It’s been a week, not long in the grand scheme of things but we have a routine.
Rusty starts his day with a walk with his favorite human. His favorite human then washes the dishes while his second favorite human sleeps in.
Hot tea and cold oatmeal in the style of Webb Chiles, a warm shower, a book after checking the headlines for more human frailty around the world.
The campground is vast and Rusty has it to himself so he’s happy.
You can rent a cottage for about $70 a night and two of them are occupied this weekend.
The workers are shutting down the pool, putting away the chaise longues as winter closes in.
I saw a movie years ago, an inconsequential thing that stuck with me called RUBY IN PARADISE, about a young woman who escapes to the redneck riviera, the Florida Panhandle where she starts a new independent life. It’s a moody film with not a lot of plot but it captures the off season in a beach town. Bahia Inglesa in the Fall puts me in mind of that little film.
The family spent a night grilling meat and tossing a football. The campground truck gave their Chinese SUV a jump Saturday morning as they packed and left. We stay here, helpless, not uncomfortable.
People come and go. South Americans camp elaborately, picnics with table cloths, grills with fire and embers and lengthy cooking times, tents, windbreaks, furniture, complex set ups. And in twenty four hours they’re gone.
We will still be here. It’s okay.
The radiator replacement should be a simple repair for a mechanic. I try not to think of all that could go wrong.
I follow Rusty, he lives in the moment.
There’s a big hole under the hood.
But we are at home. For perhaps another week, maybe less. I hope not more than that.
A new week unfolds. May you have less uncertainty than us.
