When I was in gradeschool on the weekends I’d make a sandwich, wrap it in a napkin and head out for the woods. I’d spend all day playing by myself. Digging in the dirt, picking berries, climbing trees, clearing leaves from the streams so they would run faster. If anyone had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said “I want to be a hobo”. The idea of being able to go anywhere you want with a minimum of things is so appealing.

With the coach we can do just that. Travel easily with a minimum of fuss. The attraction is so strong for me that I often daydream of selling the house and living in the coach. At least for a while. To the point that last week I actually called up real estate people and estate sale people to start the process of moving.

Fortunately cooler heads (Dave) prevailed and we’ve decided not to sell the house. It’s a lovely place after all. And we are happily ensconced with everything we need and more.

And now, as I think about what got into me last week, I note that when things get out of kilter, my first response is to run away.

Dave’s counter to that is go to bed it will be better in the morning.

I am not a hunter, I’m a gatherer. Not one to confront problems head on, but to change locations and get a different perspective. I prefer the view from the treetops thank you very much. Not coming down till the lions go away.

Fortunately the lions get bored and do move along. And I can go back to picking berries with abandon.

The Hobo, by John Currin

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