Family Reunion Non-Violent
June 10, 2008
We don’t know what happened to Allen, our cousin, the last of the clan. He was the only missing link for the First Annual Casey Camp Reunion sans Phil and Polly. My daughter came with her architect hunk, Steve came with son Ryan, I was protected by my bodyguard, Matt, who sat stoically throughout the proceedings, making small talk with my blood brothers. En route to the airport, when he was leaving for D.C. - he asked my younger brother many questions. One being, “What happened to Laurel? Why did she turn out this way? My brother just told him straight out. He wasn’t phased and why should he be? Most intelligent men are looking for a muse who will kick them in the ass and make them more than Capitalist Slaves, bring out their subversive, Buddhist inner selves. Drop out. Like the Beat-niks. Beat. Tired. Fed up with Fed Ex. The long weekend went swimmingly in 90 degree humidity. No fights. No hurt feelings. A family reset sans parents. the shake-down, the identity application and acceptance. Big steps forward. Me, in bikini, with dimpled thighs, legs and arms uncovered during our Stone Skipping Tournament. I relegate to Grandmother Preparedness Status. Lots of alcoholic drinking. The old stand-by Bloody Mary, an excuse to suck down Vodka before noon. How Continental. Everyone is leaving tomorrow, and I will be alone again, watching my garden, eating left-overs, scraping together the monies for a large electric bill. All is well. Time continues. Where are the grandchildren? Do we dare hope for them? Is it selfish to request another generation when we know the earth would be better off without them? The slow dying out of our species would be a world wide celebration for all remaining life forms. My woman hood is damaged by Hillary’s defeat. Let it be recorded herein: I do not trust Obama and I have no idea why. He is a good man, but there is something else going on. Stay tuned. Meanwhile, my Volvo only gets 21 miles to the gallon. My bank account cries with gas station debit card deductions. I tried to slow down for awhile and stop driving away from Camp Casey. I went crazy. As a gypsy, I need to move. I will substitute food for gas. A can of sardines can be had for 1.98. Three cans a week, voila, there is your protein. The rest is easy. beans. beans. Beans. I am planning a trip across the country in October- first stop Kansas City, second stop El Paso, third stop San Francisco. Will sleep in the back of the Volvo. Will we Baby-Boomers regress and embrace what once was our birthright? Movement? I predict a rebellion against cocooning and fanatic addiction to our homes. Sell it all. Get on the road. Laden down with junk, and as time passes, all the photos and memorabilia stuffed in the closets. Any day now, we are all going to take to the road for one last adventure. Burn the last of the oil. evaporate the coveted natural resources, force the next generation to harness solar power. It can’t be that difficult. Meanwhile, we still live in an age of steak and barbecue grills, air conditioning and road trips, convenient garbage disposal sites, unmitigated recklessness, which to me makes life worth living. What happens when I cannot fly to Morocco or San Francisco after budgeting madly? What if the world shrinks and we are forced to stay in one place unless we join a wagon train? Will we burrow in and settle down? I hope not. Geographic committment encourages tiny minds. I do not believe in community now that the National Bank of Middlebury has proven to be just another group of thugs. Small town life is dangerous. It encourages us to march straight. It is the end of expansive thought and crazy dreams. I will take my gray hair with me as I drift across the globe without health insurance or husband.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.