sitting by the fire

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Wednesday night in Point, Tx.

Weather was chilly-perfect.  I’d gathered up fallen limbs that had been knocked down by the past few storms and finally lit them off.  Stared at the fire and thought, and didn’t think.  Depending.

Took a while to burn and I watched it.  Not much happened except every so often a piece would break, or roll. Or a tuft of grass would burn for a bit then go out.

I guess I’m an odd bird — I don’t get bored and I don’t get lonely.  I can go days without talking to anyone (dogs don’t count) and not really notice.  Admittedly there are shortcomings to this approach but I find them preferable to noise and chaos.





This move has a been brewing for a few years.   Incubating.

I found myself in a suburb, chafing at the size of the house, the size of the mortgage, neighbors who preferred wasteful lawns to productive gardens.  I would stand in my back yard watching the code enforcement car (paid for with our tax dollars) prowl the alleys, hoping the stealth chickens would stay quiet.  I figured the neighbors would report me if I got a goat.

I’d finally gotten my own act together (big thanks to the V.A. hospital!) and started noticing how bound up I felt by the city and the life I had failed to control and guide.  A friend was riding with me in the old beater truck and said “you get happier, more relaxed the further you get from the city.”  Yeah.

I filed for divorce, signed over the house, and started preparing for a move back to the small town that has been a touchstone in my life as long as I can remember.