n.pl træp.ɪŋz
all the things that are part of or typical of a particular job, situation, or event
That word has been rattling ’round my head the last 24 hours. Trappings — the stuff we surround ourselves with, material and cultural, traditions and routines. Trappings define the Life we lead, the Life we choose.
We can’t escape trappings any more than fish can escape water. All we can do is change our surroundings. And because we choose what defines us, such change is likewise a conscious choice.
It also involves making sacrifices. Real change is as much giving up as taking on. So the old expression, “throwing off the trappings” means, in essence, exchanging one Life for another.
That’s what Deb and I have done.
We threw off the trappings of mainstream American society, of suburbia, of material wealth, of ease and comfort. In their place we took on a rustic Life in the rural South, characterized by simplicity and hard work, full of rewards that most would consider inconvenient at best, hardship at worst.
It’s the best bargain we ever made.
There’s richness and depth in this Life like none we’ve ever known. The values, the traditions, the undeniable goodness of the People, and the humble pleasures of rustic living — all of it suits who we are now and who we aspire to be as we grow older, together.
Check your trappings. Can you say the same?
I almost got a haircut this morning.
It’s not what you think. I didn’t ponder visiting a barber shop or anything.
No, all I did was bend down to pick up something off the floor.
Behind a running box fan.
I felt the slightest tug on my mane and pulled away just in time.
Closest call I’ve had since last spring, when the burn pile took almost half my beard.
With errands on my agenda today, I didn’t have time to do much in the cabin. I settled for replacing a couple of rope-type gaskets on the woodstove.
It was a dirty job, though not difficult — scrape out the old gasket, clean its channel with a wire brush, wipe away residue with a damp paper towel, run a bead of gasket cement in the channel, and press the new gasket into place.
I did both the door and the ash pan. The gasket behind the door glass seemed fine, so I left it alone. The only adjustment I made was removing one of the shims I’d added to the latch plate last week.
Another to-do checked off my list.
The purpose of my trip to town this morning was to handle business I always found distasteful — paying property taxes and renewing vehicle registrations. But because this is Ozarkansas, neither was even remotely unpleasant.
First stop was the Marion County Courthouse. After a predictably friendly transaction at the tax collector’s office, I walked down the hall to request our annual assessment paperwork. Back to the tax collector to have that stamped, then across the street to the state revenue office, where motor-vehicle business is done.
Our renewals were processed cordially and efficiently. I stepped back out onto the sidewalk, looked around and smiled out loud, basking in the pleasures of small-town life.
I happened to be in Yellville at the same time that Deb was taking her lunch break. We met at the city park and enjoyed some rare time together on a work day.
I want to go back for a moment to the necessary matter of paying taxes and registering vehicles. The benefits of being here go far beyond mere hospitality.
When I got home, I did some simple math. If we still lived in Ohio, renewing our license plates for one year would’ve cost $72, versus $53 in Arkansas. So we’re 19 bucks ahead there.
The big difference, however, is property taxes. This year’s county tax bill on Second Chance Ranch, a small house on a postage-stamp lot, would’ve been $3,770.
In Marion County, Arkansas, annual real-estate taxes on The Mountain (20 acres), plus personal-property taxes on vehicles and such, came to — ready? — $359.
That’s a total savings of $3,434 a year. It would’ve been even more, but we haven’t yet taken advantage of homestead and over-65 breaks.
Yeah, we love it here.
Our persimmon trees down the road are loaded this year. It’ll be a couple of months yet before they’re ready to harvest.
Volunteer of the Day: Purple passionflower (Passiflora incarnata). Yes, I’ve featured the “maypop” vine before, but now it’s starting to bloom. This won’t be the last time you see it here, either.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB