Tiffany and I are fully aware that the rains are coming. Every time I mention how much I'm enjoying it here, some naysayer tells me, "just wait 'til it starts raining" the same way bitter parents used to tell me "well, just wait 'til you have kids". Apparently, unhappy folks get some sick satisfaction from predicting unhappiness for others. I'm gonna start predicting happiness for these tedious little tree sloths. I'll tell 'em "just wait til' thursday, it's gonna be awesome!". Nonetheless, we have felt some pressure to figure out how to deal with the impending precipitation. 5 mammals in a 23 foot aluminum can for four months could be a violent disaster. I think Sasha and Tiffany would probably survive, but I wouldn't dare chance a guess on the outcome of Rottwieler versus psychiatrist. ("But how do you FEEL about biting my leg?") So we've remodeled the trailer a bit, taking out the dinette and replacing it with a single bench and side table which seems to double the space for hanging out and gives Stella more room to run around trying to put swim goggles on her cabbage patch doll. As if poor Reggie didn't already look a little "special".
The good things about the trailer park are really good. Our neighbor Larry lost the use of his right hand from a stroke but can still take apart his Harley and show me how the clutch works. His wife, Lolly, is sweeter than a honey-covered christmas card and always brings blueberries and soup bones over for Stella and the dogs. (the dogs, of course, politely refuse the berries) Our neighbors across the street bring Stella hand-me down toys and fresh plums. The location is unbelievable; on the edge of a forest, 2 miles from downtown on the bike trail. And, best of all, someone else cleans the bathrooms. The bad things are not that bad, but tend to get to you after a while. Our trailer is apparently a miraculous cure for canine constipation and all of the older dogs in the park take advantage of it's healing properties. There are a handful of folks here that I have deputized as honorary kentuckians for their ability to make an entire street look bad by scattering fast food containers, broken appliances, and ill-mannered children around their yard.
Tiff and I have been trying to figure out how to make the impending rainy season a bit more livable. I argued in favor of buying a bus, she leaned towards sharing a house with some like minded hippies. My favorite thing about our relationship (well, maybe second favorite thing really) is our mutual intuition. Anything that we both immediately agree on is always the right idea. in an effort to find some common ground we went to look at a 1987 airstream bus as a possible option for increasing our livable space. Very cool indeed, but neither of us had a gut reaction towards it. Finally after a full day of bouncing ideas around we both saw a picture of a tipi online, and looking each other in the eye, we knew, without speaking, that we had found an answer.
(picture: Stella learns the joy of the camelback and clif bars)
Coincidence is a trail sign for the enlightened wanderer. We had planned to take a few days to head over to Bend and check out the mountains and found out that the finest tipis are made there by a company called Nomadics Tipis. We loaded the smaller mammals into the van and headed out for a few days of camping, hiking, eating and late-night campground merriment followed by a trip to tipi-land to order our new addition. We hauled our "healthy" daughter up to ten thousand feet and back, swam in a beautiful lake, and ate some fine food. I have to laugh every time we wake up in the van with Stella and the dogs; there is truly no space unused. If one mammal moves, so must another. It's the epitome of family for sure. We're back in town for a while until the Martin and Short clans unite in Portland in a couple of weeks.
(picture: the summit of south sister outside of Bend; about 10,000 feet)
Tiffany and I are fully aware that the rains are coming. Every time I mention how much I'm enjoying it here, some naysayer tells me, "just wait 'til it starts raining" the same way bitter parents used to tell me "well, just wait 'til you have kids". Apparently, unhappy folks get some sick satisfaction from predicting unhappiness for others. I'm gonna start predicting happiness for these tedious little tree sloths. I'll tell 'em "just wait til' thursday, it's gonna be awesome!". Nonetheless, we have felt some pressure to figure out how to deal with the impending precipitation. 5 mammals in a 23 foot aluminum can for four months could be a violent disaster. I think Sasha and Tiffany would probably survive, but I wouldn't dare chance a guess on the outcome of Rottwieler versus psychiatrist. ("But how do you FEEL about biting my leg?") So we've remodeled the trailer a bit, taking out the dinette and replacing it with a single bench and side table which seems to double the space for hanging out and gives Stella more room to run around trying to put swim goggles on her cabbage patch doll. As if poor Reggie didn't already look a little "special".
The good things about the trailer park are really good. Our neighbor Larry lost the use of his right hand from a stroke but can still take apart his Harley and show me how the clutch works. His wife, Lolly, is sweeter than a honey-covered christmas card and always brings blueberries and soup bones over for Stella and the dogs. (the dogs, of course, politely refuse the berries) Our neighbors across the street bring Stella hand-me down toys and fresh plums. The location is unbelievable; on the edge of a forest, 2 miles from downtown on the bike trail. And, best of all, someone else cleans the bathrooms. The bad things are not that bad, but tend to get to you after a while. Our trailer is apparently a miraculous cure for canine constipation and all of the older dogs in the park take advantage of it's healing properties. There are a handful of folks here that I have deputized as honorary kentuckians for their ability to make an entire street look bad by scattering fast food containers, broken appliances, and ill-mannered children around their yard.
Tiff and I have been trying to figure out how to make the impending rainy season a bit more livable. I argued in favor of buying a bus, she leaned towards sharing a house with some like minded hippies. My favorite thing about our relationship (well, maybe second favorite thing really) is our mutual intuition. Anything that we both immediately agree on is always the right idea. in an effort to find some common ground we went to look at a 1987 airstream bus as a possible option for increasing our livable space. Very cool indeed, but neither of us had a gut reaction towards it. Finally after a full day of bouncing ideas around we both saw a picture of a tipi online, and looking each other in the eye, we knew, without speaking, that we had found an answer.
Coincidence is a trail sign for the enlightened wanderer. We had planned to take a few days to head over to Bend and check out the mountains and found out that the finest tipis are made there by a company called Nomadics Tipis. We loaded the smaller mammals into the van and headed out for a few days of camping, hiking, eating and late-night campground merriment followed by a trip to tipi-land to order our new addition. We hauled our "healthy" daughter up to ten thousand feet and back, swam in a beautiful lake, and ate some fine food. I have to laugh every time we wake up in the van with Stella and the dogs; there is truly no space unused. If one mammal moves, so must another. It's the epitome of family for sure. We're back in town for a while until the Martin and Short clans unite in Portland in a couple of weeks.
Adaptation is the key to survival. Stella, like all her proto-human peers, quickly melds into any given situation with a level of grace and casual aplomb that clearly must have skipped a generation. Here she is in the trailer park, installing some 10 ply lugs for winter. Who knew that a 15 month old could be so handy with a lug wrench?
Here's the latest incarnation of our sardine can. As dreary oregon weather begins to creep in, we are realizing that our frolicksome experiment with small-space living has been successful because the weather has been downright courteous. Recently, our late night bickering has been focused on moving further into the country, buying a bus, or renting a house. The summation of motorcycles, skateboards, dog poo, and a sketchy dude named randal has begun to erode the silver lining off of trailer park living. we'll see...
Stella has taken to toddling like slime on a slug. I swear we have three daughters now; every time I turn around she's 50 feet away from the last place I saw her. If anybody has any leads on a design for a baby magnet; email me immediately.
The bathroom key is the small hinge upon which our comfort swings in the trailer park. The bathrooms here are clean, airy, and well stocked with toilet paper, soap and towels. But woe be the full-bladdered midnight pilgrim who has forgotten his key. The double trip from trailer to lavatory is a punishment for the forgetful on these cool oregon nights. 
Charming and persuasive conversationalist that I am, I'm still managing to get worn out on hearing what I think about things. We're really statring to feel the absence of our friends and family. If you're out there, look at your schedule and figure out when you're coming. There's no friends like old friends.
How to make a burning man milkshake: 1)Take a family reunion and throw it in the blender with a full-moon pagan freak-out. 2) Pour in 50,000 half dressed monkeys and drop a Miami nightclub on top. 3) Serve warm, very warm, and drink it every night for a week with 15 shots of tequila for a chaser.
Burning man is not for the faint of heart. Pounding rusty rebar into the desert in the middle of a 40 mph sand storm at night after being awake for 48 hours makes you feel like you've earned the right to drink and dance a bit. Dodging flames, lasers, and poorly driven couches while keeping the beat takes a mixture of fatalism and reflexes that guarantees that your fellow attendees are not only sincere but charmingly insane.
Our lives are defined by the events that sucker-punch us out of our routines. The weddings, car-crashes, and birth-screams that rattle our cage with the chill breath of real living deserve prayers of thanks. Last week I ate a bologna sandwich in fishnets to the conflicting soundtracks of Neil Diamond and norwegian heavy metal. I saw my daughter charm the smug calm out of a yogi in a desert tent surrounded by fire-spinning jugglers. I watched new friends succumb to the riptide of freedom and wander home in green fur hats telling red furry stories.
No, burning man is not for the faint of heart, but neither is love and more that any other whiz-bang collision of light sound and sweat, I found joy in the friends and chosen family that was Kentucky Friend Camp this year. 1700 bologna sandwiches, 20 gallons of bourbon and relentless hospitality surely brought a taste of the bluegrass state to the west coast.
