

The title says it all. 

My nomadic year has finally closed, as yet to be written about, with me winding up in a place I least expected. In fact, it was only a couple of months ago that I responded to a friend's thought about coming here for my new tourist-in-residence: "No. I've done that. No need to do it again." 

And yet here I am. 

Erg. The winter, though.

 

November 15, 2014. Rayne Frog Festival, Louisiana.

No, not in Rayne. I still have that scarf, though.

Rootless Relocation: My Next Tourist-in-Residency

 

Arrow pointing the way. De Soto State Park, Alabama. March 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

As with my July and August travelin' plans, I had no clue - until a lightning strike on Tuesday evening - about where (or even when!) I'd establish my next tourist-in-residency. 

It was a place that I had never - never! - considered before. I hadn't considered it because it never even floated ashore as a possibility.

And then in a single moment, it zapped me and it felt exactly right, for so many reasons:

1. The city offers massive quantities (and diversity) of cultural activities, especially in music and dance.
2. There is a large university campus (~ 25k undergrads).
3. The university participates in the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI), which I can join (as I did in El Paso).
4. The city's population size is in my sweet spot of a little more than half a million.
5. There is decent diversity of complexion, age, and income. 
6. The city is super close to national and state parks and nature preserves.
7. The airport receives direct flights from many of the locations where my family or friends live - so visits would be both easy and relatively affordable. 

I've been here once. Only for a night to meet up with a student visiting the US from Vietnam. 

Might I change my mind? Well, sure! But today, it feels very, very right.

I'm enthused.

After Longmont, Colorado: Where?

 

 

Lunch al fresco on the Jemez Scenic Road, New Mexico. August 2013. Credit: Mzuriana.

I laughed as I keyed in the title to this post. Oh, the consternation I experienced trying to work out the answer to this question! Where? Where?

I'm leaving Longmont at the end of this month. I know where I'll be in September, October, and November, but in July and August? I did not have a clue.

Oh, I had two big-picture plans, but neither of those big pictures had been nailed to the wall. So I scrounged for nails all day today. 

The two big plans were: 

1. Volunteer for a month for a humanitarian organization.
2. Camp for an entire month - the closest I have come to that is when I moved to Alamogordo, and I stayed at Oliver Lee State Park for ... I forget how long .... until I could find and move into an apartment there.

I put out a feeler to an organization along the border some weeks ago, but received no response. I stalked volunteer.gov in search of national park volunteer gigs that align with my time frames, to no avail, other than campground host, and God knows, I'd quickly become too grumpy for such a role. 

 

So, I:

1. Abandoned my summer volunteer plan, deciding to wait til my next temporary residency* to do something volunteery;
   
2. Broadened my definition of "camping for a month." Sure, it could mean camping in one spot for a month  - or it can mean camping for four consecutive weeks, but in more than one location; and
3. Crawled into numerous deep rabbit holes and many iterations of Google Map itineraries, led by free-range thought fragments.  

 

Some of the rabbit holes:

• Follow some themes to help me nail down route stops, such as bluegrass festivals, zydeco doings, powwows or inter-tribal gatherings? 
• Explore territories I only passed through long ago, en route to Alaska, such as Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, or Utah? 
• Make a first-time visit to Yellowstone Park? 
• Revisit my bucket list of decades ago to see if there are items I can tick?
  

Deep into one of those rabbit holes, I remembered the Do List of state parks, et al, I created when I moved to Alamogordo, New Mexico. My goal was to visit every state park in New Mexico, plus the national lands within its borders. I went back and looked at that list. 

I finally emerged from the underground warrens to the light of day, with a plan. 

 

July: 

Camp for a week plus/minus at each of these three New Mexico state parks that I didn't get to 10 years ago: 

• Bluewater Lake State Park
• Heron Lake State Park
• El Vado Lake State Park

 

August: 

• Attend the 101st Intertribal Ceremonial in Gallup
• Visit a TLG colleague who now lives in Green Valley, Arizona
• Shoot out to Tijuana Valley Campground (and Pacific Ocean, International Park, Tijuana)
  
• Visit a Tucson friend (and reacquaint myself with the weekly jazz at Brother John's)
  
• Toward the end of the month, check out Nogales, both US and MX, or other border towns, as I leave the Southwest
  
• Sweep up to Missouri to reconnect with family/friends and reorganize my stuff for my fall itinerary
  

 

*My next temporary residency. I had no clue about this until this evening, either. Until I started watching a show on Peacock Plus tonight, and it struck me! More later. But I'm thinking January will be the time to go there. I don't know; maybe December.

 

Relocation Rituals: Consuming the Consumables: Oatmeal Reveries

 

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. Oatmeal and honey. April 2016. Credit: Mzuriana.

I've consumed the candles. 

The other day, I consumed the last of the eye-rollingly good toasted sesame oil. Oi! Yes, that's the one. 

As I wrote this, I'd just finished off my family-size cylinder of oatmeal. 

Mmmm, oatmeal. Hearty, warm, cozy. Easy.

As a child, brown sugar was the oatmeal sweetener of choice in our family. I especially liked when I could capture the small clumps of brown sugar for their added burst of sweet granularity. For me, not to be diluted with milk. 

Some other oatmeal memories

2011: Ethiopia: The Mullet Phase 

2011: Ethiopia: Meltdown in Lalibela, Part 1 (Foreshadowing: "This is the room you give to someone who no longer has the will to live!" Not my finest hour, oh my. But the oatmeal was fine.) 

2013: Rootless Relocation: Consuming the Remains (oatmeal struck off the list)

2016: Lake Atitlan, Guatemala: The Oatmeal 'n Honey Moment

Note: About Ethiopia currently: So much pain, death, fear, uncertainty. It doesn't hit most of our news feeds. I can't include my 2011 posts above, which told of a much different lived experience for me, without acknowledging what is happening in Ethiopia now. As an Ethiopian told me even then: "You can leave Ethiopia any time you want. We cannot."

 

Rootless Relocation 2022: Where Next?

 

 

House move, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. December 2011. Credit: Mzuriana.

 Gosh, the year in Mobile, Alabama, is - as is usual in my temporary residences - flying by! 

Only three more months remain for my tenure in Mobile! 

And as is also usual, when I landed in Mobile, I wondered: Is this where I'll settle? It's so pretty! What a lovely location! No cold winters! Interesting people! A complicated place with so much history and inter-cultural textures.

And as is also usual, as time has passed by, I love the place, but I'm not ready to marry it and settle down here.

And as is typical about this time, future adventures begin to call my name.  

I do have a sure thing and a maybe thing for the six months following my Mobile exit: 

The sure thing:  To Chez Katherine in Missouri for three months, and hang with my descendants and friends there.

The maybe thing:  After Missouri, to New Mexico, to hang there with friends for three months, give or take. 

But after that ➡ these are speaking to me for 2023: 

1. Peace Corps (assuming I'd make the cut)
2. Long-term volunteer stint at a national park or national monument (at a gig that provides lodging)
3. Deep East Texas - for two good reasons: It's my legal home base and it's close to Houston, which still calls me for the zydeco community, so I can go there on weekends, and not be too close to Houston's trauma tax. 
4. In a fascinating turn of events, all of a sudden I got a "call" to Kitsap County, which lies between Seattle and Olympia National Park. Whoa, I did not see that coming. Purely by chance, I encountered a new acquaintance from Kitsap County, and I poked over there via Google Maps. It has all of the things that attract me: Not-cold winters, complex history and intercultural demographics, and geographic beauty. Plus it butts up against Canada! The Pacific Ocean. Reminds me of Northern Exposure! Washoe and Roger Fouts! Is it affordable? I don't know. I have zero interest in Seattle or Portland, which may be too close for affordability. 
   

I still long for a reprise road trip to Alaska, a 2020 plan quashed by COVID. ... I'm thinking to put that on the shelf until 2024, when my youngest descendant turns 16, which is the same birthday year that my daughter and I went on the first trip. 

As always, "In ignorance, I await my own surprise." 

Where Next? posts from the past:

March 2021: Where Next for 2021-2022

May 2020: Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 20: Where Am I Going?  

COVID Interruptus: 2020: From Tucson: Plans --> Pouf!  "I don't have a fucking clue."

April 2019: Tucson: House Hunters, Part 1

September 2017:  My Next Home for a Year: Ferguson, Missouri

December 2016: Rootless Relocation: El Paso, Texas

February 2015: Relocation: Plan A, Plan B, and A Lie

February 2014: Relocation 2015: Plans A, B, and C

November 2013: Rootless Relocation 2015: Planning Ahead, Maybe Too Much, But It's Fun

September 2013: Rootless Relocation: Where I'm Going Next 

February 2013: Relocation 2013, Part 1: Mexico! [Spoiler alert: Future Fail!]

November 2012: Glimpse of the Next Place I Live? 

Where it began: 

On a marshrutka on a rainy, spring day in 2012, the thought came to me: 

If I want, I can spend one year in a different place in the world for the rest of my life.

Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: A Good Omen in Mobile

 

 

Masks preferred sign, Ben May Library. Mobile, Alabama. July 2021.

When I set my Maps to Birmingham back in summer 2020, I set it for an Ethiopian restaurant. I had lunch there immediately upon my arrival at my newly chosen city. 

When I set my Maps to Mobile the other day, I set it for the main branch of the Mobile public library system: Ben May Public Library. 

After being amongst COVID collaborators in Missouri for two weeks, the sign on the Ben May Library thrilled me. "Masks preferred" - such a succinct, firm, and pleasant statement. When I walked in, my spirit lifted again because every library employee wore a mask. 

Having already been entranced by the lush live oaks in the neighborhood, which leaned over the shady street with loving arms, and then that masks preferred sign - my brain shot out a swoony splash of good chemicals. 

 Mobile, I like you mighty fine so far.

Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Let the Rain Decide

 

Rain over the Sacramento Mountains. Alamogordo, New Mexico. July 2013.

 

 July 2021

What I wrote to friend Travis (here and here): 

Where am I going? Just last night I decided, after perusing for several days the weather (with rain at ALL destinations for the coming days, flooding in some areas, etc.) --> Mobile, Alabama.

I'll check out the Mobile Bay and Gulf area for possible coming-year residency.

But after a few days, I'll slide over to New Orleans, then Lafayette, then Lake Charles, and then Beaumont.

 

Rootless Relocation: Where Next for 2021-2022?

 

 

Paths crossing in Castlewood State Park, Missouri. April 2018.

 

Where will I land for 2021-2022?

As Bones said long ago: "...in ignorance, I await my own surprise."

At the top of my short list - today - is New Orleans. It's where I might be right now, if it weren't for COVID's rude trespass onto our planet. 

This winter's cold has me longing for balmy places next year. Consequently, warm whispers from surprising places are in my ear.

1. Miami
2. Pascagoula, Mississippi

The borderlands continue to call me. Specifically, the US side of Tijuana. 

Or maybe this will be the year I go international. 

Also a mystery is what I'll do during my annual relocation intermission. 

 In past times: 

• Between Opelousas and El Paso: Guatemala, Washington, D.C., Colorado, and Toronto.
• Between El Paso and Ferguson: Big Bend National Park, South Louisiana, Arkansas, and the Missouri Ozarks.
  
• Between Ferguson and Tucson: Mexico City, South Louisiana, and El Paso.
• Between Alamogordo and Lafayette, Louisiana: A road trip with my mom through the Southeast.

Under consideration for this year's intermission, all dependent on COVID, are: 

• A trip to a Big City with one of my descendants. New York City is our Plan A. Toronto is our Plan B.
  
• A month's stay in an international location. China, Vietnam, and South Korea are on my mind, influenced by my English-learner students. From today's perspective, however, none of these destinations appear realistic for at least six months. 
• New Mexico and El Paso.
• Wild card - some place or activity that hasn't yet hit my imagination.

A time in Missouri with family and friends is a given, with bases at Chez Katherine and Carol Cottage. 

Other times when I awaited my own surprise

• 2015: Relocation: Plan A, Plan B, and A Lie
• 2016: Passport Ritual and the Beginning of Good-Bye
• 2020: Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 20: Where Am I Going? 

 

Birmingham, AL: My New Place

A move-in party. Birmingham, Alabama. July 2020.

I moved into my new place.

I threw a modest party of one. 

Birmingham, AL: COVID-19 Unfolding #888: House Hunters 1: Flag Waving

Sharing of the salt in the communal kitchen, Casa de los Amigos, Mexico City. November 2018.

Over my lifetime, I've had a few communal-living experiences. Each had its ups and downs. For the most part, the "downs" have made for amusing stories.

Like that time, as a college freshman, when I walked into the unlocked communal bathroom at the quasi-university-related house, much to the surprise of the peeing-in-progress university professor (the house 'advisor'), who, upon being so startled, swiveled to the right, whilst still holding his spraying penis, intending to recover his modesty, at which he succeeded, but at the expense of watering the wall next to the toilet.

In Tucson, I spent six weeks in a communal house, which had its ups and downs, leading to a not-amusing-at-all theatrical climax on my moving-out day.

Since my Tucson departure, thanks in large part to COVID, I found myself relying far more on motel stays than on ChezP sleeps. Each week that passed in a Motel 6, glottal moans and vibrating bones from my frugal Swiss ancestors pleaded with me to stop this spending madness.

To escape the motel-go-round, I sought a one-month rental somewhere in Birmingham. Ooh, not many options. A couple of extended stay hotel operations were at capacity.

I even considered reconciling (begrudgingly) with Airbnb, but the pickings were few and the rates were well beyond my means, probably due to COVID.


I did, however, find one possible candidate. The rent was more than I could sustain for more than a month, but with a month's breathing space, I could find just the right place for my time in Birmingham. 

I contacted the house owner - who rented out several of her bedrooms - and we made an appointment for me to visit her house.

I said on the call: "I'll be wearing a mask when I come." I assumed she'd be reassured by that, right? Before she allowed a complete stranger inside her air space - and which her current renters also shared? Yeah, well.

The owner - let's call her Melinda - gave me a heads-up about her steep driveway and how her neighbors got cranky when the house residents parked in front of their houses, so would I be sure to use that steep driveway? And that she knew when she saw my masked presence at her threshold it would remind her to put on her own mask.

You know that bit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, when God appears in the sky and intones something to the knights below? This one:

After that first contact with Melinda, the skies above opened a bit to reveal a pale gold light with a circle of shimmering flags. They waved ever so gently.

I drove waaaaaaaaay out to a subdivision that I guess is still kind of Birminghamish.

There may be 20 streets in Melinda's subdivision, all with the same name, but with different suffixes: Street, Lane, Drive, Way, Terrace, Court, Avenue, Circle, Point, Overlook, Peak, Summit, Valley, Jump-off, Abyss, etc.

The subdivision boasts many, many cul de sacs, which were all the shit 20 years ago.

Finally, I arrived at Melinda's cul de sac and saw the driveway.

And this is where those soft-focus flags above crisped up and I heard the first snap of cloth.

I had assumed that the driveway climbed up steeply, thus was unprepared to discover a driveway that is flat for a bit, but then you see only the empty air in front of you because the concrete plummets so precipitously that you are pushing out on faith - like that scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when Indy must step out onto nothingness in that act of faith.

Unlike Indy, evidently, I'm agnostic, and I said to myself, "No, no, no, no, Mzuri. You will not do this." I backed out and found the one spot in the cul de sac that wasn't in front of a driveway or mailbox.

While I walked up to Melinda's front door, I wondered if I could live with that driveway for a month.

I rang the doorbell, masked, and Melinda opened up, unmasked. She saw me, and said, "Oh! Right, I'll go get my mask!" Throughout my visit, she messed with her mask, up and down, stretching it out, letting it return to her face, saying that it was hard for her to wear a mask for health reasons.

The room I'd have: Unremarkable. A ceiling fan, which is always nice. No lock for the door. Unfortunate. I'd tested the internet speed down in the living room before I even looked at the room, because that was a deal-breaker. I tested it again in the bedroom. Super fast internet.

I would share a Jack and Jill bath with one of the housemates. Ew. Not the sharing (though at the price Melinda was asking despite the house's location and ridiculous driveway, I should have had my own bath). It was the dirtiness of the toilet that made me say ew. I envisioned a future when I'd have to choose between two roles: Nagging Mom or Martyr Mom, who is the one who cleans the toilet so she can have a clean one.

Melinda's dog tends to poop in the house - "because he's a rescue" - and so housemates need to be careful to close doors. Because sweetie likes to visit all the rooms.

One refrigerator for, I don't know, five or six adults. I've been there before; the Tucson house had food hoarders. Back in the day at the communal house for university students, a housemate ATE MY TUNA! when I was so poor that I could only afford saltines and tuna for lunch every day.

A really nice screened-in porch, but that's "kind of for the woman who rents the room with a door that opens directly onto that porch" (even though there's a door that also opens onto that porch from the community porch), but "she's gone so often that I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you  ...."

"Let me show you something in the newest housemate's room - he hasn't even moved in yet, he's so new." I said I didn't feel comfortable entering someone else's room - "Oh, I'm sure he won't mind." Yeah, no. I am not going to enter a housemate's room without their express permission even if they haven't quite moved in yet. Because, for one: It's not my room. Because, for two: I sure as heck don't want you to come into my room because you're "sure I won't mind."

The requested rent is $675 per month plus shared utilities. I asked Melinda about the usual cost of the shared utilities - oh, she said blithely, "about $100 per person." Say what????

And the cost to move in? $40 or so for a background check and one month's deposit (because she's got some very nice things in her house; expensive things). Cash or money order. Today. (But she's got 30 days after you leave to return the security deposit. Even though she can see readily if there's any reason to keep some of it, as she lives right there.)

By this point, those flags in the sky were whipping so sharply that they would cut flesh.

Nope.

Sidebar notes:

• Prospective landlords are always surprised when I ask what kind of documentation about their backgrounds are they willing to give me? May I see your driver's license? May I do a background check on you? Because trust works both ways when one is living in the same house. Right?
• Prospective landlords such as Melinda (and the ones in Tucson and El Paso) have a right rosy view of what their house is worth to prospective renters, not to mention their design aesthetics. 
• However, I have learned that renters are presumed untrustworthy, as evidenced not only by some of the absurdities that prospective renters experience, but how companies charge renters more for their services than homeowners.

If you think this post comes across as a little rant-y, I'd agree with you.

Generally, if I go look at a place, it's with detachment. Will the place work for me at a price I can afford? Yes, no, maybe?

But in this case, I felt flummoxed by Melinda's normalization of a dog that poops anywhere it pleases (including space I'm paying for), of carelessness about her housemates' (and visitors') health with her mask antics, and the disrespect for her renters' personal spaces.

And she seemed so oblivious about her behaviors.

Apparently she Pushed a Button. Or maybe my experience with her was simply the last straw of an accumulation of such absurdities by the Tucson and El Paso landlords.

To tell you the truth, though, my experience wasn't so much disturbing as it was sitcom-worthy.

Tucson, AZ: Goodbye: A Soft Close

My Louisiana coffee mug in my Tucson apartment. April 2019.

Yesterday was my last day in Tucson.


I expected an unexpected, unpleasant surprise on my move-out day.

Although there was an annoying location glitch in dropping off my internet provider's router, it was relatively mild, so it didn't rise to the unpleasant surprise level. After I accomplished that mission, I thought, wow, it looks like this will be a smooth exit!

But then, when I traversed a side street on my way out of Tucson, I didn't see a speed hump quickly enough to ratchet down my speed to prevent a clunk as I went over the hump. And I thought, oh, HERE is my move-out surprise! Vehicle damage!

But, no, Chez P(rius) incurred no damage, and I was on my way.

The move-out gods granted mercy this year.    

Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 20: Where Am I Going?

Lake Fausse Point State Park, Louisiana. November 2013.

Well, I am in an interesting pickle. 

With COVID, there is uncertainty about what will be open and what will not - for sleeping, gassing up, eating.

I will leave Tucson on May 29. 


What I know:

I will get into my car and drive east.


What I don't know:

Anything else.


OK, OK, that's a bit hyperbolic. But, really, not much. I have squishy ideas of where I'll stop the first night, and I have a couple of smooshy possibilities of a route I'll take to ..... maybe one place for awhile or maybe another place for awhile but both "one place" and "awhile" are only dimly lit. 


As Bones said so many years ago: In ignorance, I await my own surprise.

Relocation: The Condiment Rite

Jars, Tsalaskuri, Caucasus Georgia. September 2011.

I know that I am looking toward my next relocation when condiments come to my mind.

About condiments in my refrigerator that I must consume before moving.

Ready for canning. Missouri. October 2010.

The quiet satisfaction of emptying a jar that I will not restock until I arrive at my future destination, wherever that may be.

Last night I consumed the last of my Miracle Whip Light. I use it seldom enough that I won't miss it in the next four months before I depart Tucson. But if I do miss it, I can venture onto the slippery slope of collecting mayonnaise (or mustard or hot sauce) packets from the deli counter of a local grocery store, running the risk of becoming one of the legions who cache clutches of packets in their drawers, refrigerator doors, on shelves and counters, glove compartments, purses ... because.

Jelly jar, El Paso, Texas. December 2016.

Next up: Pickle relish.    

Rootless: Moving Days and Blind Spots

House moving, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. December 2011.

The last Friday in April was moving day in Tucson, out of Temporary Home #2, and into what is my permanent home for the year.


Have I finally learned there is almost always a move-out surprise? Hopefully, with this move-out, I did. But before I get to that surprise ...

I visit the ghosts of moves-out past

Leaving Ferguson 2018.

Leaving El Paso 2017.

Leaving Opelousas 2016.

Leaving Alamogordo 2013.

Leaving Caucasus Georgia 2012.


The present move-out

My move from the shared house to the apartment ALMOST went smooth as silk. But suddenly I heard one of my housemates calling my name repeatedly from downstairs. “Mzuri! Mzuri! MZURI!” I couldn’t imagine what the heck was going on, and selfishly, I felt a momentary irritation, as I was so near the finish line, with only a few tasks to complete before I left.

But I finally caught the urgency in my housemate's voice, and I skedaddled downstairs to see what was what. I imagined that one of our other housemates had collapsed and required emergency assistance.

Well, it did involve another housemate, but it seems he had gotten physical with his mate. I'll call him "Jack." In the course of my six-week stay in the shared household, I had already noticed some yellow flags about Jack's attitudes toward women in general and toward his mate, specifically.

Jack and his partner had gotten into an argument and she’d decided to leave. Jack had forcefully commandeered some personal items from her, which she needed to have in order to leave, and he refused to release the items to her.

A disturbing phone conversation with the absentee landlady, from whom the other housemate and I had requested an intervention, revealed the landlady's dismissive view of the physical and verbal intimidation that we witnessed.

In short order, Jack turned his ugly wrath onto me, dumping personal attacks on top of my head – which is his M.O. with his mate. In the moment, Jack’s diatribe rolled off my back because I knew his verbal vomit had nothing to do with me, and only had to do with Jack, but suddenly in the afternoon, after I’d got mostly unloaded into my new apartment, I felt shaken.


Blind spots


When people assault you with personally vicious words, it leaves stripes, and then when others - such as the landlady, in this instance - dismiss the verbal violence as just a passing storm, it inflames the wounds. I had several bad moments of  aftershocks throughout the weekend.

It's easier to blame the victim for such onslaughts, isn't it? Or cast doubt about the target's interpretation or veracity or levels of "sensitivity"? Or just pretend it didn't happen? If we can make any of these stick, then that lets us off the hook from having to ruffle the status quo in our family, job, faith community, volunteer organization, or social groups - wherever it is abusers swing their machetes. 

I've seen it happen to me and to others in my family, social, and professional circles. 

By letting ourselves off the hook from doing anything about the abusers in our midsts, we can:

1. Sustain the fiction that our group or organization is tight and strong; 
2. Avoid making ourselves a target; 
3. Sidestep the time, money, and energy to remove them from their position and secure a replacement; 
4. Spare ourselves from public embarrassment and scrutiny; and
5. Allow the abusers to continue doing the useful things they do for our group, so we don't have to step up to do them.

Heck, every day, we see our president dump slop onto the heads of anyone who disagrees with him, irrespective of their youth or their abilities to protect themselves from the onslaught emotionally, financially, socially, or professionally. Disgusting stuff. Ugly stuff.

When we turn a blind eye to such abuse, we can tolerate all kinds of awfulness. We find ways to justify our blindness.

Every day, for me, to see the headlines on the president's attack du jour is like watching the plane plow into the World Trade Center over and over and over and over again.

I can intellectualize my experience of such abuse on both the national scale and on the domestic scale, such as what happened on my moving-out day. I can practice detachment. This is useful, up to a point. It's like rubbing sunscreen into my skin: helpful, but some harmful rays still get through.

My spirit flags at times.

Thus was my most recent moving day.

Ferguson: Moving Day

Moving day, October 2018. Missouri.

Relocation #5

And so now I know.

There will always be an unpleasant surprise - or two - on moving day.

It´s just the way it is. The natural order of things, thus no reason to blame oneself.

The goal, then, in the future, is to do what one can to prevent the knowable mishaps and to accept there will be the unknowables.

The two mishaps on yesterday´s moving day were stupid but exasperating ones:

1. The gosh-darn cable would not unscrew from the modem! I´d already packed everything in the car, so no tools. After pulling away precious skin from my finger trying to wrench the cable end loose, I called the Spectrum customer service number, and they told me I could just cut the cable from the wall. Arghh! Where was I to find a knife or scisssors, already packed or loaded! I stomped downstairs, swearing in futile, childish rage to the universe, all three flights of stairs down to the garage, into the depths of my car, and back up three flights of stairs with a knife. I sawed at the cable until it halved. Now I was ready to take it to the Spectrum office. 
2. Which brings me to mishap #2. Google maps is great most of the time, but sometimes it is a spectacular fail. This was one of those sometimes. After circling an area like vulture looking for the road that Google insisted was right there, I again called Spectrum´s customer service. After a little more childish behavior on my part, I finallly settled down and the CSR helped get me to my destination. It was not one of my finer moments. 

Sidebar: This is the same company that entered my first name (a common one, with only one spelling, not only in English, but in a multidude of languages) with two letters interposed AND entered my surname with the name of my street! When I contacted the company with the error, the helpful CSR informed me that I would have to go to a Spectrum office with PROOF of my legal name!!!!! 

Sheesh. Instead, I just lived with the wrong name on my account and paid with a credit card with my real name. They didn´t care. 

Anyway, in due time, I was on my way, with the paper receipt that proved a woman with a misspelled first name and her street name as her surname had properly returned the modem.

All was OK.

Ferguson: Winding Down

Stuff of times past, Jefferson City, Missouri. 2009.

It's mid-September and my year in Ferguson will end on October 31. Time to wind down.

In my annual winding-down times, these are my thoughts:

• What have I accomplished? What am I proud of?
• What haven't I accomplished? What do I regret?
• How was the year different from what I thought it would be? In which ways better? In which ways disappointing? In which ways surprising; neither better nor disappointing?
• What do I want to do before I leave? 

I inventory my stuff. Make preliminary decisions about what to with it before I leave:

• Consume?
• Return to the person who lent it to me?
• Give it away?
• Toss?
• Sell?
• Take with me, at least for the next leg of my annual relocation?

In my inventory check thus far, I know that one of my tasks will be to organize my electronics paraphernalia. For example, do I really need all six ethernet cables that skulked into my space like feral cats? Isn't it time to let go of that years-old, European-currency router? And that peaceful, Caribbean Sea-colored, turquoise Otter phone case (that cost me a pretty penny!) that fit my old smart phone, which is of a size no longer being made? Time to just let it go, let it go, right? And, yes, it's time to say good-bye to my geriatric HP laptop that I actually replaced two years ago.

Stuff of times past, Jefferson City, Missouri. 2009.

 

Some past inventory experiences

• On leaving El Paso (2017): Releasing More Stuff
• On leaving Opelousas, Louisiana (2016): Sold My Stuff - Again
• On leaving Alamogordo, New Mexico (2013): Consuming the Remains
• On leaving Alamogordo, New Mexico (2013): The Release Cycle Begins Again
• On leaving my rooted house in Missouri (2010): Progress Report: Stuff Divestment

My Next Home for a Year: Ferguson, Missouri

Welcome to Missouri. November 2014.

Yes, I'm going to break my own rule and move to a place that gets cold - and gray and drizzly and shivvery - in the winter. What in hell would possess me to do such a crazy-ass thing?

The one-word answer: History.

We are in the midst of a new wave of civil rights history, and right now, the heart of this unfolding history beats in Ferguson, Missouri, a tiny, scenic municipality of 21,000 people.

Not far away is Columbia, Missouri, home of the University of Missouri-Columbia, aka Mizzou - my alma mater - and where someone popped an engorged pimple of racism, and its ugly pus splashed into the eyes of Missourians, Americans, and the world.

Being a Missourian, I looked at what happened from distant Louisiana and Texas, aghast, at the militaristic assault by then Governor Jay Nixon.


....... But before I land in Missouri, I'm stopping at Big Bend National Park for a retreat into nature, then in South Louisiana for a retreat into dance, music, and that lil' spark that snaps in the air there.

 

El Paso: Last Day

Texas rest area ladies' restroom, Interstate 10, between El Paso and Van Horn. August 2017.

Last day of August, 2017. My last day in El Paso.

My last day was not without drama.

But by the time I took this photo of one of Texas' artful rest area facilities, said drama was behind me.

It included:

1. An unethical, downright crummy, pissant surprise from my landlords;
2. A mostly flat tire that necessitated a call to AAA and a trip to a local auto shop, with my car filled to the gills with all of my worldly goods; and
3. Meeting who would have been my new next-door neighbor - a very interesting academic from Australia - what a  bummer that I wouldn't learn some cool stuff from him! 

Some other last days:

• 2016: Opelousas, Louisiana
• 2014: Lafayette, Louisiana
• 2013: Alamogordo, New Mexico
• 2012: Caucasus Georgia here and here
• 2011: Ethiopia here and here
• 2010: Leaving my rooted home

Rootless Relocation: Releasing More Stuff

Sunset over Juarez from UTEP parking lot. July 2017.

August 2017

My itinerary upon leaving El Paso:

1. Big Bend National Park for a few days of camping
2. South Louisiana for several weeks
3. On to my next year's home

In moves past, I've loaded my car to the max, but this relocation from El Paso to my next one-year destination is to be different.

The goal is to strip down to the barest quantity of stuff I can without breaking into tears. To fill only my trunk and an easy-to-get-to amount of stuff in my back seat. To have no need for careful placement to ensure window visibility for safe driving.

Some of the items I've schlepped around the past few years have exceeded the return on investment to justify their use of the limited real estate in my car. Such as:

• Upright vacuum sweeper
• Broom
• Swiffer mop 'system'
• Giant plastic storage bin
• Pillows
• Cheap but eye-pleasing rounded-edge hangars in colors of turquoise, coral, and apple green (en masse, they take up too much space and are awkward for packing, but obviously, my decision to leave them in El Paso causes some wistfulness about our impending separation)
• Some kitchen paraphernalia
• Three coffee mugs
• Over-the-door hook apparatuses (very, very useful, but like the hangars, too awkward and bulky to make the cut this time)
• Small appliances 
• One of my two camp chairs
• Cleaning solutions, spices, etc.

Large items that have made the cut to go with me include:

• Airbed
• Cot with mattress
• Folding table that I bought from a friend at her moving sale many years ago
• Camping gear and its storage bin

El Paso: A Relocation Memory

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

August 2016

I just re-discovered pictures I took of my car, packed with my worldly goods, prior to leaving for my year in El Paso.

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

That green blanket? I bought that ages, ages ago at a farm auction in Missouri. Could have been among a stack of textiles sold in a lot for a couple of dollars. I like everything about it: the color, the texture, the size, the warmth, its provenance.

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

The aluminum frame above and the blue-and-white mattress below? My nonagenerian aunt gave this to me several years ago, probably having no idea that it would serve as my main bed at times.

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

A related post: 

Rootless Relocation: What I Left With