Swerving through the week

I'm blogging to you today from the windy high desert plateau near Sonoita, Arizona. If you are wondering what this terrain looks like, go watch some old Westerns. Many were shot on location here on the Empire Ranch. I've told you about this place before. It's a working ranch, which means cattle roam freely across the valley, working hard at becoming fat for your dinner table. Not my dinner table, I don't eat anything that would run from me if it could. Or kill me, if it felt inclined. When they stroll through camp, I respectfully retreat to my car. These cows are not to be messed with. 

Neither are snakes. This week, I've seen three, all doing the same thing: crossing the road in front of me. Twice I was on a dirt road, so I stopped. It seemed the prudent thing to do. The third time I was on a two-lane highway, with traffic coming toward me. I should have stopped, but chose to swerve and almost didn't live to be writing this blogpost. Next time, the snake dies. That is all I'm going to say on this topic.

This week I visited four towns: Benson, Tombstone, Bisbee, and Patagonia. Everyone said I should check them out. All four towns are within a couple hours' drive from Tucson. My intention was to escape the Tucson heat, and these places were on the way to higher elevation, so it made sense to give myself a tour of the area. Plus, one of these towns could conceivably be my next home base. As I've mentioned, I'm pretty much over Tucson. 

Each town had a unique personality. 

Benson was all about trains. Amtrak actually stops there, the woman in the visitor center told me. Trains have interested me for a long time. I grew up not terribly far from a train track, and we used to cross over the track on a viaduct as we walked to high school (pre-school bus days). I remember getting excited when I happened to cross the viaduct just as a train was coming through. That was probably more about the thrill of having a train rush through underneath me than it was about trains in general. I took a train when I moved to Los Angeles in 1977 but only because airfare was so expensive. I've never had a desire to, like, work for BNSF or Amtrak, though. So, all that to say, Benson, too small, too trainy.

Tombstone was a weird fake western ghost town reminiscent of Frontierland. The main street was dirt, cars prohibited. As I walked along the wooden plank boardwalks past real saloons, I saw small posses of gun-toting men in jeans, vests, cowboy boots, spurs, and ten-gallon hats. What's more, they all seemed to be wearing badges, which you know can't be right. There have to be some villains in town. Sure enough, I found one. A long-in-the-tooth badge-wearing cowboy (transplant from Minnesota) invited me to dinner after his shootout comedy show. I guess the few dames in town (identifiable by their straggly show-girl dresses) had turned him down. He must have really been desperate to ask me out. I smoothed the front of my stained smelly t-shirt and politely declined. Tombstone's great tourist attraction is the shootout at the OK Corral. I don't care for guns. If I were willing to put on a costume (preferably spurs), I could probably get a job in Tombstone and live in the nearby trailer park next door to Lonesome Cowboy. No thanks.

I was really curious about Bisbee. Bisbee is purportedly all about art, and I saw quite a few galleries when I dared to look at anything but maneuvering my car up and down the steep narrow streets to find a hidden parking lot to spend the night. I could see the attraction of the place. It's picturesque, unique, and charming, despite the fact that a couple played their stereo in the car next to me for two hours in the wee hours of the morning. However, Bisbee to me was all about the massive crater known as the Lavender Pit Mine, a wound left on the land by the copper mining industry. I felt deeply disturbed coming around the bend just outside the historic town and seeing that yawning hole. It did not make me proud to be a human, to know I have benefited from the copper that was blasted out of innocent mountains. No, I will not be moving to Bisbee, to be constantly reminded of how I have been part of the descrecration of the land. 

Patagonia (population 800 for the past 100 years) was about mining and ranching. The visitor center was closed but I stopped in a mining office that had a sign in the window welcoming visitors. The mining enthusiast there greeted me eagerly and told me all about the mining still going on in Patagonia (not strip mines or pits, no these are all underground, with a smaller-than-700 acre footprint, easy on the environment, you betcha). Not gold, copper, or silver. No, nowadays, zinc is the new gold. And manganese. We need zinc and manganese for electric cars, apparently. It's the American way, tear up the earth so we can smelt it down to power our excursions into the country where we destroy more pristine habitat in our quest for peace and quiet. 

Up here on the cattle ranch, sitting out of the wind in my tin can fossil-fuel burning minivan, looking out over the vistas at the cattle roaming slowly through the grass, I can almost see the attraction of ranching. My grandfather was a cattle rancher in Eastern Oregon, so I could claim a slight relationship with ranching (although I claim no affinity). I used to want a horse. I don't remember ever wanting cows. Or sheep, goats, pigs . . . I'm a city kid forced into a weird car camping adventure by circumstance. I really like camping up here on the Empire Ranch, but I don't think I will be choosing to live in Sonoita or Patagonia or some other ranching mecca. 

Writing and drawing, blogging and mentoring . . . these activities can happen anywhere I have an occasional internet connection. I can't imagine being a cattle rancher who happens to write fiction on the side. Nor do I see myself as a writer who keeps a few head of cattle. I can imagine taking a train to Boston to see my sister, but don't expect me to be the sleeping car attendant. Along those lines, I don't reckon I'll be out panning for zinc or manganese anytime soon.

So, here I am again, learning by process of elimination where I don't belong. It's useful, but it's a lot of work, to choose a home by crossing every other place off the list of possibilities. If I live long enough, I might actually find the place I'm looking for, if such a place exists. One thing for sure, I will not up and move to a place I haven't thoroughly checked out, and that means shopping at their stores, printing my car insurance ID cards in their libraries, and sleeping in their Walmart parking lots. You don't really know a town until you've slept in your car on a backstreet with one eye open, waiting for the knock.

Losing sight of normal

I've been a nomad for a little over a month, skulking mostly around Tucson. The plan was to stick around for the month of April for a series of vestibular therapy appointments, and when they were done, I'd be cured and free to move on from this dusty windy incinerator. You might have noticed it's May now. I received my discharge summary from the PT (in short, nothing wrong with you, nothing I can treat). I have one more medical appointment tomorrow for a different issue, and after that I can adventurously seek out Walmarts in other cities. That will be fun.

What is wrong with this picture? 

No, I don't mean that picture. I mean, the picture of me getting used to (looking forward to?) finding new Walmart parking lots to sleep in. Is that normal? I don't think that is normal, but I can't be sure anymore. Nothing seems normal when all my routines have been obliterated. 

You've heard of the story about the frog in boiling water? The frog didn't get into the kettle while it was boiling. No normal frog would do that. No, the frog was just lounging in a kettle of water, enjoying some quiet time. Then, some mean human came along and turned the heat up under the kettle. You can imagine. Gradually the water got warm. The frog enjoyed it at first (mmm, jacuzzi). By the time the frog realized it was about to parboil, its spindly little legs were too weak to let the frog jump out of the kettle. Hence, lunch. 

Humans do something like that, too, according to the psychologists. Supposedly when our living conditions deteriorate gradually, we adapt to these conditions instead of changing them. By the time we realize we are effed, we are too effed up to escape. Boom. We are lunch.

It's not a perfect analogy to describe my situation. For one thing, I saw my living conditions deteriorating from a long way off, and I took action to mitigate the worst of it before I ran out of resources and had to give up. Second, and maybe more to the point, where would I "escape" to? A subsidized senior housing complex over by the I-10 freeway? Even if I wanted to stay in Tucson, and even if I could get onto the waitlist, I would rather live in my car. Who wants to live in a tenement building full of tottering old folks? (Said the tottering old folk). I just want my freedom. Is that such a surprise? I totally understand why houseless people prefer tents to institutionalized shelters. 

Speaking of tents, no. It's over 90°F outside. I'm coming to you from the food court inside the Tucson Mall. It's one of the few enclosed malls left, and let me tell you, I am super grateful for this mall and its covered parking area. Some of the Tucson libraries are nice, but their hours are limited, and they would not appreciate me jabbering on Zoom calls. The Mall is not ideal, but maybe it's my new normal, to be sitting at a table that is too tall for the chair, shaking out the pins and needles in my arms every few minutes. I'm learning to let the waves of noise wash past me with the hordes of shoppers, all of whom seem to be pushing their children in little red plastic cars that make fake motor sounds. It's the new normal. I sleep in a Walmart parking lot next to a road that turns into a race track on Saturday nights. I can new-normal my way through just about anything.

Next week, I hope to get out and up in elevation to beat the heat. I hope I can find some free camping on BLM land, but I'll settle for a new Walmart. Then I'll breeze back through Tucson, pick up my meds, and head north for a few weeks of dogsitting with the fabulous little maniac dog we call Maddie. That's the plan, anyway, unless conditions turn me in a new direction. 

The epic road trip continues

The epic road trip continues. Lucky me, no car camping for me this week. I spent every night indoors, hosted by friends and family. This morning, I headed north toward Oregon, ready for some solitude, which I have found at a lovely rest stop overlooking a green valley outside of Ashland, Oregon. Brisk wind buffets my car. I’m in the back, sitting crisscross applesauce, window covers in place, with a USB light that will go dead soon. I must type quickly.

Monday and Tuesday I spent with old friends in the Sherman Oaks area. on Wednesday night I slept on the couch of a best friend in Silver Lake, and on Thursday, I found my way to La Canada Flintridge to stay with a high school chum. On Friday, I headed north to San Francisco to stay with another friend in an amazing vintage apartment near the Golden Gate Bridge. Saturday found me with family in a suburb of Sacramento, discovering the joys of having a great-niece and nephew.

My friends are all best in class. You couldn’t ask for more loving and gracious friends. Most of them I’ve known for at least thirty years. Fun fact: My fiftieth high school reunion is next year. I love all my friends. However, I’ve never seen all my friends in one week. I am overwhelmed.

It’s been a lot of driving, talking, driving, talking. By the time I got to Sacramento to see family I rarely see, I was content to listen to the kids chatter and eat the food their parents fed me, and then play a card game as if I were one of the family. Which I guess I was. They treated me like family, which is to say, they incorporated me into their world without fanfare. They had a cozy couch, and the dog didn’t bark once during the night.

I love them all. However, being the introvert that I am, my people alert got tripped on Monday and hasn’t stopped clanging since. For the first week of my epic road trip, I had six nights to myself, only one night in other people’s spaces. This week my dance card was full. It has been rough.

Why so hard, you ask? Thanks for asking. I ask myself that as well. It’s great to have shelter, right? I should be grateful. I am grateful! My friends are so generous. Still, do you find it hard to be a guest? I’d much rather be the host. But there I was, using other people’s soap and towels, enjoying their bathtubs (if they had one), and sleeping on various surfaces, from cushy memory foam to a well-loved couch fighting for space among a plethora of throw pillows. I’ve seen bathrooms in every condition, from a tiny cubicle with a sink and toilet to a posh rival to the Ritz Carlton. I’ve seen how many ways there are to make coffee, including not making it at all.

Disappointment: My vertigo problem has not resolved itself as I’d hoped it magically would. Elevation does seem to make it somewhat worse. I think maybe it’s the air pressure, combined with stress and fatigue. Possibly a pinch of insanity. Who knows. Anyway, my head is still reeling, and my ear is still crackling, but my ankles are no longer swollen, so there’s that.

Right now, even though my head is jammed into the headliner, and my toenails need trimming, and traffic is roaring by on I-5 about one hundred yards away, I’m feeling content. Truth: I’m really glad to be alone. I love you all, but now I must go away, so I can have the bittersweet joy of missing you.

PS: Sorry for typos and boring description. I'm beyond tired, and it's really hard to write a blogpost from the back of a minivan. My legs have gone to sleep. Be well, see you all next week.

Going in circles

Howdy Blogbots. I'm a day late on this post and utterly shocked that anyone noticed. I am grateful to all six-sometimes-seven of you for caring enough to read this self-centered miasmic pile of palaver. Blogspot doesn't know what to make of me. I used to write about career college education. Then I wrote diatribes on dissertating. Then I fell into the black hole created by the baby planet nucleus I fondly called my maternal parental unit. I wasn't sure we would make it out of that black hole alive. Mom didn't, but I did. In fact, 2021 ejected me from my humdrum life like shooting a clown out of a cannon. Whoosh. Suddenly I plopped down in Tucson. A year later, I'm still dizzy and going in circles.

I really do go in circles. I have a cosmic hitch in my git-along. Walking, thinking, driving, navigating, it seems I frequently retrace my steps. Is this an artifact of aging? The glitch is most obvious when I'm driving. I've completely given up the idea that I can get anywhere in a straight line. I would like to say I'm a lazy bumblebee, wandering from flower to flower, immersed in the beauty of the present, but the truth is, I'm always half-sure I'm going to drive off a cliff at any moment, that the road will suddenly end in a great big sign—Road Closed—and I'll be miles up a dirt road with no place to turn around.

I've accepted that I'm not a brave person. Notwithstanding the fact that twice I've packed up and moved everything I own to a new town, sight unseen. That isn't exactly a wimpy thing to do, I have to admit. Maybe it's more a continuous case of mild terror while I'm doing that risky thing. Driving in circles, certain I will end up in Tijuana when I was aiming for Tucson, muttering the Serenity Prayer constantly under my breath, and squinting at a map I screenshot and printed from Google Maps (won't ever do that again; I almost ended up in Salt Lake City). 

The funny thing is, it doesn't seem to matter how many detours I take along the way, I always seem to arrive at my destination in the end, and almost always on time if not early. I have no idea how it happens. It's like my brain is in an alternate universe, bracing for disaster, but my body (and car) are chugging along, homing in on the end of the journey, one mile at a time.

The circles in my brain are a little different but no less confounding. I am aware that my brain goes in circles but there's no destination and I seem to be orbiting nothing. There's nothing in the middle. I keep trying to imagine what giant gas planet, what amazing project, what essential person will appear to inspire me to jumpstart my mojo with some ambition. I come up empty.

That doesn't mean I sit around moping. I have a list of tasks and I get them done. For the past couple days, I've been editing a dissertation for a candidate at the education college I ostensibly work for . . . I'm more like a contract editor. I still haven't figured out how the workflow flows. It's very similar to working for the editing agency, which I still do from time to time. Projects appear in my inbox. I work on them and send them back. Money eventually appears. Magic. I don't know yet how much I will be paid for the 30,000 word dissertation I submitted last night. It's good to have some surprises once in a while, don't you think? Daily life can get so stale when you think everything is planned out.

Maybe that is why I go in circles. My brain is subconsciously trying to entertain me. Would I wither from boredom if I always knew the correct route to my destination? Hm. I always assume my mind is trying to kill me. 

The doves are once again wandering around and proclaiming "Hang up and drive!" and "Live and let live!" Outside my window, lizards soak up the sun and then vanish so fast, I am not even sure they were there. The neighbors bring their boombox outside and enjoy the warm evening air. Someone told me that is a cultural thing—meaning, that is a Hispanic cultural thing. I would feel more tolerant if they were playing mariachi or Banda music. I like that stuff. I am getting really sick of hearing top-40 rap songs. Yet I smile and wave and say hello to their little girl as she pedals unsteadily under my window on her pink two-wheeler. Then I go back to hunting my skittish little roommates with a spray bottle of alcohol. 

Four more months in the Bat Cave. 

Living the five seasons in Tucson

This week I spent an hour driving eleven miles across town to a shoe store to pick up a pair of walking shoes I ordered online. That's not news, everyone is doing it. Look at me go, contributing to the economy. I'm a dynamo.

I could have opted for curbside pickup but I'm not as leery as I once was of being around other people indoors. I wore a mask, as I always do when I go shopping. It was weird, though. I was one of the few. I mean, I was one of two. There were two of us wearing masks, and one was the cashier. I felt the pressure, I have to admit. 

Should I get a t-shirt that says something like immuno-compromised or preexisting conditions on board, as an excuse, basically, a reason why I'm not buckling to peer pressure? I'd like a t-shirt that says what are you staring at? or mind your own effing business. But that is my fleeting need for self-righteous vindication talking. I try not to let that part of me out of the cage if I can help it. It only gets me into trouble.

About the reluctance to mask up, I don't get it. Isn't there another variant making the rounds? Maybe everyone in Tucson has had COVID-19 already, except for that cashier and me. It's like an invasion of body snatchers. Except I can't win. If I take my mask off, I might be able to hide my bleeding-heart liberal presence among the herd, but taking my mask off puts me at risk of breathing in COVID. I might think I'm laying low but end up coughing my brains out with long COVID. 

I didn't plan to write about that. 

Metro Tucson has just over a million inhabitants, and I think I met all of them on my drive across town. I'm guessing citizens have more than one vehicle and they drive them both at the same time whenever possible, as if we get points for how many square feet we occupy at any moment. And how fast we are going. I fail on both counts. The speed limit on most east-to-west city streets is 45 mph, which means many drivers go much faster. The beast can manage a trot if I apply the spurs, but we are really most content clopping along at a mild 35 mph. Drivers wave and toot their horns as they speed around me. So nice.

Tucson is a large basin surrounded by mountain ranges on all four sides. The mountains have turned into a bit of a constraint. The city has sprawled up into the foothills of its mountainous boundaries. That's where the rich people live. 

You need a helicopter to get around this place. There's only one freeway, the I-10 going west to Phoenix or east to Albuquerque. The entire city of Tucson is a crowded grid of surface streets coopted by trucks and SUVs, which seem hellbent on mowing down all pedestrians and bicyclists with the audacity to try to share the roadway. 

I lived in Los Angeles for twenty years so I know how cities can sprawl. Tucson reminds me of L.A. Los Angeles had the ocean, though. Tucson's ocean equivalent is the desert beyond the mountain cage that traps the city. In L.A., I could take a bus and eventually put my toes in the Pacific Ocean. In Tucson, putting your toes in desert sand will give you third-degree burns. 

It's been almost one year since I made the drive from Portland to Tucson. Now I've experienced all five seasons. I understand the weather cycle now. Right now, it's spring. The doves are cooing in the trees, on the days when the wind isn't howling. The tiny lizards are sunning themselves on the concrete steps. The neighbors are enjoying their rap music outdoors with the bass cranked to brain death levels. Winter is over. The thermometer will be in the low 90s all week. 

Spring is short here. We'll have a few nice weeks, followed by months of mind-boggling heat and drenching monsoons. I'm going to enjoy my new walking shoes before summer peels the skin from my bones. 

The lure of the geographic

I grew up on a quiet shady middle class street lined with a mishmash of old farmsteads and ranch-style houses in the armpit of northeast Portland, the largest city in the state of Oregon, which is one of the states in the Pacific Northwest area of the United States of America, which is on the . . . where are we, again? I am trying to orient myself in time and space in order to determine if I have dementia. 

I no longer live on that quiet tree-lined street, and most of the trees are gone, but several of the families I grew up with are still there. My brother lives around the corner, so he keeps up with the latest news about our old neighbors. The news used to be, oh, hey, Fred had a great crop of corn this year, you want some? Lately the news is more like, wow, Bill just turned one hundred, and, did you hear, Dotty and George are moving into assisted living? 

Moving to assisted living would be a traumatic experience at any age, but especially if you have dementia. Dotty and George moved last week into a place just down the street from the retirement home where my mother used to live before we moved her to the care home. When I heard the news about Dotty and George, I thought, oh, that's sad, but now they will get the care they need. Well, the news today was when Dotty got home from the store, George had taken the car and disappeared. Some time later, the sheriffs found him at a Bimart in Damascus, which is south on the freeway from Portland some twenty miles. George got lost and couldn't find his way home.

I get it. I bet he was wondering, where's home? What is home now? Not my shabby chic ranch house on the modest street where I lived for so many years with all my wonderful neighbors and friends. No, now it's some weird cottage with people coming and going at all hours, regimented meal times, and food that comes out of an industrial-size can. Home? No thanks, not for me. 

If I had been George, I would have kept on driving. 

I worry about getting dementia. For quite a while, I pictured my dementia response as a stroll into the desert with a shovel. Wrapped in a fashionable linen coat-shroud ensemble, I would pick a spot with a view and soft sand, dig myself a narrow trench, and recline comfortably in it as the sun went down. A few shots of tequila and a handful of pills and I'd be sailing into the sunset. That seemed like a plan, if I could find some U of A student to sell me some fentanyl. Then I read some blogs about car camping and van life and learned about a concept known as pack-it-in-pack-it-out. Oh, man.

Apparently wet things don't compost in the desert! Argh. I'm a Willamette Valley girl, where people's skin grows moss and mold if they stop moving. I had no idea that when you leave organic litter behind in a desert campground, it doesn't compost. It desiccates. That means the moisture evaporates but the orange peels, French fries, apple cores, and bread crusts never disappear. The parched ground does not harbor the insects needed to turn organic waste into nice loamy compost. That means my dead body will linger on forever, like King Tut, until someone stumbles upon my peaceful overlook and discovers a gross mummy half-buried in sand clutching an empty bottle of tequila. Ick, you say? I agree. I would not want to leave that for someone to find. 

Hearing about George's story has resurrected some memories of my mother as she declined further into dementia. It's been over a year, but I don't think I'm over it yet. I wonder sometimes if I should seek professional help. Some of my friends are worried about me. I can imagine sitting across from some therapist in a Zoom room, trying to describe the past couple years. I can hear the young therapist saying, well, Carol, sounds like you have suffered some losses, but welcome to the club. You are not the only one suffering. Like, would that be helpful to hear? I don't think so. I say that to myself every day and it hasn't seemed to have improved my mental outlook. On the other hand, what if the therapist said, wow, Carol, you have really suffered some significant losses, it's amazing you are still able to function. If she said that, I would probably disintegrate into separate parts and completely cease to exist. I can't handle empathy, any more than I can handle gifts and hugs. I know. So self-centered. 

I am starting to realize that life after sixty-five for me looks like a process of coming to terms with my mortality and the mortality of others. For me, I don't weep. As my body betrays me, I muddle along from day to day with my usual grouchiness. However, I weep for other creatures near and far. I can't find the philosophical balance, that neutral spot where I can see suffering and not be devastated by it. I can't look at injustice and say, well, dictators will be dictators, let's all pray for their sorry-ass souls and keep on trucking. I can't accept that half the people in the U.S.A. would like the other half to die. Now I see that I was born and raised in a special place and time, in an oasis of peace and good health, insulated from reality. 

Getting in the car and driving until you get back home seems like a completely logical response. But if home no longer exists, where do you go?

Between here and there

When last we spoke, I mentioned that my nemesis, the check engine light, had returned to disturb my peaceful cat-sitting gig in Albuquerque. The day after Thanksgiving I drove to two places in a valiant but fruitless effort to get the problem resolved. One was closed for the holiday, the other was too busy, come back later. I pictured days of delay as I waited for parts and repairs. As it turned out, on Monday, when I started up the beast in the frigid early morning sunshine, the check engine light did not come on. Maybe there is a god.

The theme of my days seems to involve driving in circles. On Wednesday I got lost on my way to the airport to pick up my friend. I knew it would happen. It always does when I drive in the dark in an unfamiliar place, so I allowed plenty of time. My sense of direction deserts me in the dark. I won't mention what else deserts me. Suffice it to say, it's probably time for another eye exam.

I eventually found my way to the cell phone waiting area and dutifully waited with my cell phone on my lap and my feet wrapped in a big towel, thanking that possibly nonexistent higher power for helping me find the place. I don’t know why I fret. I always somehow manage to get to where I’m going.

That track record is reassuring; as long as I know where I’m going, I’ll eventually get there. Driving in circles on the way to my destination is sort of my personal motif. Ask any passenger I’ve ever had. Following a linear route on a map is something I aspire to but seldom achieve. My friend reminded me that there are phone apps to guide me. So far I have not successfully managed to get my old smartphone to talk. Maybe I haven't given it the old college try. My style is perhaps more elementary—I meander, geographically and otherwise, like a kindergartener wanders from puzzles to playhouse to play-doh. I’m okay with that, as long as I’m not in a hurry. Where I hit the metaphorical concrete bridge abutment is that moment when I realize I have no idea where I am going, that there is no destination other than death, and how and when I get to the final destination is almost completely out of my control.

Tucson looks different to me now, after driving to Albuquerque and back. It’s just another city. Just a place where my stuff happens to be, a place to land for a while. I haven’t experienced many cities in my lifetime. I can name them on one hand and still have fingers left over: Portland, Los Angeles, Tucson. Three cities in my sixty-five years. Does that seem like too few? Well, to be precise, I sampled two L.A.-adjacent neighborhoods that were actually cities: Santa Monica and Venice, to be specific. Maybe I’ll find something similar here—the Santa Monica of Tucson. Could that be Marana? Oro Valley? Neither one is a place I can afford, even if they have vacancies. You need real money to live here.

How can I make a decision about where to live if I haven’t lived but a handful of places? I’m chagrined to report, I moved to Los Angeles in 1977 sight unseen because my high school friend J had moved there, and also because Portland winters suck. I moved to Tucson in 2021 the same way. My defense in 1977 was that I was twenty and stupid. My defense in 2021 was COVID-19. I’m a lot older but possibly still stupid. Maybe it’s the way my brain rolls. It’s all or nothing. After Mom died, my choice seemed to be stay in one place and succumb to toxic black mold or pack up everything and move to a new city. I always knew I’d head south once I was free. I’m a creature of the sun. Tucson promised warm weather and affordable housing.

Nothing is every quite as advertised. Tucson has warm weather, yes, and also shocking heat waves, thrilling monsoon rains, walls of dust-filled wind, and the potential for ice in winter. Affordable housing, yes, if you don’t mind living in the demilitarized zone in a roach-infested motel-style apartment with noisy neighbors on four sides and the ever-present threat of burglaries and car thefts. I guess I should put affordable in quotation marks.

I drove for seven hours, crossing the desert between Albuquerque and Tucson, and as I covered the dusty miles, buffeted by speeding semi-trucks, pickup trucks, and motorhomes, I gradually stopped being afraid of Tucson. I found I had gained a new appreciation for this city. Maybe it's more like I achieved a sense of neutrality. I drove away before dawn on an unfamiliar highway into an unknown future and reentered the city on a hot afternoon, moving with the traffic, knowing exactly where to exit and how to find my way home.

Home. I’m using the word home now consciously, wearing it like a loose overcoat, trying it on for size, knowing the definition of home could quickly morph into something else.

I’ve seen a couple shy little dudes since my return. As long as they stay out of my bed, I don’t care. The next challenge to my peace of mind is the refrigerator, which is clearly gasping its death throes. It can no longer make ice or keep my yogurt cold. My new icebox is literally a box of ice. I can’t dredge up much angst. Yes, it is inconvenient, evidence that I unwittingly moved to the third world. On the plus side, the fridge no longer sounds like Darth Vader haunting my dreams. In addition, the ice cooler will be useful if I end up living in the belly of the beast.

Every moment is a new adventure

It's 449 miles between here and Albuquerque, a drive of approximately six and a half hours, or more like eight hours, the way I drive. I drive like my father, who coincidentally would have turned ninety-five today. Happy birthday, Pop. Your legacy lives on. I think of you whenever a semitruck blows me off the road. Well, what's the rush, right? I have one pace.

I'm driving to Albuquerque to cat-sit for a friend who is going out of town for the holiday. I'm thinking of this as another house-sitting job. I'm practicing for my new career. Yep. Intentional houselessness, here I come. I think. We'll see. I still have nine months on my lease. After that, who knows? Housing costs are going up everywhere, it appears, and so are Medicare premiums. 

My tentative plan is to dry up and blow away. I've achieved Stage 1 of my plan: contract osteoporosis. (Is osteoporosis something one can contract? I'm not sure. Mom had it so it's probably genetic. Which means Stage 2 will be dementia.)

My Tucson friend E has a dream of creating a hot springs oasis in the desert, a place to grow old soaking in hot water. I'm on board with that dream. I'd happily volunteer to be pool boy. Girl. Whatever I am. When all the hair migrates from your legs to your upper lip, gender tends to blur.

I published my second novel this week. Sorry I can't tell you what it is because this is an anonymous blog. Note to self: In the future, if you want to publicize your accomplishments, don't be anonymous. 

When I get back to Tucson, I have some medical and dental tasks on my calendar. It's not a surprise. I turned sixty-five and the grand vista of Medicare opened up before me. Over the past few years, I postponed my healthcare needs while I orbited my mother, knowing there would one day be a reckoning, and that reckoning has come.  

Is it true that we don't fall apart until we achieve the goal—then we relax and let go and everything falls apart? If that is a thing, then I am in trouble. I kept things together for five years, getting closer and closer to my own personal abyss as my mother inched closer to hers. (No, I did not push her off the cliff, although I thought about it, usually when I was mopping up her messes.) Now she's gone, and now it looks like the edge of my own cliff is crumbling under my feet. Maybe it's more like taking a used car to the mechanic. Fix one thing, get ready to fix everything. I got one tooth pulled and smithereens! 

What does smithereens look like? Thanks for asking. It's a systemic slow-motion mildly tragic disaster.  

My bone marrow, in its quest for sustenance, has apparently cannibalized my muscles, so now I'm a breakable stick with flaccid funbags. My joy at fitting into my old non-stretch Levi's has pretty much evaporated, because the pants no longer support my droopy butt. Now I look like an old baggy version of Mr. Green Jeans. I predict a hip replacement in my future, if I don't fall down and break them both first. 

My hair is falling out pretty much everywhere except my nose and upper lip. I have the beginnings of cataracts. I can't see well enough to pluck the whiskers from my upper lip but I can see my mother in the mirror just fine. This week, I think I somehow managed to contract a hernia. Is that a thing? Germs are everywhere, who knows, hernias could be, too. I wear my mask at the store, but hernias could be spewing out through the ventilation system, how would I know, until I bust a gut lifting my grocery bags into the car? I blame politics. 

On the bright side, I went for a bike ride on the bike path with my Tucson friend E. Luckily there weren't many up hills and down dales; thus, I managed to pedal the whole way and back without falling in the Rillito River or getting bit by a Gila monster. I thought there was a better than fifty-fifty chance either my brain would give out or my body would give up, but neither one came to pass. Once again, I discover I am capable of more than I thought. I am not a quitter in most things, but sometimes I give up on myself too soon.

Well, it's not time to give up yet. However, if dementia is in the cards for me, I have a plan. I hope it is a long distance in the future, because the plan is pretty vague at this point. The plan depends on many factors, few of which are in my control. However, I think it will involve hot springs, warm blue skies, good friends, something tasty to drink, and a few magical pills. 

Meanwhile, I have miles to go, people to enjoy, stories to write, and places to see. Until I reach the end of the road, the road trip continues. 

On becoming a rock star

Have fun staying poor. Apparently that is a meme in the bitcoin world, a member of which I am not, in case you were wondering. Selling virtual art through nonfungible tokens seems like a Faustian bargain. Artists deserve to be paid for their work, yes, maybe. But do we have to sacrifice the health and well-being of the planet (and humankind) in the process? Maybe we need to redefine what we consider art. For example, artists have spent countless hours trying to replicate the phenomenon of sunlight on a lake. Now that art can be turned into an NFT, thanks to the massive computing power facilitated by coal-fired power plants and natural gas, is that really what we should do? What if, instead of auctioning off NFTs of sunlight on a lake, we simply appreciated the actual sunlight on a lake? Just a thought.

I don't have plans to create NFTs. I am on a mission to prove to myself it is possible to have fun staying poor. In nine months, I will be moving from the Bat Cave. I don't know yet where I am going, I just know that this is not the place to stay for another year. I am reframing my experience as a rock star tour, which means I'm some kind of rock star. Stay tuned to find out what kind.

I can hear you saying, rock star tour! But Carol, what is that? Thanks for asking. You know how musicians go on the road with their music? They start out sleeping in Volkswagen vans, occasional motels, and decrepit cab-over RVs and eventually graduate to 40-foot long, 36-ton Prevost mansions on wheels? They travel from town to town, stage to stage, building community and selling CDs? Right? I don't have a community or a CD to sell, but that's okay. You gotta start somewhere. In about nine months, I'll be starting my rock star tour. 

I've got the van, and this week, it's running well, no lights clamoring for attention, no bells clanging in my face. I drove it to Tempe this week to fetch a cheap mattress from IKEA. It was great. The two-hour drive going north was blocked by a traffic jam a few miles from my exit and I didn't even mind. The air was warm, the desert mountains were beautiful, and the radio played oldies from the 60s and 70s. Returning south was even better. I sang aloud until the station faded to static, feeling happy for the first time in a long time. I like the Bat Cave, despite the little dudes, but it doesn't feel like home. I'm just passing through. 

I get the feeling I'm not the only one. Tucson feels like a temporary town, as if it were built for filming a western and will be dismantled after the shooting wraps. Many of the homes here in the west part of the city (at least along the main thoroughfares) are trailer homes, parked in communities on land that belongs to absentee landlords. By definition, these abodes are temporary. Big Tonka Toy trucks move these prefab buildings out of one park and into another. The "homeowners" own the trailer but not the land it sits on, which is how landowners get rich. These landlord landowners farm out the landlording to property management companies, who get rich by pandering to owners and exploiting tenants. 

Some mobile home parks are like little Disneyland villages. The roads are paved, the homes are painted in appropriate desert colors and lined up neatly to the grid, the palms and saguaros are trimmed. White gravel front yards shine in the sun, decorated with ceramic figurines and pinwheels. The main clue to quality is the presence of an iron gate across the entrance to the park.

Most mobile home parks here on the west side look like they were settled by a caravan of squatters running on fumes. They parked their vintage Airstreams in haphazard rows and let the tires go flat. These parks are a mixture of abandoned RVs, travel trailers, and mobile homes arranged randomly as if placed by a blind crane operator. There are no gates or yards. In some cases, there are no roads, just paths of dirt and dust barely wide enough for a pickup truck. Awnings are bent or missing. Windows are broken and patched with tape. Trees are scarce. Some of the little travel trailers look like they are one monsoon away from blowing into Cochise County. 

You can tell who has money. The residents who live in the pristine mobile home parks head north for the summer. Someone picks up their mail and flushes their toilets. The lifers are the ones living in old travel trailers that will never travel again. They are stuck here year-round; summer or winter, going nowhere. 

Life is a temporary condition. Moving on is a time-honored human endeavor. I'm warming to the idea that I am a temporary resident of a temporary town. Blowing through in slow motion. Pausing for a year to savor the wildness of this place, and then letting the wind blow me someplace else. Fun, eh? How many people get to pretend to be rock stars? I'm thanking the luck that birthed me in this place and time. Not everyone has the privilege of choosing how and when they leap into the abyss.