A Strawberry and Dandelion Blossom Day

A Strawberry and Dandelion Blossom Day

A trip into Hopkinsville ended with Dandelion Blossom Jelly and Strawberry Salsa. The farmers market comes Wednesdays and Saturdays. I won’t be here Saturday, so I jumped at the opportunity to see the difference between a small town farmers market and the ones that come to Chicago.

It was a nice little area in the town square of Hopkinsville, KY. Not many vendors, probably because the weather has ruined most crops. What was there was in such good shape I imagine it was greenhouse produce. Fairly large strawberries, very large tomatoes, and preserves.  At the end of May, when land is soaked, a day of warm sunshine followed by a night of frost and several day of cool, cool, cool. I don’t think even cold-frames would produce that type of harvest so early in the season. Yeah, greenhouse. With the drastic effects of climate change the past few years, I don’t begrudge a farmer doing what he needs to do to support his family.

At the end of the tables was a nice older lady with a bowl of something red that she was passing out with the dipper type tortilla chips. As we got closer, we saw it was salsa. Since we hadn’t eaten yet, we all reached quickly for the salty flute cups filled and waiting for us. The salsa popped. Salty and sweet, with a kick. Then I saw the sign: Strawberry Salsa. I grabbed a few recipe cards, all the ingredients and while my friends made tortilla soup, I made the Strawberry Salsa. Later, we had fresh sourdough bread with Dandelion Blossom Jelly.

Unfortunately, there were no recipe cards for the Dandelion Blossom Jelly, but here’s the Strawberry Salsa made from fresh Kentucky Strawberries. Greenhouse or not, it was all delicious. Enjoy.

Strawberry Salsa

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 tablespoons white vinegar or white balsamic vinegar

½ teaspoon salt

2 cups coarsely chopped fresh strawberries

2 cups chopped cherry or grape tomatoes

½ cup cilantro

1. Whisk olive oil, vinegar, and salt in bowl.
2. Add strawberries, green onions, tomatoes, and cilantro. Toss to coat.
3. Cover and chill for 1 hour
4. Serve with tortilla or pita chips.

Yield: 7 ½ cups

Dream Road-Hopkinsville, Ky.

Finally, I'm continuing the journey I started June 2010.

After putting everything in storage, getting my TEFL certification, spending tons of money on the grandkids, realizing that overseas wasn't the original dream (which was why I wasn't feeling comfortable doing it), making the decision to head for that original (Smoky Mountains), and buying a pick-up, I headed south at 11am, Saturday, May 14, 2011. First stop, Hopkinsville, Ky.

Thank goodness the first leg of this journey was close so I could make all my mistakes in remembering how to travel.

I bought an atlas but forgot to consult it and compare against the MapQuest directions I printed. So rather than straight down Interstate 57 from Chicago to Interstate 24, right into Hopkinsville, they had me on Route 130 going through every small southern Illinois town. It took me further east than 57, but with speeds of 35 and 40mph in several areas. Scenic route would’ve been fine if it wasn’t raining, then down-pouring.

The next connection was supposed to be Interstate 64 East. Somehow I missed the East and ended up on 64 West. When I ran into 57, I kinda figured something was amiss. I THEN consulted the atlas. Needless to say, I had gone about 100 miles out of my way. I was okay though because it was my error and it was all still good. Additionally, I got to drive past the fields of sunshine twice. Fields and fields, acre after acre of Goldenrod. Wow.

Now, I’m looking for South 41 and was very careful to find it and make sure I was truly going south. Might have been okay if there was some kind of error here, because South 41 in Kentucky is actually a back road for several miles. So here I am, not having driven for 8 years, in the dark, in the rain, and I’m being honked at, passed with shakes of head and that old familiar finger-birdie at speeds of 60-70mph within speed limits of 40-45mph. THEN, MapQuest has me turn left into a trailer park and right onto a non-existent road. According to them, I was .10 of a mile away.

This is where I consulted the phone. I was pretty close—about 2 miles, and 2.5 hrs late. Hopkinsville, Ky. on Peace Road.








 

2011 Rambling Decisions

So I’ve decided to go public with the paralyzing fear (excuses) of the next step in my life. At 53, I’ve lived in the Midwest, primarily Chicago, IL all of my life. My kids are grown with lives of their own, so I decided (or am trying to anyway) to travel abroad or to move abroad, or to go or do something (with time and space to write). 

One of the biggest issues is finances. Over the years of raising kids, helping with grandchildren, losing jobs and making poor decisions (that again), my credit is terrible and no savings to speak of. OK, so yes, this is embarrassing to admit at my age, but so it is.

The next issue is that I am single—divorced and widowed. I’ve never really been afraid of doing or going by myself—until now that I must. 

One of the plans to address the financial issue was to get TEFL certified so I could teach English abroad and get paid to travel. In a round-about way, it also addressed the alone issue since most schools overseas have a community of English teachers from America. Still, the traveling and settling and beginning would all be done alone. Not to mention that once I get wherever I’m going, I will be the oldest within that community of teachers—alone again.

Then, there are restrictions, both personal and business, that need considering. Certain countries, such as Japan, won’t take me at my age and others would prefer younger. By preferring, meaning I won’t get the job in those countries either. Additionally, there is the global economic crisis which has caused some countries to pull inward. In Europe, the schools require an EU passport and most want an EU work visa before even offering the position. 

My personal restriction is on climate—I cannot (at this time in my life, it might change as I get even older) deal with heat and humidity. That leaves out most of the South American countries as well as some Asian. Moreover, some of the countries where things ‘might’ be acceptable all around are in turmoil and not safe (or as safe as a typical American would like).

OK, so getting a job teaching abroad is not going well. Switch rails. Retiring to another country is happening a lot lately and there are expat communities in most any country you can think of—Italy, Germany, Serbia, France, and South America. Once again, Europe is tough with visa’s, especially if you don’t have thousands or millions of dollars to contribute to their economy. Panama and Costa Rica are by far the best choices to retire. They will give you a pensionista visa as long as you have a monthly income of $1000. Cost of living in both of these areas is extremely low, and within the expat communities there is talk of rentals at $200 per month in the less touristy, rural towns. 

That became the new focus and I made some contacts in Costa Rica where I could stay while I looked for a home. Think of retiring in paradise. Sunshine and blue waters and a slow, slow pace with fairly decent health care. Alone. I would travel, meet these contacts, set up a home and make contacts to tutor English, and live alone. 

So there you have the traveling scenario. Let’s move on to the state side scenarios. 

I’ve been staying in my daughter’s basement for the last 8 months to save $$ for all these scenarios. Occasionally, I travel into Chicago for an event or two and stay on a friends' sofa, or a roommates' bed. Sometimes, I friend will be going out of town and I stay in their place. Next week, I will be house and dig sitting for two pit bulls. While 53 is not old, I can tell you that this nomad existence has been draining. When I was younger I thought it would be wonderful to retire to a camper and travel the states. I have a friend whose parents are doing it and they love it—the key word being ‘they’. I went ahead and applied for some volunteer positions with the Dept. of the Interior in national parks and have not received any replies (probably because of that credit history mentioned before). Additionally, I’m really not feeling the sleeping in a camper bed—not after sleeping in a different bed almost every night for 8 months. 

The last scenario and the picture I’ve had of retirement for the past 20 years, is to buy a truck, head to western NC or eastern TN, find a small place on a lake or river by the mountains and just relax. Plant a garden, have a cow and a few chickens, do some hunting and fishing, and write. Bring the grandchildren for summers and maybe get a horse or two along the way. This feels like the best fit. This doesn’t excite me but the idea makes me happy and contented. The only thing wrong with this scenario (in my mind) is that it isn’t big and bold enough. There’s no “Look at what I did,” no, “Wow, I envy you,” no “That’s my mom (or my Nana).” 

So there you have it, whatever it is. There is still no decision. I go round and round and hope that sooner or later a decision will slap my in the face.

The Nurturing of Doing Nothing

Wu wei: Do Nothing. ~ Lao Tzu

That is what I've been doing lately. One could debate that it is what I've been doing for a very long time-possibly a lifetime. The difficulty is in accepting that this is not only ok, but good.

So here is what I HAVE been doing:

On a lovely library excursion where I was forced to cut it from hours to minutes, I grabbed People of the Longhouse off the "New Fiction" shelf. It was an exciting find. Seems that anthropologists Kathleen and Michael Gear have been writing tons of novels based on the anthropological findings of prehistoric America. This one was mesmerizing, and off I went to find the next one in the series. Of course, it hasn't been released yet, so I went on to another in another series.

I chose People of the Lakes because I'm from one of the areas noted--the midwest and the Great Lakes. These are not short, beach reading books. These are solid, historical fiction of war, romance, travel, and, did I mention, history.

So, while I took notes, and had the best intentions and immense emotions, I did not write about Egypt, or labor rallies in Wisconsin, or the mayoral race in Chicago. I cuddled with pillows and read. I lounged under bubbles and read. I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner in mostly solitude--and read.

On February 27th, I traveled from Kenosha to Chicago for a 3-day trip and got lost in North Park Nature Center with all my luggage.

*North Park Nature Center Chicago, picture from DJM75s Flick acct.

This is what came of that trip:

Feb. 27, 2011

North Park Nature Center, 11:30am—lost in a familiar place. How often does that happen to you? Me? Quite frequently of late. But it’s ok this time. Warm sunbeams and the aroma of burning wood ride on a crisp gentle wind. Deer strolling among geese resting on their return northward journey. No better place to found, unless beside the burning wood. If only I could stash the 20lbs of baggage to enjoy it all unencumbered. 

It’s been too long away from Mother Earth. Too long prisoner in my mind, running in circles and bouncing off the padded cerebral walls. Here, it is all so simple. This is what I need. Again, I’m reminded of my heart’s desire. Again. Can I not get it right?

Somewhere out there is a circle of writers, imagining and communing around the flames. Spirit has set me here, alone at a damp picnic table with just enough dry spots beneath the bare branches inside natures’ song to scratch out his message. So easy to be content with where you are placed when all your brothers and sisters around are content.

I want my own home again. 

 

Spirit decided it was time and the writers found me. Luggage stashed, the icy crunch beneath our boots, we went on to observe a heart pulsing short black fur, curled inside the hollow of a bark-stripped tree. It allowed us to gather, stand, point and stare as though it were something exotic, rather than a probable snoozing raccoon. How many times has it suffered through 2-leggeds watching it nap?

The journey continued round the path, alongside waving cattails immersed in frozen marsh. With calm acceptance of their naked vulnerability, the Standing People are confident that lushness will surround them soon and buds will perk excitedly. 

All in due time my pretty, all in due time. 

The whirling wheel inside my head has momentarily ceased; there is no nourishment here for its spinning madness.  

*I'll post my own pics soon. 

Now, I'm in the city again for a 4-day trip and am really not doing much more than the same. Wu Wei. And thoroughly enjoying it. I picked up a few more books, of course. Gear's first book: People of the Wolf.

And then I found a few books to help me with my novel research that were written by a fellow Chicagoan, Allison Amend: Stations West. Things That Pass for Love will actually serve as samples of debut books--another thing I've been researching.

I have been doing 'some' writing and you can find it at dk's right to write blog.

So there, that's what I've been doing while I haven't been blog posting. Hopefully, I'll be forgiven. If not, I am fine with Wu wei and hope you are as well.

Social Justice Issue Overload

Ya know, to write about all the tragic and outrageous events that continue to occur by the minute it seems, is a full time job.

On January 21st, I meant to write about the injustice of Jon Burge’s sentencing, how it was nothing in comparison to the 50+ years (collectively) of the men he and his “brothers” tortured into confessions. I wanted to write about how his cell for the next four years would be nothing like losing years in solitary confinement on death row. However, it was a tiny victory was, and Alice Kim in Dancing the Dialectic explains that far better than I.

Less than a week later, injustice boiled over when Chicago’s “police pension board narrowly ruled that the former commander's conviction – for lying about the torture of dozens of men – was not related to his job as a police officer.” Chicago taxpayers will continue to pay Burge $3000 monthly for the rest of his life for being an unapologetic torturer. Additionally, we pay his legal fees (and he certainly didn’t have a public defender), and his medical expenses. While Chicago residents are hungry and unemployed without sufficient health care coverage, we pay for a violent criminal to live a comfortable life. I wanted to write about how many Americans complain about the cost of prisons, and the “soft” life of inmates. Obviously, they have no real knowledge of prison life; however, even the most ignorant can’t possibly believe that inmates are receiving the “Burge” treatment. Where is their outrage here?

I wanted to write about how this blindness relates to the same indignation over abuse of animals while every 9 seconds a woman is abused by her husband. A commenter on the article about Michael Vick wanting a dog stated that he should never have another dog as long as he lives. Maybe, if we held that same standard for abusers of women, the statistics would decline. If a man knew that he could never have another female companion as long as he lived, he MIGHT think twice. Maybe.

I wanted to write about all of this then, comes the story of the Tampa, FL mother who killed her two children because they were “mouthy”. This is a yet another heartbreaking situation. No one wants to hear about children being hurt. However, like the Virginia Tech shooter, the Arizona shooter, and so many others, there were warning signs, and no one wanted to get involved. Our society refuses to admit that our neighbors’ issues are our own until the neighbors’ issues slap them in the face, and then—HANG THEM.

This morning came another story of bullying. In PA, six boys chased and repeatedly beat, then hung a fellow student on an iron-spiked fence, all video-taped by one of the bully’s. Heartbreaking, especially since this happened on a public street in an urban area. No one heard this boys’ screams and cries for help? Come on!

So many tragedies, and so many injustices—it’s overwhelming to gather thoughts sensibly and convey them concisely. That’s why you have it all jumbled together—it’s how my mind and emotions are every day.

Lincoln's Challenge Academy

Tomorrow my grandson leaves for Lincoln’s Challenge Academy in Rantoul, IL. He just turned 16, the same age as his uncle when he attended Lincoln’s Challenge ‘Program’ in 1993. Lincoln’s Challenge was a brand new pilot program ran by the National Guard in 1993. The National Guard still operates it and 39 states now have a Challenge Program however, under a slightly different format. I’m still not sure they have all the quirks worked out.

The idea is that with a structured, disciplined program teens will learn focus and self-discipline while acquiring a GED and life skills. Today, the offer ACT and SAT assistance and testing as well. In 1993, when I was very much a militarized, commercialistic robot, I thought this was a terrific idea for young men (Lincoln’s Challenge did, and still does, accept young women). Today, I’m a bit more skeptical but I can only advise in the current situation. More than anything, it’s a way to remove teens from their non-productive and possibly dangerous environment and give them a look at something different.

My problem with the current Lincoln’s Challenge Academy is the same problem I had with Lincoln’s Challenge Program eight years earlier—the mentor portion. The program provided the mentors in the beginning. Unfortunately, the adverting for mentors in the inner cities of Chicago and Rockford wasn't the same as the downstate communities. Consequently, most of the young men and women from some of the toughest neighborhoods in Chicago and Rockford were plopped right back where they came from without any follow-up. They received ideas of their possibilities without any support or direction to reach their potential. They spent five months building a future and came out with a pocket full of dreams and $2500.

Many fell right back in where they had left off. I remember writing a letter to Governor Edgar pleading and demanding that the inner city kids, my son one, have the same chance for success as the downstate youth. I explained that if the young men and women were self-motivated and disciplined enough to follow the right path without a mentor, they wouldn’t have needed Lincoln’s Challenge in the first place. All to no avail. My son was in prison within two years, as were many others.

Today, Lincoln’s Challenge requires the teens to find their own mentor prior to even being accepted in the program. How hard is it to understand that if the youth had mentors already the program would be inconsequential? Being somewhat of a social justice activist in the past several years, I’m reaching out for my grandson to men in that arena, however, it’s a lot to ask. Hopefully, someone will respond and he will emerge from this taxpayer sinkhole with better prospects and support than my son, who by the way is a fine, working father himself now.

I’m writing this also as a call to the men in our communities. Take a moment for the young men and women in your neighborhoods. How can you help them help themselves? How can you step out and reach them without waiting for them to ask? Many of the youth in our cities don’t think they need help, don’t think there’s anything wrong or that they are helpless. Even if you don't believe in the military approach, this IS a program doing SOMETHING for our youth. Take a minute and look at the Lincoln’s Challenge Academy’s website and think about being a mentor, think about contributing a bit of your time to our future, because that’s exactly what these youth are—the future of America. What will it look like?

My name is Donna and I'm a PC

Thursday night I bought a new laptop, and I suppose this could be considered my first. I'm a PC girl. Have been since 1992 when I first started using them. Back in 2006, a friend was thinking of buying her first ever computer and asked if I would help her choose. Of course, she'd asked everyone else she talked to as well. One day she came to me with the decision to buy a Mac laptop and ask that I go with her to help pick which one. I knew nothing about Mac's but was happy to go along. I'd heard Mac's were the industry standard for anyone who did graphic design—which I dabble in, along with the web design that pays for my writing habit—so I didn't mind getting a closer look. The trip to the brilliant glass Michigan Ave. Apple store resulted in a $3000 impulse buy of a MacBook Pro.

I hated that machine from day one. Over the past four years, I've realized I probably had a lemon since many of my friends have Mac's and absolutely swear by them. I had not one day of peace or operating smoothness with that laptop. Keyboard keys popped off and the track pad went berserk within two months of the purchase. The five hour battery NEVER lasted more than three, even after replacing it TWICE. The disc drive went out one month after the 3-year extended warranty. Upgrading to Snow Leopard so CLEAR mobile internet would work made the entire Adobe Suite inoperable. These things happen, however, in my opinion, they SHOULDN'T happen with a $3000 piece of machinery which is touted as the best.

There was not one single document created on that machine that was opened on a PC and stayed in the same format it was created—little boxes where all the apostrophe's or quotations were supposed to be. Many out there may say it was more likely operator error and I tend to agree. However, no matter how many times this operator attempted to work it out, it didn't happen.

It's probably fairly clear now why I say that the new Toshiba Portege can be considered my first laptop. I am ecstatic with it. I downsized from a huge 17” screen to a mere 13”, which I can actually carry around all day without back and knee damage. It has all the power required to run the graphics and web authoring software. It has an 8 hour battery that I'm currently testing. So far, we're at four hours. It has built-in WiMax, so when CLEAR has 4g everywhere, I'm all ready to go. Right now, I'm in the woods of central Wisconsin using my CLEAR 4gPlus which operates on 3g when 4g isn't available. It's coming though, and me and my new, first real laptop are set.

My name is Donna and I'm a HAPPY PC!!!

The Universal Kick-in-the-Butt Jumpstart, December 15, 2010, Day 167-Nomad Existence

As noted in previous entries, I am purposely homeless to assist forward movement, which was to teach abroad. In 167 days, I purchased my passport, completed TEFL certification, vacationed, and researched teaching abroad job boards. I’ve been stuck, until the universe decided on the kick-in-the-butt-jumpstart.

It’s said, when making dramatic lifestyle changes, for example, quitting smoking, you should tell people for support. I’m not sure the benefit is support. I think it’s accountability. The more people you tell, the more hold you accountable. The actual benefit to accomplishment of your goal is vanity and embarrassment. This only works if many people are involved. As a smoker, I’ve told a few, repeatedly, that I was quitting. When I started again, it was simply an “oh well” when confronted.

I’ve not read The Secret. I don’t believe that merely thinking of something will manifest it in my life. Every season I change my computers wallpaper to a Western North Carolina scene, where I hope to retire (soon), establishing a constant visual reminder of my dream. I’m not any closer to the reality. Action is the key, coupled with a large amount of accountability (read: vanity).

Since June 2010, I’ve told everyone “I will be somewhere” by January. I’m still homeless in Kenosha. Activity has flourished in the past two weeks. I’ve applied for jobs in Taiwan, Costa Rica, Italy, and Germany; housesitting positions in the Smoky Mountains, Wyoming and Australia; installed Skype so I can tutor online. I’m writing daily, and have even submitted. What happened? Vanity!

In July, I relinquished one of my workshop leader positions with the Neighborhood Writing Alliance (NWA), and this month, I relinquished the other. I’ve been with them eight years, starting as a writer. I acquired the first workshop when our facilitator retired, the other after campaigning for an offenders or ex-offenders group, resulting in a unique one at St. Leonard’s House. Additionally, I perform most of NWA’s tech stuff: website maintenance, the monthly newsletter, weekly update to workshop leaders, and most recently, development of Every Person Is a Philosopher Blog. I am fairly well known around the organization. So, when they dedicated the annual holiday party to me on December 15th, day 167 of my nomad existence, sending me off with poems, reminisces, warm wishes and hugs from people all over the city of Chicago, I felt the drop-back-and-punt-type kick in the butt from the universe.

Hence, the flurry of activity to make the future actually happen. When asked what I’d done with all the well wishes from that tearful send off, what will I say? Nothing? I’ve done nothing? I’ve done nothing with several opportunities, but my vanity won’t allow me to be that embarrassed.

Whether I teach abroad, volunteer and live in a National Forest, visit writer’s retreats, or do that North Carolina retirement thing, I’m moving forward thanks to that reliable universal-kick-in-the-butt jumpstart. Thank you!

Silently Screaming Fear

I WANT to go. It’s my last chance to navigate my planet. My last chance to be carefree, and that silently screaming companion fear—for that’s what it is, fear and lack of discipline—holds me, binds me to self. Do what you need to do so you can do what you want to do. Easier by far to scribble the words. Pen to paper has power yet, movement is more powerful still.

The golden brightness of autumn signals folding in, wrapping up, secure against the cruelties of winter. Psychologically, I draw the swathe tighter and snuggle deep into the smothering safety.

What a Difference a Day Makes

Today is a fiery, passionate red optimism. Yesterday was the cold, angry gray of despair. Why? It's the same room, in the same house that sits in the same yard in the same town. The same sun shines through the same window and I perform the same tasks. Yet, today's vision is eagle-eyed, whereas yesterday's was that of a fearful mouse.

I slept in the same bed with the same two cats curled close, warm and purring. I woke to the same people, child readying for work, grandchildren for school. Today, I enjoy the embrace while yesterday I prayed for distance. The deer-in-the-headlight terror replaced with a romping desire. Blue skies with streaks of red and brown drifting through instead of a perception of overcast, brooding storm clouds.

What a difference a day makes when we have the strength to wait, to persevere, to know that change is imminent, even when impossibility strangles. Lessons I learn daily, each moment of each day. Even when I've been tko'd, tomorrow is another day.

Day 67 – Nomadic Existence – What Constitutes Crazy?

Kenosha, WI would not be my final destination of choice. Whether on the south side which is constant activity or this north side that is mock suburbia. When and if I decide to ‘settle’ down, it will definitely be in a rural setting that is real, not imagined. And, it will be with a vehicle. Lately, I’ve been feeling like a suburban soccer mom without the mini-van. I’ve NEVER been much of a suburbanite. We (the suburban females and I) don’t quite see eye to eye on much. For that matter, I suppose I don’t I have much in common with the males either. One of the current things we differ on is what constitutes crazy.

We’ve been in this house 60 days. Since school started in early September, I’ve been walking to the end of the block to get my 5-year-old grandson off the school bus. As with any other state, if the taxpayers pick up the bill, jobs take triple time. Consequently, our road has been closed since the first day of school so the child cannot be dropped off in front of his house like all the others. Thankfully, the weather has been good for walking—and standing on corners.

That’s what I do every afternoon—stand on the corner and wait for the bus. “Some” people have waved, some said hello, one struck up a courteous conversation. Other than that, most drive by, walk by, or peek through their curtains with suspicious looks as to why a woman is standing on the corner. Everyday they give these looks. You’d think that by now they’d know why. I think now though they have a different, more sinister reason for peeking.

A couple of weeks ago a woman came out as I was walking back with the kid. She not only said hello to me but to the child as well, and asked him if he wanted to see chickens. Possibly, if his mother didn’t have a friend who lived on a farm, this may have interested him, but he’s seen chickens up close and personal before, so it was no big deal. It was however, a big deal to me. I LIKE the idea of self-sufficiency and locally grown. I was extremely surprised that she had a chicken coop in the middle of a sub-division.

She informed me that they’ve given her a hard time and tried to ticket her, but her father built the house years before and she is one of a few that are not part of the city and are still county. She has three huge lots, one that the house sits on, one that is a beautifully landscaped yard with wrought iron benches under trees and one that is wildflowers and brush. This last one she is constantly working in and which hides her garden and chicken coop from view of the street.

She’s taken to meeting us everyday and walking down the street with us. She asks the kid what he learned in school and we talk about wars, government policies, people and religious beliefs. Our landlord asked my daughter why her mother is ‘hanging’ with the crazy woman. The few people, who did speak to me on passing, now turn their heads and don’t even acknowledge my presence.

There is another empty lot next to hers that she was thinking of buying until they gave her a ticket for planting wildflowers and told her to “not put anymore garbage there.” The lot is ‘legally’ not wide enough to build so it sits empty. I made mention that it would be a terrific place for a community garden rather than waste the land. She said, “No way. That’ll never happen. This is NOT a community.”

So, if my ‘neighbors’ think that crazy constitutes having chickens to supply your personal eggs instead of buying commercial eggs that have salmonella, I don’t agree. If they think that planting wildflowers is “garbage,” I don’t agree. If they think making friends with the new folks on the block is crazy I don’t agree. My idea of crazy is hiding behind your curtains peering or driving by staring at a woman who is waiting for a school bus. My idea of crazy is not embracing differences. My idea of crazy is having preconceived notions and leaving no room for growth. Not a woman who hand-writes letters at dawn and gives one to that new neighbor saying how refreshing it is to meet someone who talks honestly, and that it has made her days better.

Now really, does that sound crazy to you??

Teaching Abroad

OK, so here was the reasoning for becoming a nomad (read: homeless). I would then be able to pay for the TEFL certification and go teach abroad where I could make enough to save and come back to settle (read: retire), with 'maybe' a part-time teaching job, but mostly, just writing.

Researching again before I hand over the money, I find that ONLY Asia will I actually MAKE money. Seems everywhere else, oh, except UAE, I will only break even.

Now, to regroup, rethink and obviously, PUNT!!