Some good friends of ours came over to visit Saturday night. They just sort of popped in which is pretty normal for us Cajuns. It’s great actually, I hate knowing days in advance that someone is coming. Too much worrying and fretting about what I need to get ready for entertaining them. So I’m cool with this surprise visit.
They came to tell us goodbye. They are moving to another country and won’t be back. That was a surprise, too. But it’s something I’ve heard over and over again in this town. People come here for a few years, make their careers or fortunes and then move on to better place.
This is a waystation.
We came here exactly twenty years ago with the intention of staying about five. That turned to ten, fifteen, twenty… A waystation for twenty years.
We came close to moving out to Austin about seven years ago. An inch from it. I really thought it would happen. We sold our boat, had our house appraised, got it ready to sell. Still no go.
I sit here now, my bags packed. We are are always “ready” to go. “Don’t buy anything big,” Blane always tells me. We are leaving soon. This reminds me of the little old ladies in the nursing homes who hang out in the doorways with their bags packed, they tell you, “I don’t live here, my son is coming to get me this afternoon.” Day after day. The same same people saying the same thing. We don’t live here.
One time Blane told me I’ve already left. That might have been taken as an insult by anyone else, but in my psychedelic mind, I loved it. If you understand a little sting theory, you know what I mean.