In the pre-dawn darkness this morning, Miss Smudge took her sweet time deciding what to do and where. I didn’t mind the wait — the air was warmer than it has any right to be on the 17th of November. Winds were calm. I was comfortable without a jacket.
The happy Heeler and I tripped solar-powered motion lights on the RV and the power pole as we walked along the driveway. None of the stake lights were on, though, nor were the string lights over the picnic table. They’d glowed only briefly after sundown before fading, owing to an overcast Thursday.
I looked out over the woods across the road. Leaves have thinned considerably now. More than a dozen lights twinkled at me through the trees, shining from distant farms and homesteads to our west and north. None were clustered together, a reminder of how thinly this territory is settled.
When we say that a neighbor lives “next-door” or “nearby,” it’s just a figure of speech. Folks are flung far ’round here.
I came back inside and sat down with my coffee. The living space was clean and tidy, the result of Deb’s labor while I built the loft on Wednesday. Housekeeping had been done in anticipation of company coming yesterday.
We hosted three friends who drove down from Missouri, meeting us for lunch at Carolyn’s Razorback Ribs before following us back to The Mountain. For all it was their first visit — though they’d seen photos and read what we write, yesterday they saw our Home firsthand.
I won’t speak for them, but my sense is that they think it’s pretty cool.
Our focus this morning was getting Deb to an 11am appointment in Yellville — a job interview at a local bank. I brought her coffee in bed around 7:30am and then stayed out of her way until she was ready to leave.
Her broken foot still prevents her from driving, so I shuttled her to town. We figured the interview would consume 45 minutes, meaning that I had a little time to kill.
Less than two miles away was Crooked Creek access at The Fred. That’s where I went, just to see what it looks like in mid-November, and I had the place to myself.
It wasn’t as cold as it might look in those photos. Quite balmy, really, in the upper 60s.
Deb’s interview ran almost two hours — a good sign, though it’s still early in the hiring process. We had lunch at Laura’s Mexican Kitchen before returning to The Mountain.
As autumn comes to a close, I’ve had this recurring thought, prompted by what I observe from the homesite. I’ve hesitated to say it out loud for fear that it’d sound grandiose, an exaggeration, untrue. Today I’m just gonna say it.
We don’t simply live on The Mountain — we live in the mountains.
See what I mean?
I’ve stood atop jagged peaks in the Rockies. I’ve hiked the rugged flanks of the Appalachians. Higher points in Texas, South Dakota and elsewhere are called “hills,” and I know that The Ozarks is, technically, a region of plateaus.
But I’ll tell you what — come here and stand where I stand, and see what I see, and then try to tell me that we don’t live in the mountains.
In this season, the unseen is revealed. The landscape is showing itself. Long ridges, wide valleys, the great rocky sentinel behind me rising hundreds of feet over my head, all seem to have moved toward me over the last couple of weeks. Day by day they come closer, their presence magnified.
It’s the damnedest thing.
How far have we come in a year?
Those two images tell part of the story. This time last November, we had a brand-new driveway (the base of it, at least). Today we’re moved in, livin’ our best American Life.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB