Plan C, Part 2

This one's just south of Walhonding, Ohio, about 30 minutes from Jess, about an hour from Al (I know), and, believe it or not, less than 2 hours from Julie (not that that's necessarily a plus).

I've gotten to love realtor speak, especially the allcaps gambit. "BRING YOUR TOOLS AND YOUR ANIMALS! A HANDYMAN'S DREAM!!!"

Right. My dream is to fall through the floor onto a pile of asbestos.

Just 2.2 acres, it sits pretty much out in the middle of nowhere in a very pretty part of Ohio. It's priced way too high, for some reason. Al and I agreed that it's a terrible investment property, whether you planned on fixing it up to rent or dividing the lot. The reason is because there are no jobs in the area because there's nothing in the area. It's like North Central Iowa in that way, but more scenic.

Seriously thinking about offering nearly half the asking price. Nothing to lose.

[jinx]

Plan C?

At the risk of jinxing it yet again, my promise to my mom is haunting me. The promise was to move closer to my sister and brothers in order to protect my nieces and nephews from them. I'm only half-kidding.

This one's only 7 acres (maybe 4 tillable?), and sits smack dab in the middle of the meth belt capital of Ohio, in Morrow County, or, as my brother Al calls it, "The County Of ToMorrow". It also happens to be very close to Al's place (my favorite brother [don't tell Jess]), and only 30 minutes from Jesse.

It looks to be pretty much a dump of a house, but it's got a wood burning stove. All I need is electricity, basic plumbing (and I do mean basic), television reception, and a way to heat the place. Jess has a lot of timber; he'd probably let me buy "wholesale".

Keifus is controlling my life. I rewatched Fast Food Nation last night and realized I'm Ethan Hawke's character. Could be worse, I suppose.

Anyways, just not sure at all about anything. Keep those fingers crossed, or whatever. More appreciated, really, than perhaps you'll ever know. Seriously.

Stolen Seasons

It would appear the property I was interested in is no longer on the market. And not because I (unfortunately?) bought it.

A strange affair. I never really heard back from anyone regarding whether or not I'd like to make a counter-offer. Very weird. I came into work Monday morning, didn't have any emails from the realtor, and the listing had been removed.

It's a devilish thing not to know who you're supposed to be nor where you should go. Demonic, even.

Field Of Day Dreams

These are a few of the pictures Pat, a very friendly real estate lady, sent to me of the property in The Greater Titonka-Lakota Metropolitan Area.

I made an offer on the property Wednesday morning.

I'm nervous. I don't know if I'm more afraid they'll refuse the offer, or more anxious that they'll actually accept it. I'm trying not to jinx it. I'd appreciate the same concern from all y'all.

Add the fact that NPR for what seemed like most of the day took place in Des Moines and Davenport (urban farming, food safety, investing in small farms, fresh vegetable and fruit in schools -- it was truly eerie, in an infectiously positive way), and I'm beginning to believe that mom and dad are literally chomping at the bit.

Maybe I am, too.

When I was scheming late in 2007 to figure out a way to move closer to mom, I told her I was trying to find and interpret "the signs". When she got sick merely months later, she confessed that the cancer had cured her of searching out "signs" or divining any meaning from them.

Can't say I blame her.

Life Isn't Too Short

It's too fragile.

I had a nice visit with my oldest brother, Jess, on the phone this weekend. He had the flu last week, and he still wasn't 100%. But he's always had such a positive attitude, possibly to match my negative one.

I told him that if our dad were alive today, he'd be ashamed of me. I hate my job, I don't respect the people I work for and with, and I work in an unforgivably despicable industry.

Jess said, "No, he wouldn't be ashamed of you. He'd be frustrated with you. But he wouldn't be ashamed of you. I'm sure of it."

I suppose I frustrated dad plenty while he still breathed. It's a shame I have to do it to him in death. I hope Jess is right.

I do wonder sometimes, often, actually, if folks who had terrible parents whom they didn't like are batter off in the end. I think in some respects they are.

I guess my advice to you young parents out there is this (yes, I've said this before): Make your kids hate you; they'll be more consolable in the end.

"Where are you from?"

[Sorry to belabor the Iowa thing, guys, but it weighs heavy on my mind like a carpet stain. This is just my way of Scotch Guarding it out of my brain, so to speak.. I.e., I know, I know.]

My great-great grandfather, Edward, was too young to fight in the Civil War. His older brother, James, wasn't. After the war, the 2 of them set out for Iowa to homestead. (It's my understanding that James was a real Lt. John Dunbar type.)

So Edward eventually settled in North Central Iowa, in what's now called German Valley.

I was born in Mt. Clemens, Michigan. For the first 5 years of my life, we lived in Sterling Heights, a nice suburb of Detroit at the time.

Then dad was transferred to Findlay, Ohio, in the North West Central part of the state.

About 3 years later, we moved to Mahomet, Illinois. Dad worked in Champaign-Urbana.

Then he was transferred, about 3 years later, to Columbus, Ohio, and we moved to a suburban town called Pickerington. We lived there for nearly 6 years, or so.

Then mom and dad and I (everyone else was gone and married) moved to Oshkosh, Wisconsin, at the very beginning of my junior year of high school. That was rough.

About 2 years later he was transferred to Springfield, Ohio, and we moved to some acreage in New Carlisle, Ohio. That Fall, I was off to New York City.

I moved back to New Carlisle in 1990. Went to another college, graduated, and moved to Nashville, Tennessee to attend graduate school.

That lasted about 15 minutes, and it was back to New Carlisle. I worked at a nursery farm for awhile, moved over to my brother's farm for a bit. I was aimless and getting kind of long in the tooth, so I moved to Colorado. Boulder, Estes Park, and finally Winter Park. I was there for 2 and 1/2 seasons. Met the-one-that-got-away, and then, after one more visit to New Carlisle, on Memorial Day Weekend we moved to Birmingham, Alabama. That was 1997.

So when people ask me, "Where are you from?", I think I'm just going to say, "Iowa."

Yeah, I like the sound of that. I say it proudly, with a good deal of charm and wit.

Cabin Fever

Bummer. Schmutzie posted a 6-part video of the mini-documentary at his blog that, for me, since he posted it, had become a daily ritual and a spectacular inspiration. It was pulled due, I can only assume, to copyright issues. Now I'll have to snoop around The Internet Web to get my fix.

So I've decided, once I get to Iowa, to build a 20' x 20' log cabin using nothing but native trees, tweezers and a nail file. It'll be my summer home.

What is it about us that moves one to, what, regress? Devolve? To let ourselves, yet again, be held hostage to domesticated fire? Several books and movies spring immediately to mind:

My Side Of The Mountain

Dances With Wolves

White Fang

Legally Blond

I have a severe and acute case of homesickness. But there's no "home" to go back to. Hasn't been since 1998. Is that what I'm doing? Trying to create a "home" on the prairie where it all began in the first place? Someday remind me to tell you about the first of my kin to be born in this country, Edward, son of Patrick.

What sort of retarded lunatic (yours truly) craves solitary confinement by virtue of context? Who among the sane longs to come down with a case of cabin fever?

Fear. Despair. Gotta work on that.