Rendered Fat Content

Homeless 0-34: Roam, Roam On The Range

We are roaming now. Having rejected several possibilities, we’re feeling increasingly untethered. The landlord’s dropping by with a realtor Tuesday morning to come up with a price for this place. Our realtor friend provided a cocktail napkin estimate, something greater than my lifetime earnings so far, and any possibility that we might buy this place and avoid the unrooting evaporated. The latest postings’ landlords all seem to be out of town, so we’re hanging with thirty four days until launch date.

Yesterday, we drove our rented rig North into Pennsylvania to buy our canning tomatoes. There and back, we passed through a few dozen alternate universes. Shady suburban subdivisions. Rolling Maryland horse farms. Ancient, stone-foundation barns. Small towns. Small cities. Sprawl. Backroads. Freeways. Feeling homeless all the way there and back again, mentally trying on each changing venue, not knowing where we might belong. Roaming.

Amy confided that the irresolution has started getting to her. It’s getting to me, too. Roaming’s unsettling because carrying the anchor’s exhausting. Easier to range when the anchor’s solidly set somewhere. We’re rolling dice, dependent upon what might come available in the time remaining before we must move. Our realtor friend confided that we started our search at the very worst time, just when most rentals had already been let for the year.

It’s a supply-sided dilemma. Can’t rent what’s already rented. Like all those places we passed on our excursion North; lots of lovely places, most already inhabited.

We might well adapt to anyplace over time. We might settle for anything just to set down this damned anchor. Roaming feels anything but freeing. It’s more lonely than liberating; more exhausting than enthusing. Maybe one has to be dumb as a buffalo to consider roaming home.

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

blog comments powered by Disqus

Made in RapidWeaver