Here it is, the first weekend in October, at our Shenandoah Valley home. We had big plans for lots of fun today, plans that have been on the calendar for the past six weeks.
And we earned that fun. Even though now all of our plans had to change.
Let me explain.
Ever since we escaped New Jersey, the feds hot on our trail, life has been a whirlwind.
We spent a few months in a bunker stuffed with fermented vegetables, while we tried to learn the lay of the land and the local customs. You can read about those . . . mistakes . . . here.
There was a lot of house hunting – and arguing. My mom wanted property, open spaces, and a nearby neighbor who could provide her with a steady supply of manure. My dad wanted to live in town. Within walking distance of a pub. It was sort of a reversed version of “Green Acres.”
My dad was actually happy where we were and saw no reason to move out of our underground hideaway. My mom spent way too much time on Zillow, looking at rolling, pastoral properties that would never survive the high-level negotiations ahead.
“We’re not getting five acres. I’m not taking care of five acres.”
“But this house is adorable and the property is mostly wooded.”
“You still have to take care of the woods.”
My mom sniffed. “Henry David Thoreau said the woods take care of themselves.”
“What did he know? He mooched off family and his friend Emerson.”
Valid point. My dad isn’t as illiterate as my mom seems to think.
Our realtor, a woman named Charity, instinctually knew how to translate all the mixed messages she got from them. She patiently showed them properties (and snuck me biscuits) while they figured it out for themselves.
She was a licensed realtor after all, not a marriage counselor.
I remember the day she showed us a sad looking 1951 brick ranch in a nice neighborhood. Within walking distance of town.
After quietly checking out the interior, which was mostly painted orange, my dad turned his attention to the outside. With a lot of effort, he squeezed into the crawl space. Which was full of spiders. “The foundation seems good. Wow. Look at that insulation.”
I had my doubts. The grass was taller than I was and did a poor job of camouflaging the seven feral cats lurking in the distance, waiting to attack me. And in a matter of seconds my face was full of ticks.
My mom looked at Charity and gushed, “Wow. I can’t see any neighbors! And look at those woods! I wonder what kind of berry plants those are.”
Charity smiled. “Yes, it’s very private, yet convenient to everything you might need. And those aren’t berry bushes. That’s called pokeweed.”
At this point my dad chimed in. “They’re almost ten feet tall. Huh.”
“That’s why I’ll give you the names of a few guys who can take care of this for you if you need.”
Fast forward more than a year and you can see why we all need a break. It’s been nothing but work – in addition to going to work.
So today was supposed to be The Day. A day off, a day of adventure, a day to explore the Shenandoah Valley.
We woke up and it was fifty-five degrees. And pouring rain. The exact opposite of the sunny, eighty-five degree day we had yesterday.
Which meant the early morning bird watching hike got rescheduled.
Our plans to put me on a leash, walk into town, and enjoy lunch at an outdoor table at an adorable little restaurant went kaput.
The dog-friendly wine tasting festival, at the park up the hill, overlooking the valley, got cancelled.
So, what does this mean for you?
Yeah, this day seems like it suddenly overflowed with lemons, but hang on. I smell lemonade in my future – and yours! You see, today may offer some fodder for future entertaining and informative blog posts.
Here’s the plan.
We’re “in search of” fun, so we’re heading to the library at noon. There’s a scintillating lecture scheduled, “Bigfoot Does Exist.” Don’t laugh. If you have a business, there’s a lot that you can learn about branding and storytelling from Sasquatch. I’ll share those secrets with you in a future post.
After the lecture we’re headed one town over, in search of pizza. Real pizza. That’s been a problem ever since we moved here. No one knows what a good NJ pizza is. Ask for a margherita and it’s a cheese pie that’s all soggy because it’s covered in slices of supermarket tomato. No self-respecting Chihuahua would be caught dead begging for a slice of that. My mom found a place that’s owned by two NJ ex-pats, so we have high hopes. Stay tuned. The Shenandoah Valley Pizza Pursuit will be my next post. Or two.
Finally, at some point we might hit the local brewery, which has indoor seating and cute, well-behaved, articulate dogs like myself are allowed. I’ll let you know how that works out, if we even get that far. The whole pizza experience may be too overwhelming for me.
Until next time, enjoy your day, check out more of my posts, and thanks for reading!