Hippie Trails To You: A West Texas Adventure

 When I show people my house and share my ideas for it people ask me two questions. 1) Are you crazy? 2) How much did it cost?      Well, the answer to the first question is quite easy. Yes, we are crazy, lunatics even to take on such a project with zero clue how to do anything. We rely on this old house, you tube video's and God's grace. Sometime the situation leans a lot more heavily on Gods grace but we get it done.  Most of the time we can muddle thru it.       I say we, I really mean Chad. I might be the dreamer in this scenario but he is the executer of dreams. I get a crazy idea and he takes it in stride and figures out how to bring that to fruition. I have flung many weirdo crack pot ideas in his direction and some how, he figures it out. He also has this amazing superhero way of knowing what ideas I am serious about and when I am just musing.  It's like I'm married to my very own magical being. For those of you who know us, I bet non...

I waste Spaghettio's on Saturday mornings. I wake up on Saturday mornings and the first thing on my mind is Spaghettio's. I pad to the kitchen half asleep, wash a bowl and pop the can. The only thing missing in my modern version of this ritual is the small brown pot my grandmother used when I was a child. The microwave cheapens the process a bit. I think of my grandmother round and Jolly, I never thought of her as fat. I always just assumed she was soft in the places I needed her to be.  I can still feel the polyester of her blouse pressed against my face when she would hug me.  Her rings would jingle together as she stood there stirring and humming a tune. I felt this was her little ritual just for me. An act of defiance that she would indeed feed her granddaughter real Spaghettio's and Coca-Cola for breakfast. They tasted of love and rebellion. My microwaved Spaghettios do not reach the desired expectation. They do, however transport me back to my place of sanctuary. I am...

Grandmother The shuffling and smacking of your flip flops on linoleum.  Rings jingling together on your hand. Dancing in the park and wishing on stars. Cracking a carefully shuffled card deck, war at 11 fish at 7. Stairs creaking and groaning, whispered lamentations while we listen to Art Bell aliens and broadcasting from caves, conspiracy theories at midnight. The delight of 5am coffee, black please and thank you Oh Grandmother, my soul mother we shared our secrets big and small. Cotton gowns in the night, Sour and sweet with the sweat of summer, what I wouldn't give to be the girl snuggled into your bosom 5 more minutes she said, 5 more minutes she said.      I've struggled a lot about how to say what I need to say about this experience and yet give insight to the amount of work, both mental and physical, that  this house project takes.  The journey to the point of acquisition is really about all of the things that led up to the decision and much less abo...

      Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved to go to her Great Aunts farm in the Missouri River Valley. I spent those days lounging in the garden, chasing chickens and picking strawberries. It seemed like a magical place to me and I cherish every single memory.       My aunt was not chatty. I don't remember her ever being young. She was always stooped over and small in stature, lines on her face and tiny hands. She kept her hair in a high chignon, paired with a simple house dress and apron. Her style was practical and simple, but feminine. I was often told that my Uncle would not allow her to do the hard work of the farm, that labor was a mans duty. She was in her late 70's when I was born and worked harder than any person I knew. I often wondered what the men were doing out there in the pasture that was so difficult. She churned butter and made candied apples from scratch. Her home always smelled of  rising bread and brewed coffee. The ha...