No need to tell me how badly I butchered that; I’m aware.

I knew I shouldn’t have had the hot chocolate earlier. All afternoon I’ve been yawning from one room to another, fragmented and sleepy. Why cocoa does that to me when everybody else here gets a buzz from it, I don’t know.

Shane, Sarah and I are learning Spanish together. Ryan wanted to learn at one time, but he’ll be 17 in a couple of months which makes him far too cool for a foreign language and he must now wait until the coolness wears off when he’s 25. So we’ll save our books for him when we’re done.

I leave in nine days. Mimi and I had our goodbye dinner and drinks last night at the charmingly divey St. Ives bar and grill on Main Street. They had never heard of a “black velvet”(Guinness and champagne), nor did they have any champagne with which to make it even if I told them how, so I was stuck with a strawberry margarita and a glass of water. But the fries were good.

Dave in Massachusetts has been flashing his bento boxing prowess over at Flickr for awhile now, and a week or so ago I finally asked him where he was getting his stash of bento stuff because how cool would that be for traveling and camping? Shortly after, Ameko Bento was born. Very cool, Dave!

Those would be perfect on the beach in Valparaiso. I said that just to make Mike’s head hurt.

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I think a lot of you have probably heard or read this story over the years, and I know it’s certainly been applicable to my own life in the past. But never has it been quite so relevant as it’s become in the last six months when so many unexpected turns of events seemed to be one thing, good or bad, only to ultimately lead to or impact another in ways I never saw coming back then.

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There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away.

Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful!” the neighbors exclaimed.

“Maybe,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.

“Maybe,” said the farmer.

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Did you know there’s a web site out there devoted entirely to the art of doing nothing on a hammock? Neither did I. How remiss I have been in my non-duties.

There are pillowed hammocks and quilted hammocks, rope hammocks and island-style hammocks, “green” hammocks and reversible hammocks, arc hammocks and hanging hammocks and Brazilian fring hammocks and all the associated accessories for those of us who consider ourselves “outdoor nap connoisseurs”.

They’ve even got hammock e-cards. Now that’s dedication to propagating a lifestyle. I like these people.

This one would look good between two big trees in northern Maine, yes?

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I more than anyone else never thought I’d find myself living back in New England again. Not even for a little bit. How many years did I spend, like most restless teenagers looking to escape their small-town lives, trying to ditch it? I moved out west when I was 17 years old, to northern California and then later, over a span of exactly 10 years, to places like Steilacoom, Washington and Ashland, Oregon and Reno, Nevada. Then Albuquerque and Santa Fe, New Mexico, and then here to southern Colorado three years ago. Had this not come up now, who knows what might’ve been next.

Still, now that I’m a grown up (debatable, but for the sake of this conversation) with a different set of appreciations, place-related baggage long ago shed and because I’ve been away long enough, I’ve been settling into the idea. And especially now that we’ve found an old 1920s farmhouse to rent in an area where rentals are slim pickins, not just because it’s a small town in a rural area, but because nobody ever leaves. I think the population of that place has stayed at a constant +/- 1,100 since my dad grew up there 50 years ago.

An interesting twist, for which my mother would break out her meant-to-bes: I found out yesterday that this farmhouse we’re about to rent used to be my own great grandmother’s house, and that even my mom spent time in it when my parents were first married.

Add to that how fast the land sold (we just closed on it today, many thanks to the Sattlers), and that I got the call about my grandmother that started this whole move in motion just hours after someone made an offer on the land last week, and you can see where my mom gets her superstitions.

Some photos of the area found from around the web are below. Click each for larger versions.

By the first of April I’ll have my own to contribute.

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I finished, finally, importing old entries from the old, old journal I kept back in 2000-2003. That should be the last of it.

They’ll be over there in the sidebar, good rainy day reading. But I’m biased.

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