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The Living Without Series

This is a series of posts that I wrote back in 2006 on living with less stuff. Check them out: liv011Living #2liv031liv04

Coal Creek Farm on Facebook

The Chicken Doctor


The Architect


I left my husband

 on the side of the road.

Because when he asked me where my camera was I said, “I don’t know, probably in one of the places I usually set it, the kitchen counter, by my computer, in my purse, but I don’t remember setting it down.”  Then he gave me one of my April lectures about remembering where I put stuff, taking care of my things and you should know that cameras don’t just grow on trees, blah, blah, vlah, gaaah!  So then, in pure April fashion I think I asked him if he’d looked up certain personal body cavities to see if maybe I SHOVED the camera up there. 
Then I dug deep into my memory.  Where did I set it?  Where?  When did I have it last?  When?  A sweet realization unclouded my mind, I wasn’t the last person to be in contact with my camera.  “Hey Hon, think you had it last when you were taking pictures of the combine.”
The look on his face.  Guilty-Guilty-GUILTY!  “I left it on top of the van,” he said sheepishly avoiding eye contact.  “WHAT?!!!  WHYEEEE?!”  “Seth asked me to go play catch with him and I set it up there to keep it off the ground, I was going to get it later.”  I kept my mouth shut.  So tightly pursed were my lips, I didn’t dare open my mouth lest the out pour of profane accusations would surely sear the inner lining of my mouth leaving me violently scarred and foaming for life. 
I replayed the events that had occurred the evening before.  While driving into town with  my daughter we had heard a thud that sounded like I had hit something on the road.  Looking desperately in my rear view mirror I couldn’t explain the source.  “Mom! Did you hit something?”  “No, I don’t think so, I can’t see anything, maybe there’s something in the back of the van moving around,”  and that’s how I left it, no harm-no foul.  We went shopping, got a coffee and went to a movie.  Then we drove the three miles back home.
Clay and I got in the van.  He was peppering me with questions, “How far down the road were you when you heard the thud?  Was it on our road?  The main road?”  I answered him with my laser beam eyeballs carving BIG STUPID BUTTHEAD across his forehead.  How far down the road?  The road that is straight as an arrow with grass growing in both ditches and fields as far as the eye can see?  How far down the road?  Hell.  He cautiously reached for my rigid hand to gently pat it.  Like an untamed animal I jerked away and snarled my lip, a low growl emitting from my throat.  What good would looking for the camera do?  It was certainly a pile of black plastic pieces blowing across the prairie by now.  
There we were driving at a slant with one wheel in the ditch, our heads hanging out the windows like a couple of dogs out for a ride.  We found every man-made shiny object ever thrown out of a car window; cans, bottles, wrappers.  Each time we spotted something our hope would rise and then instantly be dashed with despair, no camera.  It took about two miles and three minutes for me to decide this was not fun and I needed to get back to the house to shop for a new camera, but instead I said, “I need to go home to get the biscuits out of the oven.”  Clay offered to get out and walk back home so he could search further for the camera and I saw no need to argue with that plan.  What I wanted to do was dramatically spin the van around in several donuts while spewing gravel at my husbands head, but instead I drove off slowly pretending to look in the opposite ditch for the camera. 
When I got home I noticed that the farmer and his family were all congregated at the edge of the field preparing to resume the corn harvest.  Crap.  I was wearing my obnoxiously bright and very baggy pajama pants and ratty t-shirt, no bra, no shoes.  I could probably get to the house unnoticed if I just waited for them to get into their farm vehicles and start working.  And that plan would have worked splendidly if my 5yo wouldn’t have poked his head out the door and started yelling,”MOM!  MOM!  MOM, where are you?!  The oven in buzzing!  MOM!  MOOOOOOOM?”  All my desperate hand waving and shushing from inside the van did no good.  When he saw me he made his way toward the van, opened the door and without turning down his volume said, “MOM!  THE OVEN IS BUZZING!”  Okay, okay, fine, what’s wrong with a woman driving up to her house early in the morning, popping out of her vehicle  in her pajamas?  That’s not strange, right?  I justified it all in my head.  They’ll think I was sleep driving or maybe I just needed to, to, to.  Sigh.  Ah geez, it’s weird, there was no getting around it.  I did my best to wedge my son between me and the view from the field, hopefully blocking the fact that I was shoeless and wearing pajama pants…….to be continued.
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