And on the Seventh Day, he made a mess

Mike has moved into Shoe String Harbor. He's deserted the Wee Cottage, leaving it to its fate. And to the mail we forgot to tell Uncle Sam to forward (allow me to briefly wallow in a fantasy of living in a pre-digital age where my debtors can't find me). It's exactly one week until, in all likelihood, we will be reunited in the kitchen you see here. I hope Mike gets it cleaned up by then.

To his very great credit, he remembered to do something that I wouldn't think of until I'm walking up to the door and the movers are streaming in around me, boxes of crockery in their arms. Here's what I would be thinking: "Oh, pants! There's no shelf-paper anywhere!" But Mike made himself useful during this weekend of living in an empty house with just one twin bed and the couches that he'd rented for so long he'd bought them by default. He thought of shelf-paper, before the arrival of the objects that would go on the shelves. He then cut and pasted and jigsawed his way through rolls of the unweildy sticky stuff.

And, as you can see, Mabel is in position and awaits ignition.

I've been calling Mike up every ten minutes or so, to quiz him about the house: "What was the shower like?" and, "Is the sideboard too big for the dining room?" I'm giddy with relief that we've closed on the house, but the Coldsmith-Christie Year From Hell means that I still, still lack faith in a future. I keep waiting for a piercing thunderclap, a parting of the heavens, and the sound of gods cackling. Boy, we sure fooled her. I'm still riding my bike, but I won't go on the routes I once regarded as somewhat dodgy if still safe for the careful rider. I just know that if I get on that bike in the wrong part of town, I'll be mowed down by one of Austin's finest laptop-jockeys, texting and talking at the same time. And of course I'm worried about the flight. I keep checking the weather forecast, to make sure that clear skies are expected for next Sunday. Yes, I possibly will be taking half an anti-anxiety pill before I get on that bird.

For 44 of my 53 years, I have lived in Texas and in counties close to or inhabited by my mother. The very thought that I can do anything else still seems like heresy. And we all know that the punishment for heresy can be biblical. I keep looking over my shoulder.

So I'm paranoid, my teen is sulky, and my mother is depressed. To jolly my mother up, I extolled the virtues of NYC bus tours. "Mom, it's so cool," I told her. "They have these double-decker buses that take you around the city's high points. You can get off, have a look around, and pop back on to the next one." My mother's response: "Will they pick us up at your house?" It took me a moment to stop spluttering and find my tongue. I'd told her a hundred times that where we would be living was at least 50 miles from the city. I reminded her of this fact again, when she, my still fit and able-bodied mother, remarked, "Oh, I know it's far away, but it's just too much trouble if they won't come pick you up at your door."

Did I really say what I remember saying? "Mother, as Morgan Freeman would advise, you can get busy living or get busy dying." No matter. She's very skilled at ignoring people when they say anything truly unpleasant.