The Year . . .

. . . of living sloppily . . .

. . . A weekend here, a weekend there, and pretty soon you're talking about months. Trips on alternating weekends to la casa en la playa result in perpetual packing.  At least packing something. A duly designated corner serves the purpose of a staging area for things like a drill; an occasional crockpot and/or panini maker; a bottle (or two or three) of wine; coats, jackets, hats or shoes that make be appropriate for the current forecast and maybe small furniture items, a lamp or a storage box. It may make the local residence a bit more unkempt than previously, but it sure is fun.

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It was the best of times . . .

. . . A Tale of Two Brothers

It was the best of rides.  It was the worst of rides.  One brother, who taking abode on the far distant coast of the country from where up he grew, decided to gather his various possessions, which up until this date, had been stored mightily by his family in a personal storage facility in the latter mentioned locale.  The other brother, of a combination of sheer kindness and selfish adventure, agreed to accompany the first in ye olde Penske van with aforementioned possessions, on the trip by road to the adopted home of the first brother.  So off they went.

The second brother’s primarily-desired adventure was to visit the gravesite of Alferd Packer, a convicted cannibal and Civil War participant. The first brother did not share equally the enthusiasm of the first in this adventure and went to no great lengths to portray any.  In fact, he did not want to deviate from the straightest route home to make this stop at all.  But the second brother would not be swayed, and was kind and humorous in his discourse about the desired adventure, so much so that the first brother could not openly object to the deviation.

Upon arrival, and well ahead of what would have been assumed to be an average rate of such travel by such means, the two brothers arrived at the burial site of Mr. Packer.  Heretofore the first bother took it upon himself to write to his father.  His dispatch read as below:

“So we’re here.  Spencer doesn’t know where the grave is and the cemetery is covered in goose shit.”

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