Right before I left for my trip I saw the move “August: Osage County.   It was well reviewed, had plenty of movies stars in it, and, most importantly, there was nothing else on.  This is one of those obviously written plays about a dysfunctional family (is there any other kind?).   I say that it is written dialogue, because drunks and drug addled people seldom come up with anything coherent and cogent to say.   It is hard to come up with a reply to an insane comment,  I tend to think of replies, but I don’t use my out loud voice to say them.

The movie is about two harsh sisters, the wimpy husbands, and the adult children.   Women hold families together, it was impossible to believe that these harridans could do that, these families would have disintegrated years before, so the movie is completely unrealistic.   Then I went to visit my late husband’s relatives.

This is not to imply that they are anything like these characters, but I did look at the family interactions in a new light.   In any small town, there are those who stay and those who leave, and there is a certain tension over the choices that are made, and subtle (or not so subtle) criticisms.

This past weekend was the 104th annual town festival.   The town is about 700 people, it at least doubles with visitors, some people are from there and coming back, some are relatives and a few are actual tourists.   The relative’s house is usually packed with distant cousins and others.   Last year was the first time I had ever been there without M.  This year some of the cousins was absent due to poor health: when we started coming to this we were the young people, now we’re not. 😉

There was an open family snit going on, I heard from all sides about the perfidy of one person who was not there.  There was also a new, father-less great-grandchild and a certain amount of sibling rivalry between the grandchildren that I had never noticed before.

I have always looked forward to going to this place, maybe even more than my husband.  You cross into New Mexico from Colorado over Raton Pass (elevation +7800 feet).   When you come over the pass, you see the beautiful high plains of New Mexico,  which I just love.

As I was driving along I was thinking about the fact that this might be the last time I ever go there.  We remember the first time we do some things quite vividly, the anxiety of the first day of school, the thrill of the first kiss, the adventure of the first big trip.   The last time we ever do a thing is largely unknown to us.   I had a conversation with my late mother about this, she had realized after coming home from visiting my brother that she would probably never be able to travel again, but it was only probable at that point, not final.   So perhaps it wasn’t the last time I will go there.

The most amazing thing to me about the internet is that we can have connections with people that we would never meet in a million years.  I met you lot in London, people I would have never had occasion to cross paths with.   And it was a wonderful and interesting experience.  Today I met another person that I only knew from the internet, the author of  The Daily Coyote.

http://www.dailycoyote.net/

This is a blog that I have been reading for a couple of years, my friend found it somehow and we have kept on reading it.  Out of necessity she adopted a baby coyote when he was only 10 days old.  She is a talented photographer and the blog is mostly photos, with stories about Charlie the coyote, her dog Chloe, and the cats Eli and Mushy.  She has another blog about the rest of her farmily (not a mis-spelling): the bull Sir Baby, the cows Daisy, Maia, Fiona, Leila,  and the new punk chickens.

http://honeyrockdawn.com/

Besides these animals she also raises beef cattle, and that is how I met her.   I bought a 1/4 of one of her beautiful, grass-fed, dry aged Angus beef and we met at a truck stop outside of town to pick this up.  The meat was  in some boxes, cut, wrapped and frozen.  I also got an ankle  and hoof for my friend’s dogs and she was thrilled to get this (Miss P has dental problems, so no bones for her.)

http://starbrandbeef.com/

I am so blessed that although I am a shy person, I have been able to meet such interesting people through the magic of the internet.   I have also done art projects with people I have never personally met.

p.s.  I got one of my art pieces accepted into an art show!

Stuff, so valuable and desirable  when it belongs to us, becomes massively undesirable when it’s lumped together and sold in a garage (boot) sale.  I had the opportunity to follow someone’s stuff along its’ path from treasure to trash.

The story starts with the untimely death of a young woman.   (Well she was younger than me, so that makes her a young woman.)  She went into hospital, was doing fine and recovering, when she took a turn for the worse and died.   With no descendants or siblings and only a distant elderly mother, our group (actually one kind soul who does not take no for an answer) offered to help clear the house  and that is where it got interesting.   The deceased was a hoarder and her house was packed with giant piles of stuff.  Two stories of things with little pathways through to the important parts, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and laundry (although there was not much evidence that the laundry room was used).  She had never allowed any of her friends to enter, so no one knew what was inside.

I am a lover of mystery fiction, so here was my chance to play detective, to look for hidden secrets.  I got to indulge my general nosiness and score some interesting finds.   When I look at some else’s belongings I wonder why they kept this, why was it important?

I spent 10 hours in her bedroom sorting and cleaning.   I examined everything I touched and it made me rather sad.  There was masses of unworn and unused items, now they would never serve their intended purpose.   It was obvious that she was enthralled with ‘retail therapy’, buying things to make herself happy.  Did she forget that she already had a dozen tweezers, or could she just not be bothered to look for them in the confusion?

After all, who has not one, but two of these things?  Not to mention 130 brassieres, 100 pairs of shoes and boots, 85 handbags, cupboards full of pots and pans, $400 dollars in loose change and at least one uncashed dividend check.  When she ran out of space in the house, she stored things in bins outdoors, in the garage and at a neighbors.  It took our group of ladies (none of us young) endless hours to sort, clean and haul away (this is where husbands and sons come in handy)  the hoard.

Then came the sale.  Over two days we flogged part of the detritus of her life.  Beautiful things, ordinary things, unusual things (but not the fur-lined handcuffs, I threw those away), all at about 10 cents or less on the dollar.  Lots of stuff sold, but lots was left over.

It made me sad to know that this too is the probable fate of my beloved stuff: my Godzillas, toys and fabric.  My nephew will have to come here and do this, or perhaps if my group still exists they  will do it for him.

The best part of this exercise is that all the money we raised from this sale goes to charity, so a bit of good will come out of all of this.  The 130 brassieres were sold to the art department at a local college and they will be part of an uplifting (did I really say this?) art exhibit.

I sometimes wonder how so many  people can live together in cities.   I got an answer of sorts this weekend at the different festivals that were going on:  people split up into tribes.  The first tribe I visited were the lovers of motorbikes.  There were lots of them, split into the various sub-tribes:  Leather wearers, old guys on expensive bikes, young guys on cafe racers, etc.

Next up there was Juneteenth,  an African-American holiday.   When the Civil War started, many slave-owners took people to the Republic of Texas, to avoid having to free them.   News of the Emancipation Proclamation took 2 1/2 years to reach there, and this event commemorates that day.  This is a festival with food:  bbq ribs, chicken, hot links and sides and it was delicious.  It had rained right before I took the picture, so there weren’t very many people around.

There was a Celtic festival in a nearby park and it was fine excuse for men to break out their kilts and bagpipes.   There was plenty of beer and whiskey to be had, and Miss P and I had a delicious sausage roll.

There was also a group playing football (soccer),  and they looked to be immigrants.  (I guessed this because they were not speaking English, and they were playing football.)

There was yet another tribe at the park, skateboarders.  They are there with the most frequency because they have a permanent structure.

This is just a small sampling of the many tribes from around here.  You don’t need a sorting hat to figure out which one you belong to, just show up.  And of course you don’t have to belong to just one tribe.  You can find me on the outskirts, looking in.