Now.

We want things, and we want them now. We want our rewards now, our accolades. We want intimacy, and we don't want to wait or commit or be uncomfortable at all for it. We want homes, cars, couches, vacations.

Now.

Not tomorrow, not a year from today.


So the credit companies, the mortgage brokers, the ad agencies... they cater to us. They have built an empire of wealth on our fickle needs and whims. You need that red leather pair of pants? Now? Here's some money for it, we trust you to pay it back. With interest. For the next five years.

Need a house? Who doesn't? There's a company out there for you, eager to throw a hundred thousand or more at a house, in exchange for the title deed to that house and three hundred thousand dollars over the course of the next thirty years.

Gotta have that fling? That hot girl or guy at the night club, the beach, or the bar. They'll satisfy your need, right now. It may cost you a lifetime of herpes, child support, or emotional pain, but who cares? You got your fix when you wanted it.

I want a house. I'm thirty years old and I've never owned a home. Nearly everyone I know owns a home. I try not to let it bother me, but some days it really does. I look at my rental- knowing that I can never knock that wall out between the laundry room and the yard, put in a door, thus facilitating a laundry line and easier access to the grill. It would be prefect. But I don't own this house, so I can't do things like that to it.

Today, on a pure whim, we stopped by a lot that is liquidating their modular homes. I've had my eye on one there for several months now. The front is perfectly symmetrical, with a fenced porch and lovely windows. Inside, it was beyond perfect: a fireplace, a kitchen to die for, perfect master suite, high ceilings, crown molding, and even a laundry room. With windows...

I want that home.
I want it badly.
I want it now. Today. I want to hang my curtains up and put my pots on the stove and just exist in that simple little home.
I want it on an acre or two of land, with a little garden out back. I don't care if it's a modular- it still has drywall and wood and porcelain like a real house. And it would be so easy- all ready to move into. Now.

But I probably will not get that house. I don't know when I will get a house of my own, mostly because my husband and I gave into the 'now' epidemic when we didn't really have a secure financial footing. We bought a car when jobs and life were good, but jobs and life did not stay good and we lost that car. We moved a lot, sometimes leaving our bills behind with the old address. But those bills find you, with those little yellow forwarding address stickers that I have come to despise.

We were foolish, but we're smarter now. Now. We pay our bills now, and are slowly making good on the old ones. But our credit is badly damaged for the next few years, so a house is probably not on our horizon. But one never knows, not really...


I wrote a book, and I wanted to see it in print. Now. I read about agents, publishing, editing, copyrights... I lost hope. Its too hard, I cried, too hard! I'll just self-publish, on LuLu, and get around to the agent thing one day. Not now, but eventually. And then two whole years went by, just like that. Getting around to it never seems to come. I needed to write this annoying thing called a synopsis. Have you ever written a synopsis? How about one of your own full-length novel? Its not easy!

But I did it.
I did it today.
I opened my fortune cookie at work yesterday, and it said: 'You'll accomplish more if you start now.'
Well, duh. Of course I will.
But that silly little slip of paper stopped me in my tracks. I taped it inside my laptop, and this morning, when I normally would have opened up Civilization III to play, my wrist brushed against that little slip of paper and my soul screamed out for that book to be realized for what it is. I sat down and I wrote that synopsis. It was difficult, condensing 100,000 words into two pages of sensible plot outline. I had to trim and trim and trim my words. And then I wrote a query letter. Those two things were almost more challenging than writing the book itself! But I did it, and now I'm ready to send that synopsis and query letter out to one hundred agents. If not one of those agents accepts my work, I'll put that book aside and submit my science fiction novel once its done. And if that doesn't fly, then I can say that I've tried, and I will put my writing aside.

That's the kind of now I'm going for today. Not the 'I-need-it-now', but rather the 'I-need-to-do-it-now'. There's fiction inside of me, just crying to get out and onto that bookshelf. There's art inside of me, beyond my jewelry, beyond my writing- art that I've given up for the worries of life and having a manageable household. There's a child inside of me that doesn't play often with my own children, because that child was injured once too often ever so many years ago, and that child retreated behind a very thick stone wall, never to be injured again. But my children do not even know that child inside of their mother, and they deserve to have come out to play. So I'm going to do it, I'm going to come out from my wall and play. And I'm going to do it- not someday, because someday will come when they're too old- I'm going to do it NOW.

Top 10 Reasons to Shop Your Local Farmer's Market

Ahhhh.... it's Farmer's Market season here again. Michigan has a shorter growing season, so our Market doesn't open until late June, but we try to take full advantage of it!

Here are ten reasons that your local Farmer's Market is the best food option anytime:

1) Meet The Source.

Instead of the pimple-faced kid randomly dropping your tomatoes on the floor before they get wedged into the stand, at the FM you usually buy your nightshade fruit from the guy who grew it. Grocery stores: who knows where that thing was grown, in what soil conditions, picked green, gassed to get some color, and shipped hundreds, if not thousands, of miles before it reaches you.

2) Get Your Hands Dirty.

Food prep, cooking, eating... all of this is a very tactile experience. I love bringing home gritty lettuce and squash, knowing that it was picked fresh from my native Northern Michigan soil within a few hours of me actually eating it! Washing dirt off the veggies, sand off the strawberries is a soothing and almost grounding (get it!?!) experience for me, and I feel like I know the texture and weight of the food better as I go to prep it. Naturally occurring dirt is also much better than...

3) No Stupid Stickers!

Don't you just love this: you're shredding an apple for your favorite oatmeal cookie recipe. The shredder balks and shudders, breaking your rhythm, and you discover tiny bits of shredded PLU sticker in your cookie batter. Awesome. No cash registers means no PLUs- means no irritating little oval stickers to peel off your food!

4) Support Your Local Economy.

This one is obvious. Who benefits more from the $30 you're spending on berries and stew ingredients: Wal-Mart, or the Amish guy in the neighboring community? Wal-Mart will just gouge another employee on their health insurance, while the farmer can buy more seed, feed his own family, or just exist another day.

5) It's Healthier.

Even if the farmers don't grow organic, your food is more ripe, more natural, less travelled, and more fresh than anything you could get at a grocery store. Honey will have local pollen which is (allegedly) better for any allergies you may have. Naturally sun-ripened fruits & vegetables have a higher vitamin count and nutritional benefit.

6) Lessen Your Carbon Footprint.

From Mexico to Indiana, or Indiana to Indiana? Again, this one's obvious. Also, most rural farmland has been around for years, rather than being a result of massive slash-and-burn desecration.

Another point is that many local farmers use Mason jars, paper bags, wooden bushels, etc. Re-used and reusable storage. No fancy packaging to pay extra for, them throw away. My local produce market has a $2 deposit on strawberry flats, and they wash and re-use the little wood slat quart boxes!

7) Alternative Economy Possibilities.

We haven't tried this one much yet, but have spoken to people who have: barter, trade, bulk discounts, etc. You're not dealing with a huge faceless corporation here, but one or two live people with needs and reasoning skills. Do you have a service or product to provide? I need to start tempting the honey lady with my jewelry designs...

8) People.

Tuesday, Mike and I bought a raw milk share (finally!). This morning, Mike went to pick up our first gallon and a half of rich ivory dairy- with cream all ready to skim off the top for butter! When he got to the farm, he got to meet 'our' cow and its calf, as well as some happy children who live on the farm. Kid #3 went with him and got to see piggies, cows, horses & chickens. She fed the calf, got manure on her sandals, and generally had a blast. How much better is this kind of life than the sterile, cloistered environments most Americans are used to obtaining their food in?

One day last year a young man occupied an empty market stall. Dressed in 1940s era clothing- white shirt, suspenders, & high-waisted trousers- he played ragtime on his guitar and sang lovely songs, old and new. We bought his CD and threw some money in his hat. Turns out he's an old friend of my brother-in-law, breaking into the major music markets. I went home with salad, fresh flowers, and a lift in my step from the great music. Isn't that better than the same Elton John song over and over on the Meijer radio system? I think so.

Every time we go to the Farmer's Market we form another little relationship. Some of the people there are work-hardened, weather-beaten folks with little of a friendly exterior. But others are just the salt of the earth- with canning advice, stories, and a bit of banter for everyone they meet.

9) Happy Animals.

All of the farmers that I've seen in my area are humane folk. Their chickens are free-range, their cattle eat lovely green grass, and their creatures run free instead of being penned in a miserable dark stall for most of their lives. I know many of you out there do not eat meat or dairy because of inhumane animal practices, but I believe that an animal treated better in its life will just be a better meal.

10) Eat the Seasons.
Strawberries and asparagus grace our markets right now. In a few weeks we'll have blueberries and patty pan squash. Not only are menus easier to plan (for me, at least) when you know what's ready to cook, but I've been hearing a lot of great things about the health benefits of eating seasonal fresh veggies and fruits.

Eating what the Earth produces- when it produces- is ecologically sound, financially beneficial, and tasty. I could not bear one more plastic clamshell container of strawberries last month! Now, for just a short and lovely season, I have ripe strawberries that are actually sweet, have juice in them, and were allowed to ripen in the sunshine!

I can't think of anything more beautiful, more natural, or more perfect than the bounty that the Farmer's Market offers. From maple syrup to hot peppers, you'll find me there sniffing and shopping and eating and living. I hope to see you there, too!

Little Parrots: Legacy Part II

Children learn what they are taught. This point is driven home to me every single day of my life lately. Sometimes, its good. Michael and I have a very loving discourse, and the kids have picked this up for us as well. There's an awful lot of hugging, loving, and pet names in our home.

They learn the other side as well. Just the other day, I was struggling to start my brother-in-law's notoriously difficult weed trimmer. After nearly yanking my arm off, the miserable thing started, sputtered, and died just before I could turn the choke off. I stormed into the house, arm and shoulder wrenched in pain, grumbling loudly;

"Aargh!" were my exact words, "Stupid, blithering piece of crap machine!!"

Kid #3, always sympathetic, came up to soothe me,

"Whatsa matter with the crap machine, mommy?"

If I hadn't corrected her (between laughs) she may have grown up thinking of a weed whacker as a crap machine. I suppose it wouldn't be too far from the truth, but it is an incorrect label, and disrespectful to boot.
They are tiny parrots- always beside us, mimicking our words, our ideals, our style of dress, and our very lives.
If we teach criticism, they will be critical.
If we teach racism, they will learn to hate.
If we teach fear, they will be paranoid.
If we teach consumerism, they will never value anything...

They unconsciously pattern their life after our own, whether we acknowledge that fact or not.

Can you believe that some person has that much trust in you? That much blind faith, to just repeat every action and sound and inflection of voice? Humbling.

For some reason, the bad things are ever so much easier for them to pick up than the good things. I hang up my towel every time I use it, but I think it will be another ten years before my own kids do that- threats notwithstanding!
But I have taught- by accident- some of the worst things my children do and say. I regret these acutely every time they are bounced back at me, and all that I can do now is provide a better example. We are all attempting to love more and be angry less.

Some things your kids will pick up on their own. I don't know where my third child got her precocious ability to entertain, or where my second child got her passionate heart for the missions field. I don't know where my first child's unreasonable fear of aloneness came from, but we're dealing with it with all of the patience we can muster.

It's important to remember that your children will only be this impressionable for a few short years. If you must scream epithets at the nightly news, wait until your kid is out of the house. If your appetite is out of control, learn to curb it for the, not just you. Be loving to your spouse and those around you, and teach respect for others, for nature, and for self. Don't focus on the empty ritual of religion- for the kids- but rather find the root of your belief and teach your child about what your faith means. They perceive far more than you know, and they will reject empty tradition far faster than they will reject true meaning.

Love them, nurture them, and let them grow up. And remember, always, that its up to you whether or not a weed whacker is a crap machine.
Photographs © 2007, courtesy of Arielle Smous

Window on the World- Without Leaving your House!

I found something extraordinarily cool on the internets the other day- it's called What I See Out My Window.

Anthony McCune, writer, photographer, artistic soul at large, has made this blog solely for people to see the view from each others' windows. I love this idea so much!

Here's my 'window view', which you can see on the site, along with others'.
Check it out, submit your view, and let's connect the world, one window at a time!

$1 Hair Treatment- Million Dollar Hair!

I was cursed with this fine, limp, oily, stringy hair that I despise most days. I must say it is soft, and very shiny all of the time. It is so healthy that, on the rare occasions I pay someone to highlight it, they often have to go back and reapply because the cuticle will not break down. So, I guess I can't really complain, but I do anyhow, because I'm a woman.

I have struggled with dandruff since grade school, as most of the Italian side of my family has. Eating poorly (lots of bread & sugars) exacerbates the condition, but I'm too dumb to cut back in that area, so I suffer with the constant itch and snowfall of the stuff.

But I have, through some whack-job health book, discovered a wonderful and inexpensive treatment, as long as you have the patience for the mess and smell! Now, I know that the title says that it costs a dollar, but that's if you already have the ingredients. If you have to go out and buy any one of these items, it will surely cost you more than a dollar at first, but you'll probably love it anyhow!

Here's the combo:

2 tbsp honey
2 tbsp milk

mix these two well, then add:

3 tbsp olive oil (if you have jojoba oil, sweet almond oil, etc, you may try this as well. I just always use olive oil because I have it around)

whisk well, then add:

1 tbsp apple cider vinegar

I know, it was all yummy and now it smells like Easter egg dye, but bear with me here. If you have any essential oils that you love, now would be a good time to drip some in. Of course, the addition of the vinegar curdled the milk and made it look all nasty, but can you imagine what your shampoo looks like before they blend it all pretty? Ok.

Now you will want to do this in either your tub, outside, or some area you can clean easily. Tip your head back and drip this mixture right into your hair, rubbing the stuff down into your scalp gently. If you have one of those ketchup bottle things that one puts hair dye in, that would probably work well, or have a friend or husband help you. Then quickly, before the vinegar runs into your eyes, wrap a thick (preferably warm!) towel around your head. Let it sit there, doing its yummy magic, for about twenty minutes. This is when I usually do a mud mask as well, since I'm already crusty.

Wash well. You can feel the difference in your hair even while you're shampooing it! Lighter, softer, silkier, and any itch that normally is there should be gone now, at least for a few days.

Now, make your kids fix you some nachos, while you go kick up your feet and enjoy your hair.

Honeymoon Surprise

So there we were, barely twenty, newlywed, poor, and sweating it out at a 'tent show' Renaissance Faire in Hollywood, Florida.

We'd been sent down there by my dad to run the little booth and make him some money while we earned a tiny living and attempted a honeymoon as well. He didn't make much money, we had to live off of our wedding gift money, and it all ended badly. But we did have some fun. We made some friends, as well as a few enemies. We had adventures and watched a couple of awful movies when there was nothing else to do. We went to Disney world for a couple of days, barbecued steak on the beach, and discovered Cuban food.

We also got a little surprise. Not, surprisingly enough, a kid. That discovery would come merely a few short months later, but this is not that story.

You see, a 'tent show' is not an established Renaissance Faire like King Richard's Faire or the Michigan Renaissance Festival. Those fine venues, both of which our family has sold at in times past, have permanent structures on land that they either own or lease. A tent show rents some land- a park in this case- and has their crafters, food vendors, performers, etc, set up tents, portable staging equipment, easily broken-down seating, you name it. It is somewhat like a freakish old time circus, with badly painted Olde English lettering on beer signs instead of bright red and yellow flashing lights. These shows generally, but not always, have inferior performers and craftspeople to the more established shows. My dad was not one of the inferior crafters, just an opportunist.

One of the problems with a tent show is the inherent temporariness of it all. Our booth was a simple setup of two tables, covered in cloth, rigged with an incredible X frame that held necklace bars and little shelves. Beside us, to our left, was a candle shop, and one more beside them, on the corner of that little pathway, was a theme clothing shop. Turn the corner in that jerry-rigged setup, and you would have found yourself at the small gaming alley. All of the typical barker carnival games are therem but in 'Ren Faire' mode- beanbag toss, Jacob's ladder, duck hunt, Chinese throwing stars. Wait, did I just say Chinese throwing stars? Why, yes, I believe I did. here's where this story gets better.

Michael and I were standing around one fine afternoon, wishing more people would buy stuff. The Miami area is not known for its absorption with culture, fantasy, or medeval jewelry. No, they tend to be more obsessed with their bodies, health drinks, and the beach. Frighteningly over-muscled men strutted about the little park with their beer cups and their equally muscled girlfriends. Doddering old people wandered around mumbling, some not even aware that a function was going on. the day was nearly over, and our take had been pathetic- more so than usual. We were just contemplating the grim prospect of having to cook a camp supper again, after a long day, when Michael suddenly let out a tiny gasp and kind of stood up straighter.

"What?" I asked, thinking that he had been stung by a bee, or possibly had a particularly revolutionary thought strike him. He merely looked at me, slightly wild-eyed, and vaguely motioned behind him.

"I... think something bit me," he stammered.

I ducked under the tent supports to look at his back, and almost didn't see it. Barely glancing at his back, I went to lift his shirt up, but saw instead our neighbor (from the candle place- nice people, by the way-) staring at Micheal in horror.
A Chinese star stuck out of his back, about half an inch from his spine. It must have been a wild throw from the rickety wooden target board twenty feet away. As I panicked and (stupidly) went to touch his back, it simply fell out onto the ground. Around this time, Michael realized that it was not simply a bug bite. He felt no pain, just kind of a pinch and a little pressure, which is why he didn't know what had happened to him. I think that possibly because it went into his skin so close to his spine was the reason that he felt no pain. A tiny cut in his muslin shirt was the only outside evidence of his near brush with medical mayhem and possible handicap.

Now I did lift up his shirt, still unable to believe what I had seen. A little cut was there on his back, about half an inch long. It barely bled, just kind of reddened a little, but it was so very close to the spine that it made my own spine curl with fear.

Michael marched the sharp star over to the throwing booth and presented it to them, Exhibit A. He then turned around, pointed to the fresh slit in his shirt, and explained what had happened to him.

"Oh, really?" Came the response, "We had a drunk guy here few minutes ago. He had some prett-ty wild throws, man. You musta got one of them. Haha."

Michael calmly pointed out that the wild throw coud have paralyzed him. More stoned laughter, along with an offer for Mike to keep the star 'as a souvenir'. That's about as far as he was going to get. I think the guys tightened up the gaps between their rickety wooden boards and the ones beside them, but I really can't remember. We did keep the throwing star, but have lost track of it over the years. No more mishaps really came about from there, unless you count the star that stuck into the canvas of our beautiful period tent (which is up for sale, by the way!). That endangered no one, so it didn't seem nearly as frightening.

The wound, which was clean, healed up with no problems, and there is barely even the hint of a scar there now. Some of the people who have heard this story raise an eyebrow in disbelief, some laugh, some are horrified. I am a tiny bit of all three when I think back to it. No one else that I know got a swiftly moving sharp metal star stuck in their body on their honeymoon.

And if there are any of ya, let me know, maybe we'll start a club!

Winter Wedding

We wanted to get married right away.

Nearly eleven years ago, I was proposed to in a not-so-conventional way and I, of course, said yes. That was Labor Day weekend, or thereabouts, and our joy the next day was somewhat circumvented by the tragic news of Princess Diana's death.

We were young, we were hormonal, we were invincible, and we wanted to get married very soon. I knew that we couldn't afford a decent wedding, and I never thought my parents would pay for one, so we planned to elope on Sweetest Day of 1997.

Fast forward to November of 1997, and we were still not married. Our humble elopement plans had been cut short by my dad, and a 'real' wedding was being planned. My dad had astounded me by offering to pay for the event, and I actually thought that I would have some say in what went on for it. Ha.

Since the wedding was intended for family to see us off, see us married in a proper manner, we figured that it would be nice to wait until June or July, get married outside under a canopy. Rent a dance floor, have a barbeque, light some candles- oh, never mind. Dad suddenly got the idea in his head that Michael and I should get married very soon and run down to Florida for a 'working honeymoon'. There was a little startup Renaissance Faire, you see, just north of Miami, and we could operate it on the weekends and honeymoon during the week. In a tent. That was just so utterly brilliant.

I really don't know why I fell for his plans so often, but I did, once again. Michael is the most laid-back guy I've ever known, and he went along with it. My church, the one that I had served at in various capacities for several years, refused to marry us. Somehow we wound up having the nuptials and the reception in the ultra-classy Wexford County Civic Center. Some dear soul pinned a backdrop up on the bleachers so that we could have nice photos. My almost-mother-in-law cooked, sewed, decorated, and planned frantically to meet the late January deadline. Trying to make the best of the situation, as always, I asked my photographer if he would take a photo of me, in my white dress, outisde in the white snow. He said sure but never did.

So we got married in the dead of winter. On a multi-use basketball court. In the same room where I had ogled first-place ribbons on 'Agriculture Entries' for the better part of my childhood. We got married in a place that my daughter recognized as the 'Circus Place(!)' from our wedding photos. Because of my dad's business 'need'. The Ren Faire turned out to be a flop, we earned a fraction of what we were promised, and we returned to Cadillac jaded, resentful, and in debt. Somewhere along the line, I picked up pneumonia again, as well. It may have had something to do with sleeping in a tent during tornado season, I'm not sure.

We've stuck it out for over ten years. Our beginnings- if anything,- strengthened us, unified us. Every year, when our anniversary rolls around in an ugly and frigid month, and I'm too poor to holiday on a beach somewhere far away, I resent the forced winter date just a tiny bit. But then I look up at the sky and I see pure white crystals falling softly and gently to the earth- ever so quiet. They sparkle like the beads on my dress, like my eyes did when I marched so resolutely down that aisle. There is a cleanliness and purity about the snow in that dead of winter that somehow relates now to that beginning- two innocent kids so sure of themselves and so in love.

Its bridal season now, and we've been busy at work making wedding bands and sizing rings bought elsewhere. All of these fresh faces will have their summer wedding to revel in, their anniversary always in pleasant weather (unless they move to New Zealand) their fresh flowers actually in season. I no longer envy them. My wedding was as oddball and out-of-place as Michael and I are, and it really was perfect.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Magic at Midnight, or an Adventure in the Big Apple

I love, love this pic of NYC. Found it on flickr, courtesy of Rick Elkins, he has some other great photos of the crown jewel of American cities.
In early 2006, my husband's job moved us to NYC. Being a family of five, with not-perfect (or even remotely good) credit, we wound up in smelly, trash-ridden Jersey City, NJ, with Michael commuting to work via the PATH most days. One night, he was working late on a project (lime.com), all of his coworkers lived in the immediate area, most with no cars, and he realized that the last PATH train had come and gone twenty minutes prior. Flustered, he called me, neither of us knowing what to do.

Eventually we decided the best thing was to wake the children up, toss them in the car, and for me to drive into Manhattan at midnight to pick him up. He worked in the 37th st area, right in the heart of the garment district. I rarely navigated NYC traffic- preferring the subways and sidewalks myself- so driving in, alone, with 3 partially sleeping children, was something of an adventure. The traffic was no less at midnight than it was at noon, or so it seemed, and we rounded the corner of Times Square exactly at 12am. I woke the children up to see the lights, we found Michael in a matter of minutes, and we all stopped for an early morning hot dog in the blustery March cold.

Life has taken us in other directions since, and we now reside in rural Northern Michigan, far away from the screaming traffic and overwhelming light pollution of big cities. But my two older daughters have never forgotten the magic of waking up to dazzling lights and steaming sewers and a warm hot dog when they should have been asleep. We all miss New York immensely, and hope to return someday for another adventure, preferably at midnight.

Mow Around The Ugly

Up the road from me a bit stands a rather normal, smallish, 1950s build mint-green house. This house was, for many years, unremarkable. Then, one day late last summer, a lovely deck sprouted up as if planted there- rails in perfect symmetry, clean white pine boards marching away from the front door. I drive by this house every day on my way into work, and I remember seeing their sudden prosperity and feeling happy for the owners of the home.

But then, like bad mushrooms after a damp season, something else sprouted on their lawn. Plywood cutout Disney characters, badly painted, appeared one by one on the lawn. I shuddered, looked away, and continued driving. Then two matching mice, four feet tall each, appeared- one in purple, one in pastels. Then a couple of yard gnomes- but unlike any I have ever seen- were birthed upon the lawn one night, hideous writhing creatures with distorted features and colorful crooked pointy hats.
As if these ghastly creatures weren't enough to bring down the property values, something that utterly baffled me appeared- all as autumn was setting in. This latest abomination was a tree of sorts, somewhat like the ribcage of an umbrella, but larger. We're talking six feet in spread larger. From the end of every boingy arm dangles a small plywood cutout cartoon character. These are not merely the licensed normal cuddly cartoons we are used to seeing- Snow White, Cinderella, Watership Down. No, they are, like their lawn cousins, distorted, off-colored (Snow White has a purple bodice and pink skirt, for example) and gruesomely disfigured. Arms do not make normal arm lines, legs stick out sideways from hips, you get the idea. I really wanted to take a photo for you, but on the offchance these people actually use the internet, and found their yard on this blog, well...

When the wind blows, this 'tree' moves a little, causing these spawn of Hanna Barbera Hell to dance a pathetic retarded little jig. As if they were lonely, their number was soon added to in the form of some plastic things stuck into the uneven mound of dirt below them. It was almost a relief when winter's cold fingers crept 'round the Michigan countryside and covered the mess in forgiving white.

But now we are in warm weather again, and all of the creatures that were covered or carefully set in storage have been returned to their posts on the lawn. I drove by the other day and observed the lady of the house- a bent woman who has to be in her seventies- struggling with the lawnmower while her fat middle-aged offspring stood on the deck and drank a beer. I am not kidding.

Because of all the detritus in the yard, mowing is an obvious challenge. The yard is also extremely lumpy, which is never conducive to the temperamental blades on wheels. So, this poor woman was trying to get the mower up a mound of dirt underneath the cartoon lynching tree, trying to duck her twisted elderly frame to avoid hitting herself in the face with the creepies, and trying to manhandle a steel mower possibly twice the weight of herself. How much easier would mowing be if she didn't have all of the ugly stuff dotting her yard? When I drove past just a couple of hours later, it appeared that she had given up (or possibly had a stroke) about two-thirds of the way through. Mangy grasses, thanks to our torrential rains, had grown up and stayed up around the Barf Bunny Twins, the Disney Princess Rejects, and Snow Purple & the Seven Hyrdocephalacs.

Last night we had another downpour, this one worse than all the former ones combined. When I drive by I now cannot keep my eyes from the yard- its like watching a train wreck in slo mo. This morning their yard was a veritable pond. The owners waded through, surveying the damage from the midst of shin-deep water. The Ugly Tree still stands, partially mowed, but most of the rest of the stuff was floating in the rainwater. Now she can mow underneath the bunnies.

Frank the Trailer Park Guy

When I was ten years old our family purchased a 28 foot RV with scratchy red curtains and we headed west. Winding up in Tucson, AZ, we settled on a pleasant little place called Town & Country Mobile Estates, out on Benson Highway on the south end of town. We were the only RV in the trailer park, to the best of my memory, but that's the way the Roncari family rolled.

I remember stopping by a few RV parks on our way out there, and most of them were too expensive for long-term stay. I guess my dad was either too poor or too dumb to just rent an apartment or a house for the duration of our stay there. So we somehow hit on the idea of a trailer park- it had all the hookups, a nice little driveway, and even some sort of scraggly tree in the tiny yard.

Best of all, it had plenty of other kids to play with, something we'd never had out on the forty acres in rural Tustin. I remember that the park was split in two sections- the 'family' side, and the old people side. Dad found a lot that he liked better on the old people side, but Frank, the property manager, was adamant that we stay on the family side because we were, after all, a family. With three kids. I still don't know how my dad thinks he can get away with crap like this. Megalomania, I suppose.

I remember being very grateful to Frank at that point in my life. You see, I had never had many friends, and on the family side of the trailer park I saw many friendly faces peering out from various windows. Frank stayed and chatted with us for a while, and I developed an uncanny liking for the guy. He was big- tall and heavy, with massive arms and long, flowing blond hair. In fact, he had the prettiest hair that I had ever seen on a man. Although we had spent half a year in Quartzite, northern Arizona, southern Tucson was new to us then. The sunlight, which never really goes away until August, glinted off Frank's hair and made it look like gold.

After Frank and my dad got all of the hookups done (requiring a couple of trips to the hardware store for various water and septic adapters) Frank bustled off in his little golf cart and my dad and mom were giggling about something. I didn't have much time to stick around being curious, because there were already several children hanging around outside my door. I suppose I must have been the freak- the kid whose family moved into the park in a giant recreational vehicle instead of a regular single wide like everyone else- but I never lacked for friends in those few months.

Frank came by a few days later to see how we were settling in. His hair was different that day- more curly, more blond- and something else was different about him this time. His nails were long and- well, pretty. They were a soft, shimmering shell pink. I was in awe. I had never seen a man with pink nails. He didn't have rough, cracked cuticles like my dad had, no chips on the ends like mine, not short and utilitarian like my moms... just soft, shiny, pretty.

My ten-year old mind didn't really take in what was the situation at the time. I had been raised pretty sheltered. Sure, by that fall we had participated in three seasons of the Michigan Renaissance Faire, so I'd seen a good portion of blue spiked hair and excessive cleavage; but I had never, ever seen a man with pink nails.

Frank chatted a bit with my parents and walkeda round the side of the camper to check a connection of something. My mom and dad exchanged looks, and my dad giggled again. I had no idea, honestly, what they found so funny about Frank.

Life went on- my dad opened his first mall kiosk- a little pewter and silver sales booth in the food court of the El Con mall. That is where I fell in love with horchata- the creamy white rice drink from Mexico, and tacquitos. I attended most of my fifth grade year at Gallegos Elementary school and learned a few Spanish words. Frank stopped by every now and then- to collect rent, let us know of some announcement about the park, or gently chide us kids for riding our bikes through the 'old people' side of the park (there's a strict no-kids policy on that side, except for Christmas caroling). Every time he stopped by his hair was magnificent and his nails were gorgeous.

There was a pool in the center of the trailer park, but I do not ever remember being allowed to go there. My parents were very anti-fun in those days, but I had a feeling also that we were not encouraged to hang out around Frank all that much. It took me another five years before I figured out just what kind of a person that he was, and we were long gone by then. He was always, always a very kind man, almost too chatty. I think now, looking back, that he was lonely. Whatever he was- transgender, transvestite, or just gay- it was still the 80s and things like that were not mainstream yet.

I do think it was kind of appropriate, in some strange way, that the crazy family from the backwoods of Michigan, living in the RV, wound up in a park run by the man that was also somewhat of a societal freak. But at the time I didn't know that we were freaks, and I didn't know that Frank was weird in any way.

I just thought he had pretty nails.
And I've never gotten mine to grow out that nice.