9/9 and 97

These next two days are the return of miserable sweltering heat—let’s hope it is the last of summer’s mean-spirited side. It is 8 AM and I haven’t been out yet, but the morning even looks steamy.  The humidity is visible, every leaf on the trees is still. 

Today is uncertain for us.  We are at the end of our 14 days on this side of the campground. Because it is after Labor Day, we are allowed to move to the other side without having to go to another campground, but the site we want is reserved through tomorrow.  We have asked permission to stay here an extra night, but we have not yet received any response from the Park Rangers. So, we have no idea where we will be sleeping tonight.  As a plan B, I am pretty certain that at the worst, the four of us can stay overnight at Luke’s (well, the six of us including the cats.)

I am anxious to get on the road, but scared, too.  Still, there is no other option at this point.  There is only one path open clearly and that is to be western-bound.  My Capricorn moon is never happy about not knowing what will happen, at not having a clear-cut plan, but then what plans are every reliable?  Life is full of surprises and I’m trying to get the hang of staying happy in the face of uncertainty.  But deep within, I feel a calling--a calling to a place of community where many others share my views and my beliefs.  Somewhere, I think, in the Pacific Northwest. 

Today I will work on some Psycards necessary work (shipping, record-keeping, etc.).  We will probably go to the library to return the movies and maybe get some more.  Next week, we move to Scott County Park for a final night or two in the Quad Cities, and to have the RV’s brakes and other systems checked at Automotive Central in Eldridge.  We still have to buy the necessary equipment for towing the Ranger and learn how to use it.  But I doubt anything important will be accomplished in the next two days—because I am nearly non-functional when we have temperatures of 97 degrees, as predicted! 

I hope this next week brings contact from the Colorado Springs television station for Mandy and perhaps we'll be traveling together, or at least end up close enough to visit.

 

5 AM

I woke and looked at the clock:  4:52 yet I knew I was awake for the morning.  I had the call to look at my storage tubs and decide which ones could go to storage—I knew the “nature writing” one could go because I don’t think there will be much call for teaching that class anytime soon.

I left my husband sleeping, turned on as few lights as possible and went outside.  I quietly untied the tarp on the rear storage rack and removed the pink tub.  I was able to deposit it quietly in the back of the Ranger.

It was nervous outside, a feeling of something impending, something of substantial size.  There was a little gusty wind and the clouds were flashing faintly with the promise of lightning. 

From the hills to our south, above the river, came a loud but distant cry.  I froze.  The hair on my arms stood up.  It sounded like the cries I’ve heard on television when watching Bigfoot hunters. 

Nonsense, I thought.  Even if Bigfoot is real (and I believe it is), they aren’t reported around here.  Not enough deep, dense woods to hide in.  But the cry echoed in my head and I was uncomfortable.   

The entire landscape seemed to be quivering in anticipation of something. Our new frog flag fluttered and seemed like a living thing, the whirligig swirled in the breeze as if making an announcement.

I moved the second tub, filled with my framed photographs and decided it, too, could go to storage.  A barge hooted quietly from the river. The wind made a sound like rushing water in the corner of the campground. 

I’ve never been nervous outdoors in the dark—at least not since childhood.  But tonight it is nervous outside and I retreated inside our RV to write this piece, protected by the white noise of the air conditioning unit, blinded by interior lights to anything outside our windows.

Shift of Seasons

You can feel the change of the season.  This morning, everything feels different.  It feels like fall. 

The thick wet heat of last week has given way to drier, cooler air.  But it isn’t just the change in the weather, it is more subtle.  The energy of the people has shifted; now it is time to get back to work.

Labor Day Weekend is over. 

Last night, we drove the half-mile down the road to Illiniwek Park to use the showers.  There had been a big Democratic Party rally there yesterday afternoon.  By 6 PM, all the day-visitors were gone, as were most of the campers.  The park was quiet, almost deserted.  The sun was setting a fiery red, the water a deep silver blue with small black wave-shadows dancing, dancing.  The pavilion tents were still up, but empty.  Some sort of small moth-like creature had apparently just hatched—there were millions of them swarming around the street lights.  They danced, too, like clouds of prescient dust, and when we drove through them it was like driving through snow.

This morning, I woke to the cries of geese honking, gathering, perhaps to plan their journey south.  It feels like I am nine years old and it is the first day of a new school year.

Summer’s hurrah is ended for this year.  Campground rules will change; it will be easier to find a spot, and one won’t have to move campgrounds as often. 

We are here until the 15^th or whenever the shipment arrives from London.  Last week, our air conditioner died and we had to replace it with a new one. Thank Spirit for making it so we had the money to do so. Today we will be trading our Ford Explorer for a Ford Ranger—a toad car for the open road, placing last minute things in storage. We gather our power, our strength, put our house in order, as we plan for our long-distance launch.  I’m nervous, but I've never been happier.

This month should bring communication from a big publisher, communication that might very well change my life forever—this time in a good way.  We head to Colorado and from there to points west and south. 

We met another family, living in their pop-up camper:  Jennifer and Chuck and their two teenage children.  They are another hard-working family who lost their home to foreclosure, ineligible for the government-assisted refinancing.  So many of us.  How many nationwide?  And why, how can this happen in one of the wealthiest nations on earth?

Angels guide us.  

Some pictures to remind us of a wonderful summer.

Living sky at Fisherman's Corner

Panorama:  the southern edge of a storm

Rick sleeping with the fish at Luke's house

Storm sky over the water lilies at Fisherman's Corner

Our merchandise at the Shady Creek Arts & Crafts fair.

Aster in bloom

Our "village" campsite at Shady Creek.

Butterfly garden at Muscatine's Weed Park.

Coreopsis in bloom.

Sunset at Weed Park

Sassy and Rocky enjoying the mild summer weather at Shady Creek.