Monday, May 7
Early this morning the crew and I go shopping. I pick up fence repair stuff: hardware cloth, tie wire, snips.
Also a few lawn and garden tools: loppers, leaf rake, hoe, 75-foot hose with nozzle.
A run-grab-pay-and-go for groceries: orange juice, a cantaloupe, avocados on sale, yogurt. Household stuff: smoke detector, trash can, sink stopper.
Over to the post office:
I pick up keys for our “cluster mailbox.” (Our first snail mail is a welcome letter from the gas company informing me an eighty dollar deposit is required in order to keep the gas flowing.)
We’re home again before 10 a.m.
“Time to thwart your plans, boys.”
I set to work closing the gaps in the fence.
I’m glad I’m a morning person because that’s the time to get things done when you live in southern Arizona!
Temperatures have been going into the 90s this week. I’m not liking my plan to live in the air conditioning of the BLT while connected to the house power. It doesn’t make sense.
For instance . . .
It’s 94 degrees outside. I walk into the house and it’s wonderfully cool. I check the digital thermometer at the thermostat: 77 degrees.
I should move into the house! Why do I think I need furniture? I’ve been living just fine with what I have in the BLT.
I spring into action.
Well, maybe “spring” isn’t the right word. After all, it is hot.
Methodically I transfer stuff from the BLT to the house. I place the cushions I’ve slept on for almost seven years on the floor of the back bedroom and make up my bed. I bring in the lounger, one of the plastic dressers, the computer table, the camp chair, and the crew’s beds.
I run the house air conditioner for an hour or so.
This is great! We will be very comfortable all summer. I’ll empty the BLT completely and give her a super cleaning.
That reminds me . . . .
This property enables me to give the BLT’s waste tanks a good flushing out. The house has an access to its septic system, what is commonly called “a clean-out.” Unfortunately it is in an inconvenient location where I need over 20 feet of sewer hose to reach it.
No problemo! I have an extension hose on its way from Amazon!
The transition . . .
Tonight will be our first night sleeping in the house!
Fresh from the shower and wearing a cotton nightie, I head out through the cool air to the Best Little Trailer. Suddenly, as I’m closing the door, I’m struck with a pang of . . . of what?
Sadness? No. Regret? Oh, no.
No, this is not the end. I’ll greet the morning in wild places again.
I’ll watch the sun send its rays through pine boughs or burst its bright light across desert washes.
No, there has to be more . . . .
Sunsets will turn this little home pink again. Grasslands will roll in gold before me. Through this window I’ll hear the timeless melodies of woodland streams, the sounds of nature’s nightlife.
The boys will sleep soundly, worn out from running and playing, while moonlit clouds float above. I’ll fall to sleep wondering where tomorrow’s road will take us and where our next home will be under the stars.
Good night, best little trailer. I’ll be back.
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