We trek to City of Salida, Colorado in the morning – a town I have long loved for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is laughing there until I thought I might die with my farmers’ market friends.  I remember we attempted to seduce, collectively, the waitress at this little pie and everything else establishment and I felt a sort of aliveness that I didn’t feel 90% of the time with the old job.   Especially now that every single person and thing I loved about my time there has followed my lead, I guess, and detached themselves from what was.

I also remember not so long ago, just summer of last year, staying in Salida with my parents and older sister, and seeing them soften a bit.  They still talk about that trip like it was the days of infamy.  Like there is never another opportunity to see such golden shores again.  And who knows, maybe that’s true, I hope not.  They are going up to the farm for what will be, possibly, possibly not, the penultimate trip.  Having made that pilgrimage with them several times over the years, I jokingly suggested that they should be flying, but apparently, in order to save money, they are going to just make their way across I-80 and help move my grandfather into the nursing home and out of the magical (not all the places in my life are magical, it just seems that way when you look at them with kind eyes) farmhouse that has stood for over a hundred years.  As long as my grandfather lives, it will stand, but they are tied together now and its life extends only so far as his extends.  Which I would hope would be another hundred years, but with kind eyes, and a kind thought, I imagine he has no interest in a hundred years without his wife.

I hope my little sister is able to detach and not arrive frustrated and flailing at me.  It will be enough of a job to just let myself enjoy this and not let Mildred stick her nose in and cause worry where worry need not be.  You get to the point where the fact that pot is legal here is less a neutral fact and more a curiously positive benefit because second-hand smoke and I get along rather well.  I don’t need or want to smoke it, but if it is where I am, I wouldn’t mind letting my shoulders release and my spirit loose.  I think the faithful light is all for it.  The faithful light does not know fear.

The thing about these Stopover shows is there’s nothing rote about them, the town itself lends to the magic and it’s a different magic every time. The excitement has just reached up and grabbed me by the throat.  Camping, too, will add another dimension.  It wasn’t planned, but it’s happening and I’m dealing with it and now that I have all of my pieces organized, it’s just a good feeling, nothing more or less.  Also, this means, I won’t be posting until Sunday.  So, yep.

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