Country Life

A call from one of the creek guys wanting to hunt muzzle-loader season on my property, sure I say, but don't block the driveway. Then he asks if it's true that I might sell the place. He's interested. I tell him to stop by, after one of his hunts, and we'll talk. I spend the rest of the day thinking about not living here. Think about moving to town and getting an apartment. Think about moving. Think about having a thermostat and running water. Be hard to give up this place, the staircase, the cookstove. I'd need to build another 250 linear feet of bookcases. Whatever I got for the place, 50K? would be profit because I've lived here rent free for eleven years. Finally I read a Thomas Perry novel to get out of my head, "Silence", it's a good read. I can no longer distinguish the sound of the pups, under the house, from the creaky sounds of a dying ice-box. Maybe it's time for me to move on, the writing on the wall, where the ambient sound sends you. Truth is I'm tired of struggling. Simple as that. I've pushed this rock to the top of the hill enough times, nothing there, just a nice view of the surrounding drainage. The Upper Twin Downs. Then my rock rolls away. You'd need a pass for this. Bella Flex, no one plays like that. Mr. Allison, Miles. Several of you have asked for a mailing address. My home is considered 'undeliverable' to Fed Ex and UPS, but the museum is good. Tom Bridwell, Southern Ohio Museum, Portsmouth, Ohio, 45662. In answer to another question, I have no idea how many people read me, hundreds, I suppose. I don't think about it, I'd be paralyzed. I more often feel I'm writing a note to Linda and Glenn, or an update to Skip. Made a very thick, quite hot pot of chili yesterday, first pot of the season, and this morning, on a whim, had a lovely chili omelet. Don't know why I never thought of that before. Thinking about moving, I'm worried about ambient sound. I'm sensitive to noise, it breaks my train of thought. I love those hollyhocks. Flirting with you, the sense of movement.