The Toad Less Raveled

     You may not believe we could afford it, but Reed and I own a condo at Meadow Lake--for one week each year.  We did not buy it for the thrill of driving 14 miles to the vacation destination of Columbia Falls, we bought it so we could trade the points to vacation in more exotic places--like Burbank.  We also bought it because ownership allowed us to use the facilities at Meadow Lake and the cabin at Woods Bay.  The last two Sunday afternoons we have gone to Woods Bay to swim, canoe, barbeque and enjoy the peace and quiet.  The latter hasn't been possible because the last two Sundays we have encountered the same group of families that seem somewhat out of place.  Try as I might to be spiritual, I have mentally labeled them "trailer trash".  I had this feeling I had stumbled into a National Lampoon "Vacation" movie.  No one was playing the Chevy Chase role, but the father would definitely have been played by Randy Quaid.
    There are one boy and four girls between the two/three? combined families.  The girls communicate only by screaming.  One of the girls has been the same shade of sunburned pink for both weeks.  There is ample opportunity to observe this because she is wearing a bikini that is too small for her even though it is big and she is only 9.  Fortunately the little tag of the bikini bottom sticks up and covers an additional inch of her butt crack.  She is the most proficient of the screamers.
    Also in the group is a scruffy haired, long bearded man but I don't know if any of the children belong to him or who would play his role in the "Condo Vacation" movie. There is a caretaker and guests have to sign in, so it is unlikely that so many people simply gate crashed two weeks in a row, but they definitely don't look like your typical condo owners.  They just seem slightly out of place.  For instance, a minor displacement of letters turns the phrase "the road less traveled" into "the toad less raveled", but it makes all the difference.

The Road Less Traveled

     While we were in Seattle recently, merging through huge freeways crowded with vehicles containing one environmentally conscious occupant, I began formulating a theory.  I believe people who live in big cities are using a disproportionate amount of the planet's resources. Many of these city dwellers are the ones attempting to legislate what those of us who live among the planet's resources must do, or not do, with them.  Cities are primarily composed of three things: people, buildings, roads.  In the small towns where most Americans live this is not a huge imposition on the land so there is plenty of room left over for farms, forests, and wildlife.  Big cities require many houses-which are often composed of lumber, and apartments-which are mostly concrete.  They are home to big businesses in big buildings-which block the sunlight by day and whose lights block starlight by night, as well as consume huge amounts of electricity for heating, cooling, lights, elevators, etc.
      In order for the many residents to get to the big buildings where they work, they need lots of roads-which destroy farmland and animal habitat and pollute the environment with noise and exhaust.  I just read that the average rural commute is about 15 minutes, average city commute 45. And in the 15 minutes small town commuters spend on the road our vehicles are actually moving, not sitting in traffic, so we are at least spreading out the pollution.  It would be interesting to research statistics on the energy/resource usage of city dwellers as opposed to rural but that sounds hard.  95 percent of statistics are made up anyway, including this one, so I postulate that city dwellers use 63% more of the Earth's resources than those of us thoughtful enough to live in small towns.
     I believe environmental movements spring from big cities because they feel guilty.  They are passionate about energy consumption because they are consumed with guilt over their own. In the poem "The Road Not Taken", Robert Frost said that choosing the road less traveled by made all the difference.  I suggest greenies who want to make a difference take that literally.  The freeway isn't free.  Move to the small towns where the rest of us live.  If you can find a town where environmentalism hasn't destroyed the economy, you will find the jobs don't pay enough to cover trips to climate summits or to lobby Washington D.C.  Most people on those less traveled roads are too busy getting by and taking care of their little part of the planet to have time to sue strangers on behalf of trees and animals.  On roads less traveled by, the best way to take care of the planet is to care for the people you share it with.

Frantic Pursuit of Relaxation

     When my children were too small to know the days of the week, their world was ordered around my schedule: Monday was cookie baking day, Tuesday--laundry, Wednesday--grocery shopping, Thursday--sheet changing day, Friday--housecleaning.  I function best on a schedule.  On trips when Reed is working during the day, I throw myself into my relaxation schedule.  I rush to do things I don't have time for at home: I give myself a manicure and pedicure, plan projects, go for walks, shop, read books, blog and waste more time on the computer than I would ever allow myself at home.  I add a second cup of tea to my day with a tea time in the afternoon as if I were English. I do the puzzles in the U.S.A. Today and read the InterLake online.  My husband just informed me he is giving me a laptop for our anniversary this year, so on future trips I can look important while I waste time.  Leave it to me to be scheduled about relaxation, but I can actually relax more about wasting time if I have some plan for how to waste it.

I Might Be a Redneck

     I used to think I was a classy lady surrounded by rednecks.  When my oldest son dragged home a roadkilled deer and left it behind his truck (looking for all the world like it had committed suicide by running flat out into the back of it), just in case the meat was still good, I figured he was a redneck.  When he tried to make me stop on Highway 93 to retrieve roadkilled birds so he could use the hackle to tie flies, I figured he was a redneck.  When I was driving around with a dead raccoon in my trunk so he could get money for "recycling" him, I knew he was a redneck.  (Remember Larry, Darrell and Darrell?)  When Will was in his taxidermy phase and I was afraid to look in the mystery bags in my freezer, I was a victim of a redneck.  Yes, I aided and abbetted a redneck, but I was not a redneck.
     When my daughter used her Isuzu to tow two (fun phrase) Californians out of the ditch on her way to Missoula, I was afraid she was a redneck.  When she was more concerned about where to put her tools in her college apartment than her clothes or furniture, I felt a prickle of redneck.  When her offer to start someone's "rig" was completely misinterpreted in South Dakota, her redneck secret was out.  When her Christmas list was comprised entirely of metal objects, I gave up hope.  Yes, I had raised another redneck, but I was not a redneck.
     When passersby thought we had a house full of company because of all the vehicles parked in the  driveway, but they were all just Tracy's, we looked like rednecks. When, in spite of that, he had nothing capable of getting him four miles to work, it was obvious, he was a redneck.  When he nearly got hypothermia pulling his drowning mud bogger out of the Stillwater river, he was dangerously redneck. When he gave his sister a tattoo for Christmas, and she accepted, they were classic rednecks. Yes, I had given birth to three rednecks, but I was not a redneck.
    And what can I say about my husband?  When Reed is "dressed up" he is wearing black jeans.  Our small storage room is full of reloading supplies and the big one is full of guns.  The 1970's era pop-up camper sitting on sawhorses in our driveway became the neighborhood's ugliest lawn ornament last summer. (This summer he has his pickup topper sitting on them.)  He uses masking tape for bandages.  If you have spent much time with him, you know he is a redneck.  Yes I married a redneck, but I was not a redneck.
    But my hopes that somehow I had escaped unscathed have faded.  When every man I saw in Portland looked gay to me, I began to suspect I was redneck  When I realized the smell I was finding comfortably familiar in the church parking lot was diesel exhaust, I also caught of whiff of doom.  And, just recently, when I was cleaning and I realized I was being protective of my "good rag", it hit me again.  By osmosis  or environmental influences, I have become a redneck. 
     Perhaps it was the Fellowship of the Ring parties when my children would pick up a bow, axe and club to end (and begin) the suffering of the neighborhood varmints that broke down my resistance.  Since blowing up the gingerbread house with firecrackers on New Year's Day was entirely my idea, I can only assume I have been suffering from redneckitis for a long time.  Probably it happened gradually through many years of loving rednecks because "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also".  My heart resides in the no nonsense neighborhood of rednecks; I'm right where I belong.

Spring Cleaning

     Inspired by the recent success of our repo rehab project in Butte, I decided it was time to start spring cleaning.  The concept of spring cleaning has become passe, it used to refer to deep house cleaning people did after a winter of being cooped up inside small cabins heated by smoky fires.  In those days when being minimalist was called being poor, it was fairly easy to carry a room's contents outside and scrub everything top to bottom.  My grandma did this faithfully to each room in her house every six months even though two pet free geriatirics do not get a house all that dirty.  Besides, rugs covered the carpet, the couch was covered with blankets, the lampshades were still wrapped in plastic etc. Dust mites would have died of lonliness at grandma's house.
    I, however, have established a dust mite preserve.  After our children left home and there was no need for the four hour remedial cleaning I did every Friday, I began a gradual descent from a somewhat regular lick-and-a-promise cleaning to irregular, promise only (who wants to lick?) thoughts about cleaning.  I may tackle one cleaning project a day and that works well as long as I don't place those days very close together.  Unfortunately we are not pet free geriatrics, we have a dog and two cats and are temporarily housing our daughter's cat.  If there is something in the yard they neglect to track in, my husband will oblige.
     That is why I was so excited to see the progress we made in my daughter's dirty domicile with several people cleaning.  So last Saturday I conscripted my husband and hired an unemployed friend to help me with some window washing and yardwork. I discovered anew that my windows are actually neither frosted nor tinted. I am so taken with the see through effect that I haven't even put the lattice back in the French doors.  Neither Reed nor I would have the strength to mistakenly run through it even if we were being chased by a bear .  If Diane will oblige me by staying unemployed a little longer I may even get the carpets shampooed.  If "Many hands make light work.", my goal is to find enough hands to make almost no work (for me).  Either that or create my own motto "Less light makes the house look clean".