We've moved again. The rented farmhouse in the middle of the cow fields didn't do much for peace of mind and did not fulfil its obligations to shelter -- so we divorced its sorry ass and moved to a house on the edge of a small town where a new mayor is trying to bring back the dead.
Periodically, notices are sent to folks who pile junk in their yards and occasionally, somone listens. I see improvements. Someone cleaned up a junkpile. Someone else fixed a roof. Someone painted a storefront.
Unfortunately, like most towns, bad news is swept into the wastebin or tucked away in old suitcases and only the good is allowed to seep out to print. So, when a meth lab blew up here a few weeks back, the report downgraded it into a "possible gas explosion". The golf course is bragged on, but no one mentions that golf balls regularly rain down on houses nearby, pelting the sides and breaking windows and rolling off the rooftops. Local lore is that the golf course owners have an insurance policy in place to pay for the first person hit and killed by a golf ball, although they don't take responsibility for house damage or the fact that kids are told to play near the highway to avoid the back yards nearest the golf course.
Nervertheless, I've started calling it our town. We'll see where it goes from here. And where we do.
1 comment:
I am glad you have a roof over your head that you can call home again.
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