If I'm being politically incorrect, so be it, but I enjoy seeing men at work. Maybe it's one of my old lady things. I don't remember this being a particular pleasure for me when I was younger. The men don't have to be young, tan, ripped—all that. They can be the guys out back who are taking out shrubbery and Teddy Bear cacti because pack rats (Jeez louise!) hide there and they are unwanted for many reasons (their worst sins involve getting underneath cars and trucks and chewing on wires) and the men are also pulling up scrawny volunteer Palo Verde because because.  I'm staying out of discussions about all this; I know they know better. After all, my brother Peter and I had a tropical jungle around our house in Panama City Beach and I never wanted to see anything go. He would get on pruning rampages, though. A couple of times a year I'd have to dash outside to steer him away from plants that really deserved their place in the dirt. My mother's plumbago disappeared after one of Peter's "clearing the clutter" days. Ah, well. 

I don't know anything about the machines they are using either, but they can pull targeted green or dead things without hassle. Watching from the deck gives me a close up of how diggers and such work and I am impressed. Today these jobs are done by women, too, of course, but the crew here are all men and except for one guy, grey-haired. They are also incredibly nice and work in our community full-time, so we can all get to know each other. When Robert, the brother who moved to Tucson with me, goes East to get his stuff, I'll be okay because of this crew and because my neighbor is an excellent neighbor. She is the first and only woman I know here, apart from dear, teenaged Melia who lives with her dad on a little hill a short walk from me. I'll be okay. Yep.

The quail, doves, wrens, finches, woodpeckers, Phainopeplas, and hummingbirds who dine out back several times a day came back to the yard as soon as the machines were quiet and the guys were gone. The quail, who are startled by everything, will have to find a new place to hurry to because the pack rat shrubbery is all gone. They will, I'm certain. I don't think it will take them a minute to adjust to the differences in the yard because they dearly love to eat.

Later...Our yard and my neighbor's yard are pretty damn naked now. Our view is spectacular and there are big plans for replanting and shoring up the rock wall that keeps our desert dirt from tipping into the little roadway between our building and the ones south of us in this compound. You know, a little over a month ago I lived in a small apartment within an assisted living facility in Pensacola. My view was of a parking lot, gorgeous live oaks beyond the cars, (a good thing) and from my recliner, which doubled as my bed (my choice and it was okay) a television. I watched way too much television back there. Today I watch birds, the occasional family of javalinas, and men at work. xxoononnie

A Situation

Too few truck drivers—80,000 too few means that my stuff is elsewhere in America. Movers aren't moving. "Goods" they call my pile. Apt.

Clothes, bowls, bone china coffee mugs I've had in my cabinets, in my hands, for thirty years, Sheffield stainless flatware my former husband and I bought in England when we lived in England, the set of Poole pottery chosen during a day trip to splendid Poole, towels, waste bins, paper clips, my mother's china cabinet, my brother's bookcases, my French writing desk, my oxygen concentrator, couch, armchair, recliner/bed, the coffee table my brother painted then used découpage to cover with Van Gogh prints from an art book sacrificed to the project, but worth it, supplies of toilet paper and paper towels, paper clips, bandaids, art made by my father and two of my three brothers, all the books I couldn't give away before I left the assisted living facility and the photo albums I needed to keep. I see I mentioned paper clips twice. Well, I really need some right now.

So many of us are waiting and waiting. At the ports, all the big ports, (meant to be busy) ships loaded with containers containing almost everything wait for stevedores to unload and drivers who'll drive. Helpless shopkeepers wait with empty shelves and shoppers lower expectations. We whine in solidarity, don't we?

The kindness of neighbors (sorry, Tennessee Williams) saves my brother and I. We have borrowed beds, a table with four chairs and a folding chair for the deck out back. The excellent pots, pans, and knives my brother successfully shipped from Philadelphia mean we can cook. Well, he can cook.

Ah, well. I make my morning phone calls to the broker and the trucking company and on rare occasions a human responds with a non-answer. In all the years I've been knocking around I have at least learned about letting go of things once I've done what I can. (I've called Legal Aid and I may call the West Palm Beach Sheriff.) I realize I wouldn't have a mess like this if I hadn't been so trusting, naive, flattered when I booked the move. Flattered? Yes, because the charming agent (two weeks later, when I complained, he became insulting) read some of my writing, stuff he found online, back to me over the phone and he soon convinced me that theirs was the outfit to choose over all others. Silly Nonnie.

Must needs let it go, until tomorrow morning's phone call and text time, eh? 

I Live in Tucson Now

 

I live in Tucson now and I'm happy.