It’s May 31st. I moved to the mountains for many reasons, one of them being shorter summers, so could someone please explain to me why it’s nearly 90 degrees? At least there’s no humidity. But there’s plenty of dirt – and in this arid environment it becomes dust which will cover you from head to toe. I especially like the way it feels caked inside my nose…not.
Same with the dog: our cute, fuzzy little white terrier looks more like a mini brown and white cow. He was so filthy he left a ring of dirt on the floor around his food dish. We gave him a bath and now he doesn’t even want to get out of the car. He’s had enough of it too.
My spousal-type unit says “building a house is fun.” Well, sure it is, I thought, whilst imagining myself supervising a crew of young, shirtless, muscular bodies. I hadn’t envisioned there would be only two bodies and I would be one of them. Digging is not fun. Digging three feet of trench when you only needed two is even less fun. Then add to that the dust, the heat, the unforgiving sun, the flies and the $11 rubber boots; and I think I can honestly say I’m about as far from “fun” as a gal can get. Unless, of course, you consider shoveling rocks while wearing convection ovens on your feet as you swat flies in Calcutta a grand old time.
Fun? Fun is driving back from the beach with the top down and stopping for delicious homemade ice cream at a dairy stand. Fun is writing about the people who have wronged me, humiliating them for eternity in my novels. Fun is capturing a wild animal or new bird species on ‘film.’
My people were slaves 6000 years ago – building the pyramids for the Pharaohs – so I guess somewhere in my constitution I was made to survive this hard labor. But call it fun? Aw, hell…maybe it is…just a little.
K. S. Brooks