There’s been so much sunshine this year. Hardly any snow. Day after day of clear blue sky and big bright sun. You get addicted and expect it and it usually shows up. Like how when you stop trying to “fix” things so hard, something else gets better, and then you just go with that.
The other day I was standing at the top of the driveway, gazing out over the dead cars, trailers, and broken-down corrals to the horizon ninety miles away—the way one does here, while we scuff our boots against the dirt and squint—and damned if I didn’t feel pretty good. What was missing was the little demon with a baseball bat that beats me in the nuts because what are you doing like this at your age and maybe you should just eat dirt and die. I mean, he simply wasn’t there. The sun was on my face, the wind was in my hair, and I had something I wanted to do. How did it ever get more difficult than that?