Not a wink. Not a wonder.

It wasn’t unexpected.

It was going to happen one day. Some day. The handwriting’s been on the wall for a while.

When did my stepmother first mention she wanted to sell their house? The house that she and my father shared? A year ago?

It wasn’t the house I grew up in. But it was the only house I’ve known as home. It was the home my father designed and built in some part. It was my dad’s home and therefore also mine — in its way.

My father is no longer there. He is no longer here.

Rationally, I understand why my stepmother would sell the house. The reasons are numerous and sound.

What the mind knows however is not always so easy for the emotional self to grasp and accept. It takes time. It’s a process.

It was inevitable, the selling of my dad’s house, well, their house technically.

But it’s his presence that’s there, that reigns, from its design to the yard that he created — beautiful grasses and trees and shrubs and cacti — all from a blank canvas of dry hard southern Utah desert dirt.

My dad was — is — a genius craftsman especially with land.

Yesterday’s email from my stepmother informed me that it looks like the sale is going through with a closing date next month.

On one level, the emotional level, that means the end draws near. The house / home that’s been in my family — dad and to a certain extent my stepmother and their dog being my family — is soon to leave the family.

For good. For ever.

I’ve got stuff to process.

It also means I need to go there and get my things stored in their garage. For the past 10 years. Yikes. It’s really been that long?!

That stuff needs to get cleared out. It’s needed to be cleared outta there for a while now. Fortunately — and I do mean fortunately! — I scaled down what feels like, to this minimalist, a mountain of stuff into a hill during my last stay in Utah in 2013.

I was brutal in what I saved and what got donated to the thrift store. I lightened the load considerably.

Still. It’s a load.

An important and precious load consisting primarily of furniture my dad crafted (he embraced custom woodcrafting as a working trade later in life), family photos, my high school annuals, writings, significant stuffed animals and other treasured items from my past..

Assorted kitchen items — i.e., a fire-engine red Kitchen Aid mixer and a complete set of basic dishes from I believe Japan from my mother — are in the mix too.

All that stuff I want to keep with no place to go, most of it, save into another storage unit.

Because no way can my current space — a rental mobile home — accommodate even 1/16th of that load!!

The stuff you own owns you.

As a nomad who’s moved some 54 times, give or take, I know the truth of that better than anyone!

I like simple. I like minimal. I like having just what I need and not a LOT more.

I’m neither a packrat nor a clutter collector. On the contrary, I have problem KEEPING things! Moving frequently — by yourself and ONLY with what you can get in your car — will teach a girl that!

I’m rambling. Point is, yesterday’s email from my stepmother stirred up a LOT of emotions.




I slept {this much}. Wasn’t until 6 a.m. when I fell into a light slumber punctuated by restlessness and wake-ups.

“Rummy” does describe my state today. 🙂

Ditto “long night ahead.” I work from 7 p.m. to past midnight. I need to be awake and alert. Could be a challenge.

Missed sleep. No sleep. Leaves me feeling like I’m traipsing through mud. I’m 58. Not 22. We old-timers can’t handle all-nighters, neither do we bounce back quickly.

So there’s that.

And there’s SOO much more happening beneath the surface. So much stirred up by a single email that announces: It looks like the sale of the house is going through. With a closing date only weeks away.

The house of my dad. His house, well, their house technically. His home.

It is no wonder that, despite valiant efforts with every passing hour, I couldn’t sleep. Not a wink. No wonder at all.


Brain Buzz & Head Fuzz

Wow! Was that one of the crappiest nights of sleep ever!!



Evidently our circadian rhythms and sleep habits cannot be commanded by will alone! I’d gone to bed early — midnight, for me — intending to rise early — 9 or 10 a.m. — for a road trip, drive time of 3 to 4 hours.

My brain admittedly was buzzing from many hours of online research of destination candidates and dispersed campsites. Dispersed = free primitive sites, sites of dirt and little more, aka boondocking.

The research alone can be tedious and time-consuming. Evidently got the brain cells whirring. By the time I switched off the lamp “early,” I couldn’t sleep.

Admittedly I’ve many more things on my mind as well. I tossed. I turned. The body couldn’t get comfortable amid painful new and burgeoning health issues. I switched pillows. Switched positions. Ugh ugh and ugh.

I kept glances at the glowing green digital numbers on the clock to a minimum.
You know how that goes. Insomnia. Brain Buzz. Look at the clock. Boom! You’ve just been given another half hour of wide awake.

It’s one of those unwritten Murphy’s Law. “Every glance of the clock during an insomniac episode returns 30 minutes of alertness.”

My body never did settle into rest; impossible lately with combined health issues and a bad bed that I cannot WAIT to boot outta my life!

Seriously. Another post for another day.

Eventually I did drift off, kinda sorta. Nearer my usual time around 3 a.m., I reckon. I quit checking the time. Murphy’s 30-Minute Law.

Result: My going to bed early so I could awaken early had absolutely no effect! Zero. Zip. Nada.

So the road trip’s off. I achingly (and I do mean achingly) tumbled outta bed — henceforth the Bed I Can’t Wait to Boot Outta My Life! — at the usual time between 11 a.m. and noon.

Much too late for the drive to the Arizona/California border. Wasn’t urgent or needed NOW! But soon. Next week perhaps I can pull it off.

Meanwhile, I’ve still got that itch in the feet that needs scratching … wanderlust to satisfy … a need for a change of scenery. Stressors an’ all.

Travel is my nature and road trips my therapy. Sometimes it doesn’t matter so much where I go, just THAT I go!

1:04 p.m. The day’s still young. Ain’t nuthin’ I’ve gotta be in town for today.

If I can sweep that Fuzz from Insomnia outta my head, I’ve still time to hop into the car and just go. Somewhere. Somewhere else. An hour or two down the road.

Find a decent budget motel. The rigors of camping after a bad bout of insomnia and fitness sleep is a bad idea. Ain’t 22, don’t have that youthful bounce-back.

It’s doable. Yeah, I’m a slow waker-upper. If I just clear that insomniac’s Head Fuzz and get ma move on. At 1:06 p.m., that’s sorta asking a lot. ;-p