Can’t find my way home
A good start to the day (any day, said my grandmother) is a trip to church, where we can join in community with our neighbours, if they happen to hold a similar set of view to our own. The real communal experience is outside, afterward, when the assembled multitude gather to exchange with their kith and kin. In the absence of a local coffeeshop, this is where the news is passed along.
The topics are never mundane. The political misallocation of pelagic fish stocks. The proliferation of gargantuan whirly-gigs, now that the proper attachment to the continental power grid is active. The redistribution of the catchment basin for primary education populations. The weather. In all, just about any topic is fit, as long as you know the mindset of your colocutors.
And then an afternoon in the sun. Or spent driving up and down shore roads, seeking the elusive sale property that will satisfy. I still can’t find my way home. Prices are too high. The lane is too long. The finish inside would have to be rethought. But, by gum, we’ve just begun. If we could have one rainy day with a rainbow that led to a pot of gold, the fix would be in.
The campground is running in quiet mode. We still have no close neighbours, and the shower water is hot. Almost as if the rest of the vacationing world had passed us by. Not the coyotes, though; heard the familiar yippee-i-o last evening.
