beyond the morning

tiny keyholes

It is the straw that broke the camel's back. Technically it is the piece of furniture that wrecked my day. I was under the impression that BC was acquiring a set of drawers for Fisher who has out grown using a footlocker for storing his clothing.

What was towering over the entryway when I came home was a large wooden...what the hell is it called?! Wardrobe perhaps? It is in fantastic condition, perfect grain, nice light finish, and each door, there are 2, has a tiny little lock and a skeleton key.

"Need help getting it into Fisher's room?" I asked.
"Nope, that is where it goes. It is for shoes and coats."

"Yeah, except: don't we already have a place for shoes and coats?" Something that followed us home from an estate sale?" I distinctly remember having this same conversation then too. "Yeah, except don't we already have a place for shoes and coats?" Brought it home from the ReStore last winter. And again: "Yeah, except don't we already have a place for shoes and coats...?".

Oddly enough BC is the only one who doesn't use any of the other 3 designated shoe/coat places. It is no wonder he feels we need something....BUT accepting that would be sidestepping the real issue (oddly enough the same motion one would need to take to get into the house now).  The cold hard truth BC is a hoarder. No way around it, completely pathological.

He has 2 garages filled to overflowing, a tool trailer, and a semitrailer plus items in storage all over the valley at friends houses. He has stockpiles of materials for building all over the yard. He has 4 shelves for paperwork but can never find what he is looking for. Often complaining there is nowhere for his stuff to go.

And he shops. 
A lot. 
He never turns down a good deal. We have enough blankets and sleeping bags to host a camp out for 50 for 2 weeks! 
We have a year supply of apple cider vinegar. 
We have enough screws to fix the government  
I have over 15 pots and pans and only 4 burners to cook on. 
2 apple presses, 3 french presses, 2 large roasting pans, and 6 cast iron skillets. 
We have no less than 4 winter coats each, including for the 2 kids who no longer live at home.
BC has more clothing than Beach and I combined. 
Did I mention we have 5 shopvacs?

When Beach was gone to Gym camp I neurotically cleaned our house for 3 days straight.  On day 2 BC got on board and we actually got the farm looking pretty good. I was a little embarrassed to find that we have filled 2 city garbage cans with trash and recycling- why was all that garbage in my house?!?! We took away 3 full loads of stuff to donate to the local thrift store.

That was over a month ago. Seeing BC returning to his hoarder ways was almost too much.

But instead of freaking I moved around 4 large pieces of furniture, several times, and eventually found the "perfect" spot for BC's latest addition. 

See, I figure if he can tolerate my skeletons- such as being woken up, every third night or so, in the middle of the night by me screaming and thrashing around than I can put up with his closets.

thug life and nerd justice

"He is stealing things from our yard!?" BC exclaimed and the Friday night dinner of roasted pineapple, grilled zucchini and chicken clanked down hard on the table.... 

There had been a brief foot chase across our property and into the street.  I headed to the front of the car in an attempt to block him and get a look at the plate number.  BC in pursuit of the man himself got a hand on the guys door handle but as the guy picked up speed, BC let go.

That was when I got the chance to make a rare good decision.  Deciding to step out of the way rather than in front of the guys white SVU and overloaded trailer.  

All we knew at the time was he had taken the 2 large west desert geodes. He had taken more. 

The police responded.  They took us seriously. They counseled us on not leaving expensive items out.  But they were landscaping rocks... 

It was agreed this guy was one of the many vultures combing the junk piles lining our neighborhood for the annual neighborhood clean up. He would be back and he hand't gone far.

As we chatted with the officers we were wishing they would leave so we could get on with business. 

This plan was unspoken between me and BC but there was no question about what we were going to do. We had dug those rocks out of the earth ourselves we were taking them back, one way or another. 

Vigilante justice from me is not uncommon. After all I am the mom who has been known to launch soccer balls with full and accurate aim at speeding cars. I am also the one who kicked back open the door to our local meth dealer's apartment to let him know he was no longer going to race up and down 10th west, that his business was relocating.  Which he did. 

BC's temper is much milder than mine and yet he was on board with me.

After the police left we loaded into Little Red to go looking for him ourselves. We weren't going to let this go. 

It became a week long hobby. 

It's not about the rocks, we said, it's about the crime. How close that asshole got to our house, in daylight, he was dangerous and we can't allow him to walk away like that. He has to know we can't allow this behavior not here, not on 10th west. 

Facts filter in. Prior to taking freely from our yard he was approached by not 1 but 2 local gangsters-types asking him what he was doing. Despite being confronted he brazenly responded he was just looking at the rocks. 

Eight days later, Saturday morning, some information about where this guy might live filtered through the 10th west grapevine and we decided to go check it out. Another lead, one of many.

"Do you mind if we listen to NPR while we look..."
"Sure, isn't Wait Wait Don't Tell on now?" BC asked placing a heavy looking pistol on the floor of the car.

This is nerd justice at its finest. Armed with a card given to us by the police with the case number on it, 2 cell phones, a camera, a gun (for protection only), and the soothing voices of NPR." Pretty typical of our drives.

I had already asked a million questions about the gun. It was on BC's belt on our very first drive as he explained why it could not be hidden despite my repeated whiny requests that he do so. The weight of its presence always pressing against the same achy space in the back of my head. A small price to pay, under the circumstances so I stop verbally complaining about it. The way I lean away from it unavoidable.

We drive around for a half hour and end up at the Wayman's fruit stand and buy corn and peppers for dinner. 

Days go by like this us piling in our car, driving, and finding nothing but the secrets of all of our backyards.

Tuesday morning, 5:30 am and I am sick. Really sick. I am scheduled to work every night this week and now along with my sore throat and headache I have a fever. Avoiding the issues being sick will cause I am up this early to workout but something outside catches my eye.

White SUV, trailer, guy going through the pile. I grab the nearest piece of paper and a crayola marker. At first I walk slowly but when I see that in order to see around the trailer and get the plate number I have to get closer than comfortable. I move fast. I walk past him unnoticed. Into the street I circle, find a good spot to stand and write down the plate number, check it, copy it, check it again, run out of things to do.

You can give the rocks back or I can call the police with your plate number, I say. 
In the cool morning air my horse voice is strong and clear.  And it carries.

So startled by me he nearly falls head first into the pile.  

I am now shaking but if it is from fear or anger I don't know.  I repeat myself moving closer to him. He begins the usually I lent my car out, I didn't, you're mistaken. 

Rocks or police I say.  I have come all the way around the vehicle. We stand no more than four feet apart. 

I am in socks, running shorts, and a superman t shirt. I am a woman who often gets stepped on, a woman that allows people to push her around because I am too swamped by my own doubts to stop it. When I stand up for myself 'friends' jump ship reinforcing what I always have feared about myself. 

But with this man I am sure I am right.  There is no doubt as to who is at fault and I stand my ground- shaking.

He rushes away from me, stumbling backwards, not daring to turn his back to me. He manages to back into the drivers' seat and flees still mumbling I have the wrong guy.  His escape is much slower the second time. 

I go inside with his plate number.  I am met by BC half asleep racing down the stairs. He had heard me outside, apparently shouting. It had taken BC a minute or two to decide whether it was a dream or not. Another couple of seconds to find pants. 

I show him the paper with the number on it as we go back outside to stand and look up the now empty street.  

Within minutes a small pack of neighborhoods in various states of sleepwear are standing in the driveway telling their version of my morning.  All of them involve some type of firearm. I seem to be the only one on 10th west who reached for a washable marker.

out.standing.

through the glass

It was one of those days when I spent most of the day standing way back in my own head watching life like a bystander.  

"Gym was good...work was fine....ran some errands... took the ninjas shopping." 

Sometimes words and pictures don't quite add up.

"My day? It was fine, mellow, uneventful.... how was yours?"