Shameless Self-Promotion Part II

I write it and I'll steal it.

Life in the woods just isn't the same with indoor plumbing and heat

Wednesday, December 4, 1996

SOMEWHERE IN THE WOODS, JEFFERSON COUNTY — When last my words graced this space on an irregular basis, I was an entirely different person.
I lived with a teenage girl whose opinions, habits and activities provided enough amusing material for daily commentary, had that been needed.
I also lived with an adult male whose nickname I have been forbidden to use again in print. (Nothing personal, his co-workers are relentless teases and read The Sun.)
When at a loss, I could always wrap some wry comment around his unassuming mechanical expertise compared to my technophobia.
We were homesteaders, sort of, sheltered in a tiny two-room cabin, half-finished and unconnected to either a power or water utility.
We owned a big, old, grimy, single-purpose Dodge truck. It held a big, blue plastic tank, which we took weekly to the county park or our friendly Cenex store to refill.
We drank that water, cooked with it, sponged ourselves off with it and took our showers in town at the marina.
After surviving the first winter on wood heat, I swore I'd never take my life in my hands that way again.
Survival had come down to trudging out onto our 3.4 acres to seek and fell likely alders, totally ignorant of chain saw etiquette and very lucky.
After that, we relied on propane and I don't plan to ever make a fire with wood again no matter how cozy it sounds to those who've never risen in the icy dark and tried to start green alder in a woodstove.
There were real three-dog nights. I jostled for position on the futon with Bill, Ajax and Pedal.
We owned a precious electric generator that kept the TV and lights running for five years before finally dying of fatigue.
It had been such a good friend that we considered burying it alongside first Pedal, then Bill. All three of us held a queer pride about our lifestyle, not exactly chosen, but the result, I used to joke, of bad luck, bad timing and bad judgment.
And, of course, all of it made great column material.
But I'm a different person now.
The former teenager, distressed and imagining wrinkles, pronounced herself "a quarter of a century old!" this year, and plans to drive to Alaska with her two new dogs as soon as she finishes college.
She lives in another city and another world.
I have reached a friendly agreement with the person-whose-nickname-I-am-forbidden-to-use, and he has the cabin all to himself.
For more than a year, I have inhabited — still stunned by the luxury — a brand new bungalow about 100 yards away.
We are "on the grid" for power and water.
When I come home, I do not have to fill a generator or kerosene lantern for light.
When Chew Doggie Dog, the Rappa Snappa, rolls in horse manure, I do not hope for rain to wash her off.
All I have to do is drag her into one of the two — count them, two — bathrooms, and let her have it.
For the first time in 12 years, I have a lawn to mow.
Some closets and cupboards still are empty because I haven't owned enough stuff to fill them with for so long.
It is all so mundane, so civilized.
Whatever am I going to do for column material now?

Sometime soon, maybe I'll think about new stuff longer than 140 characters.