Coffee heat rising

Back at the Ranch….

Gosh, I miss our wonderful old ranch, up on the Mogollon Rim outside of Yarnell. What a beautiful place!! And what fun, what charm, living out in the middle of nowhere, on the bank of a lovely river, ten minutes out of a rustic cowboy town.

Today, walking around our once-suburban, now wholly citified neighborhood, I think of how much I wish I was still up on that ranch.

Ruby and I circumnavigate the park…all very nice, all very boring. We walk up to the tract’s northernmost border, the road I used to drive into town when I lived with my parents in Sun City and commuted to a downtown law firm five days a week. Back in the Day, this whole area was agricultural. The ‘Hood occupies tracts that once were filled with citrus trees and cotton fields. Now those fields grow houses. Most of them ugly, cheaply built houses.

We walk past our elderly friend’s house: she who has disappeared. Clearly. she’s not there. Whether she got locked up in an old-folkerie or whether she lucked out and passed away before that could happen, I dunno. But…her house doesn’t appear to be vacant.

She told me she was willing the house to her son, who lives elsewhere. She wanted him to be able to do as he wished with it: sell it and collect a chunk of cash, or keep it as a local outpost for when he comes into town.

The house hasn’t been shoveled out. It’s still being maintained by her regular yard crew. But nobody appears to be there. If she’d passed on, surely her son would have unloaded the place. So…well…I imagine she’s still clinging to life. Such as  it is.

{sigh}

Duck for Cover!!!!!

What…
A….
Place!!!!!

Here I yam, trying to sizzle a nice steak on the ‘Cue. And there the cops are: circling, circling, circling in their copter.

They’ve been buzzing the intersection to the north of us for the past 30 minutes. This means…

  • A sh!thead has been reported to 911; they’re tryin’ to catch him.
  • A major wreck has happened at the accursed intersection: chaos and horror.
  • The cops are confused as heck.

WhatEVER. How could we do without it? Let us count the ways….

Sit down to write this: Cop copter parks over the house.

Where the HELL is my .38?

 

 

 

Colder ‘n a Bigawd…

…as my father used to say. Things were

…colder than a bigawd
…hotter than a bigawd
…faster than a bigawd
…slower than a bigawd
…bigger than a bigawd

…and so on to infinity.

LOL! His language had a lot of dialectal characteristics. So I never knew whether one of his characteristic turns of phrase was something out of the Deep South, something from West Texas, some kind of translation from Choctaw, or…just an idiosyncrasy of his own.

Whatever…evidently there were quite a few quasi-divine figures, wherever he came from 😀

His mother’s people were Choctaw Indians, a group that migrated westward out of the Deep South as fortunes were to be made annihilating herds of buffalo in the central plains.

Interestingly, he had bright blue eyes, a characteristic I always imagined was inherited from his gringo father. But…come to find out: Choctaw people could be blue-eyed, too!  Who knew, eh?

At any rate…he indulged any number of entertaining dialectal turns of phrase. The opposite of colder than a bigawd, for example, would have been hotter than a two-dollar cookstove.

Just now, as we scribble, it’s colder than billy-be-damned out in the backyard. Not much warmer in here, either.

LOL!

The hour grows late. The human wears out.. And so… a-w-a-a-y!

Wow! Sprouts: OUTTA THERE

Okay. This evening tore it: I ain’t a-goin’ back to our Sprouts, no way no how!

How many times do you have to be hustled over your plastic grocery bag to get sick of it?

How many times do you have to be panhandled in the parking lot to get sick of it?

How many times do you have to tell the cashier NO, you’re not paying for a plastic bag, before they’re allowed to be free?

Gaaaahhh!

Out the door, headed for the parking lot….there to be intercepted by a female panhandler. She ain’t takin’ “no” for an answer. I have to charge and push my way around her to get to my car. Manage to dodge into it, start the engine, and drive away from her, irked.

Yeah.

The plastic grocery bag: NO, I am not paying for a plastic bag. Therefore, NO, my groceries don’t get bagged. Therefore, packing the groceries out of the shopping cart into the back of my car delays my escape from the hustling panhandler.

True: we do not live in the greatest of neighborhoods. And true: the Sprouts parking lot is crawling with nuisances. (Not so much, the Albertson’s lot across the road: not since they hired an armed security guard to stand out there and watch the comings and goings.)

Should I know better than to shop at that Sprouts?

Yes.

But… It’s a drive to the next closest Sprouts; it’s coming onto dusk; I don’t wanna drive across the city in the dark to buy a few minor items. Yes, I could buy the stuff at AJ’s, just down the road or the Albertson’s across the street: for about three times what Sprouts charges.

Yet… {sigh} I’m afraid that after this I’ll be burning gas to shop at the Walmart on Dunlap, at the Sprouts on 20th Street, at the AJ’s on Camelback. Enough, after all, is enough.

What could be better….?

…Than a neighbor’s kid?

😀

The young lesbians catty-corner across the street are outside with friends, along with a couple of absurdly adorable small children. EGAD, but I love other people’s kids!

Migawd, kids are wonderful!  But they’re particularly wonderful when you don’t have to put them to bed. Or haul them out of bed in the morning and drag them off to school.

LOL! This is why I absolutely positively would NOT want to live in Sun City, not ever again. True: I don’t want to work like a horse, ever again, taking care of the offspring. But I do get a hoot out of kids…especially the ones that belong to the neighbors.

One of the reasons my parents chose to retire to Sun City in fact was that my father hated the sound of children playing. He liked to take an afternoon nap (because he regularly worked a swing shift)…and few things annoyed him more than being kept awake by kids hollering.

And it wasn’t just that he disliked kiddie noise. He really, truly didn’t like kids. It’s kind of surprising that my mother was able to persuade him to have even one brat. But she insisted I was dearly, desperately desired.

Apparently that was so…yea verily, she had a series of miscarriages before I popped out. But after that, she seems never to have tried again.

Hmmmm…..

She was severely malnourished as a child growing up in New England. As  an adult, she had skeletal deformities that resulted from poor nutrition and lack of sunlight. So my guess is that she in fact did have a difficult time carrying a pregnancy to term.

I wonder to what extent (if any) her malnourishment as a child affected my development as a child and/or even my own pregnancy. Apparently a wide variety of effects occur, and many last for a lifetime. {sigh} Makes me feel horribly sad to think that my mother suffered the consequences of malnutrition because her grandparents lived on a dirt farm and couldn’t afford the amount or types of food needed for a kid to grow into a healthy adult.

At any rate… Other people’s kids, eh?

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

A Seller’s Personality

Yes, I do love driving around and around, looking at real estate...occasionally even getting out of the car and touring an open house.

It’s a trait I seem to have inherited from my mother. She also loved to look at open houses — in Southern California, before we moved to the desiccated spaces of lovely Arizona. Great fun, it is: to look at what’s selling for how much, and how the other two-thirds live.

She could have been exceptionally good at the Realtor’s job, because she did have a saleswoman’s personality: friendly, empathetic, interested in other people.

My house: perfect for two people. Good for two people and one or two kids. Probably tolerable for two adults and as many as four kids. Six would be pushin’ it…but an enthusiastic parent could do it. I suppose.

There’s so much good fun to look at, here in the ‘Hood.

Just got back from Ruby’s evening perambulation. We have to walk around the large central park, which encompasses several acres. This evening as we traipsed past, we got to watch a couple of serious soccer games in progress.

Several Latin American leagues show up at the park, come evening. These appear not, by and large, to be Mexican, but probably clubs from South America. They play soccer, they play soccer, and they play soccer…with élan. Great fun to watch them. If I had no dog in tow, if I had nothin’ else to do…I’d stop and watch a whole game. Could I converse with them in Spanish? More or less. But Portuguese? Prob’ly not so much. But oh my: they’re fun to watch.

What does that have to do with selling houses? Prob’ly nothing…except, I suppose, you have to like people and you have to engage their doings in order to persuade them to buy things from you. Especially expensive things.