The Snow Goose
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| Rode over to Cindy's |
I
have successfully transitioned from snow bird to snow goose. One day,
I hope to be of the non-migratory species. That should occur once my
house in Aguila is built; hopefully by this time next year. In the
meantime – I am slowly migrating north. By slowly, I mean kicking,
screaming and dragging my feet. Every inch of the way.
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| Yikes...under my generator! |
I
was not ready to leave my desert home and head north. Not even the
presence of... killing of....or skinning of, my first Arizona rattler was
motive enough to pack it up and leave. That just leaves the heat. I
am not tough enough to spend an Arizona summer in an RV without air
conditioning. Until my house is in – I've resigned to wearing the
title of snow goose.
My
plans to leave in late May changed when my friend, Janine, invited me
on their annual all-girls horseback riding trip. This years trip was
planned for Moab, Utah...an area that has been on my bucket list to
ride for some time. Bucket list or not, I hesitated. I was not ready
to leave the sunny, arid desert that is now home.
I
mulled over the pros and cons of leaving early. Pro's:
1. The snakes
are coming out in full force and I only have two saddles to adorn with snakeskin
2. Days in excess of 110° are just
around the corner.
3. It's a great opportunity to ride in new country
with a few old friends.
4. It would split up my trip north.
5. I'd
have people to caravan part of the way if I choose.
Con's:
I'll have to get back to you on that. :(
Leaving
a little early and meeting up with the girls somehow won. I
contemplated hauling to Moab, riding with the gals and driving back
home until the end of May. $5.00 + per gallon for diesel curtailed
that idea. I simply could not afford the extra miles. Suck it up
buttercup. The desert will still be here when you come back in the
fall. Except for my yard-art. It will still be gone after some low
life scum-bucket crack head stole it last year. You might notice I
haven't gotten over it yet, either. Bastards.
It's pretty quiet in the hood since all my neighbors packed up
and flew north. Just me, my critters and the coyotes remained. I
spent three days readying what I'd leave, packing what I'd take north
and summer-izing the RV.
And
looking for excuses to stay just a little bit longer.
My
friends, Fred and Cindy, weren't making it any easier to leave. Fred
was planning a surprise birthday party for Cindy at the Palomino in
Wickenburg the night before I was to leave for Moab. In the meantime,
Cindy and I would saddle up and ride to each others property...pick
the other one up and head out into the desert. That is one of the
things I love about where I live. You never have to hook up your
trailer. Simply saddle up and ride out the back gate to your friends or State Land.
I
drove to Fred and Cindy's the evening of the birthday party and piled
in their car bound for the Palomino. Couples danced to a live band.
I've been out with Fred and Cindy before. Fred is a dancing machine.
He will be dragging your non-rythmic butt onto the dance
floor. One day, I will learn to dance. That day has not yet come.
Until then, it takes at least 3 shots before anything resembling
dancing occurs. I started downing the Jeep'in Juice (aka Fireball
and Crandberry) as fast as the waitress could bring them. It doesn't
help with my dancing skills any...but it does wonders for erasing my give
a shit.
I
have said it before...if I'd have know getting old was this much fun,
I would have done it a long time ago. Old folks know how to have a
good time. As I watch them laughing, drinking and dancing...I try to
imagine my grandma among them. It is an image my brain cannot wrap
itself around on many levels. The drinking, maybe...but laughing and
dancing? Not my grandma.
By
the end of the night, I somehow became the designated driver. Well,
not necessarily designated...or at least not PRE designated. Had I
known I was going to be dubbed the most reliable to get us home
without ending up in the clink – I wouldn't have had those last two
shots! Fortunately – whiskey does not effect me much...which is
proof that, contrary to popular opinion – I do not have a drop of
Native American blood; as proved not only by my high tolerance to
whiskey – but also by the 23 and Me DNA results. To those bullies
of my childhood; I am neither black, Hispanic nor Native American. I
am, in order of concentration: Irish\British – Levantine/Egyptian
– French/German and <2% neanderthal. I was kind of hoping for a
larger percentage of the neanderthal gene. You can pick your nose,
you can pick your friends...but you cannot pick your DNA.
I
would say I did pretty well considering driving a strange vehicle,
slightly under the influence and not being able to see worth shit at
night. Leaving my driving glasses in the truck didn't help with that
little tidbit. However, I managed to drop Fred and Cindy safely at
their RV, fire up the old Dodge and make it the final mile to my
place. I crawled into bed knowing I'd be up at 5:30AM to finish
battening down the hatches for the trip north. I was out of excuses.
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| Happy Birthday, Cindy G! |
