Crawling Out of the Crater Where My Mojo Got Bombed

State of the Apocalypse, Post-Ides of March, Pre-St. Paddy’s Day 2006 Edition

If only.

I’ve started this post multiple times, but it’s a really long story full of digressions that takes too long to tell. Suffice it to say no one died or was crippled, or that we ended up in the street. Someone did attempt to steal the Jeep by removing fuses in an attempt to immobilize it for future collection, but that theft was thwarted, and the vehicle repaired. 

But not before my wife fell into great pain and had to be taken to the emergency room, and...as I said, it takes too long to tell. And then there was the 1099-MISC  that emerged out of the blue weeks after I’d filed my taxes, forcing me to file an amended return. The hits kept coming, and the first couple were enough to halt the momentum I’d had going since the start of the New Year. 

But it’s all right. I’ve just about got all the fires put out. We’re slowly getting it back together.

There was some good to be had from this. Worn parts were replaced. Lessons were learned. Best of all, a reckoning was had, and a major family decision was settled. This is a story I don’t mind telling. Besides, it’ll be a way to see how many of my Facebook friends actually read my blog. It’s major news.

In July 2013 I visited my home state of South Carolina and declared I was moving back. Over the last couple of years, however, my desire to do so has cooled. I feared broaching the subject with my wife, as I had gotten her excited about the prospects of returning to our native soil, and I know she wanted to be closer to her mother. 

My 104,185 square mile safe space.

The subject did come up, however, and it didn’t end in tears. It was agreed the move 1,750 miles east and south would be too expensive, as well as difficult to arrange. (I just knew we would lose a cat during the two-day drive.) Also, between staying close to longtime friends and family and staying close to our children—who, after nine years growing to adulthood in this place, are full-on Coloradans—we would choose our children. Thus this expatriate Southern writer will remain expatriated. 

I owe it to my long suffering wife (who did time in the hospital during these last two horrible, no-good weeks) to build the capital to send her to Alabama so she can at least see her mom. I still want to see my friends, too. But I can’t imagine living back there.

I’ve bitched plenty about Colorado Springs, and how we can’t stay here. We can’t, and we won’t. It turns out there are plenty of small towns throughout Colorado that a fixed-income military retiree family can live inexpensively. And the children will have a place to come to for Thanksgiving and Christmas within a few hours drive.

That said, I’m two weeks behind in writing my latest novel, and two weeks behind writing a blog post, any blog post. It’s hard getting my head back into that space where creation comes easily. This will have to serve as my first stab at it.

Until the next stab, then. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, if you’re celebrating that. I’ve got a new groove to carve.