Our extremely quiet neighbors.
Then I told him that I wanted to buy the land the cemetery was on so that we could purposely not build over it, and that way if we were accidentally living in a house built over graves, this would sort of make it all cosmically even. Victor was unconvinced, but I put an offer in on the land, which was promptly declined, because it was apparently owned by the family of the people buried there, and they weren’t interested in selling their dead relatives. Which was awesome, because I didn’t have to spend money on land that I wouldn’t build anything on anyway, plus I got karmic credit for trying. Victor said that’s not how karma works, but then a few seconds later he mentioned that he’d found something that morning that he assumed was mine and pulled out the missing cigar box that contained the ten-year-old joint. I screamed, “OH, HELL, YEAH. I have been looking everywhere for this!” and Victor glared at me and I said, “. . . to throw out, I mean. I’m getting rid of this right now.” He still glared at me rather harshly for having a ten-year-old joint in a cigar box, and so I said, “‘From you, Dad. I LEARN IT FROM WATCHING YOU,’” and he just looked at me quizzically, because he apparently didn’t watch a lot of TV in the eighties.
The whole week had been a relief, and I felt that things were finally starting to look up. I took the cigar box containing the ancient joint and walked outside with it thoughtfully. I considered throwing it away, but after a moment I changed my mind and lit it, leaving it to smolder in the same glass pot I’d used to burn the sage in. I hoped that this would be the final, perfect peace-pipe offering to the vulture-loving Native Americans who may or may not have been throwing scorpions at us.
As the final ember burned out, I thought about our new life here. We’d lost our beloved dog, but had rescued a mischievous kitten who seemed gifted at finding scorpions. We’d struggled to fend off hordes of insects, but we’d adopted a pack of foxen, and had spent many nights watching dozens of deer walk noiselessly past our porch. We’d left old friends behind and made new ones along the way. We’d found a quiet happiness as we watched Hailey dance through the meadow, a flaming sunset stretching forever around our new home. Without even knowing it we’d followed in the footsteps of Laura Ingalls and found a bit of the simple but hard-fought contentment she’d written of a hundred years ago. I took a deep breath and thought, “I’m home.”
Then Victor walked outside and said, “Why do I smell pot? Are you smoking a ten-year-old joint? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?” He may have ruined a bit of the romance of the moment, but I suppose he created one that was more fitting for us, and I laughed and assured him that the Indians were the only ones smoking out in the backyard. He didn’t understand, but I didn’t bother to explain, both because I felt it would be impossible to describe this Native American version of pouring out a forty-ounce for your fallen homies without making it sound ridiculous, and also because I suspected I might have gotten a small contact high. Either way, I smiled gently and patted the chair beside me as Victor paused and then settled down on the porch with me to watch the hummingbirds buzz around the wild morning glories as we listened to the wind and understood why no one would ever want to leave here . . . even if given the chance to go to Hawaii.
Home. The view makes up for the scorpions. Sort of.
1. Actual title from MSNBC: “Escaped Spider Monkey Roaming San Antonio: ‘W. C. Fields’ Escaped from Primate Reserve After Storms Damaged His Pen.”
And That’s Why You Should Learn to Pick Your Battles
This morning I had a fight with Victor about towels. I can’t tell you the details, because it wasn’t interesting enough to document at the time, but it was basically me telling Victor I needed to buy new bath towels, and Victor insisting that I NOT buy towels because I “just bought new towels.” Then I pointed out that the last towels I’d bought were hot-pink beach towels, and he was all, “EXACTLY,” and then I hit my head against the wall for an hour.
Then Laura came to pick me up so we could go to the discount outlet together, and as Victor gave me a kiss good-bye he lovingly whispered, “You are not allowed to bring any more goddamn towels in this house or I will strangle you.” And that was exactly what I was still echoing through my head an hour later, when Laura and I stopped our shopping carts and stared up in confused, silent awe at a display of enormous metal chickens made from rusted oil drums.
LAURA: I think you need one of those.
ME: You’re joking, but they’re kind of horrifically awesome.
LAURA: I’m not joking. We need to buy you one.