Posts Tagged 'apache shores'

This was Halloween:

Picture a caravan of decorated golf carts, red wagons, bikes, and families shuffling along on foot. Picture kids racing from house to house in pink and blue twilight. Picture princesses, Thomas the Tank engines, and one Darth Vader. Picture open containers.

Picture a dinosaur toddler and a zombie 7-year-old eating candy and eating more candy and staying up past their bed time.

Picture a wiped out mom and dad, stretched out on a couch and recliner after the dinosaur and zombie bathe and brush teeth and put on PJs and fight sleep. Picture open windows in a still house, the thick night seeping in.

Picture the wiped out parents turning off night lights and pulling up covers and feeling something gentle and shared and fleeting in the zombie and dinosaur’s bedroom.

Picture crickets and white stars somewhere outside. Picture deep sleep.


He with the most toys. . .

Sally and I aren’t big consumers. Stuff, we’ve decided, mainly complicates, and we’ve figured out that it doesn’t make us happy.

Which brings me to this:

And, yes, I know. Sally and I don’t play golf and don’t intend to start.

We tell ourselves we bought the golf cart to tote the boys to the neighborhood pool, the lake, the trail, and the children’s park, all of which are less than a mile away but down and up a steep hill. We tell ourselves that we picked up the cart because it’s fun to putter around our neighborhood, Apache Shores, a floaty bungied to the cart roof, the cooler loaded with sandwiches, Lone Star, and juice boxes, the warm air soothing away the day.

And that’s all some of it, no doubt.

But most of it is that we like accumulating stuff more than we care to admit.


So Easter.

Both the boys woke up before sunrise to dig through their baskets and fill up on Peeps, jelly beans, and chocolate. Then they raced around the yard looking for eggs. It was wacky fun.

After breakfast, we joined the second annual Apache Shores Easter egg hunt. As with most things Apache Shores, the event, which featured mimosas, screw drivers, and a sad potluck, was as much a party for the adults as it was a gathering for the kids. The Easter Bunny made an appearance, too, riding into the park on a folding bike with tiny wheels.

That afternoon we ate ham sandwiches and yellow Oreos and stared at the lake with good people, including this dangerous family. And by 9:00 PM we were all dead out.

Letting go day 6: The neighborhood circus

Piddly stuff has set me off lately. The dogs taking a dump in the living room, Slade throwing pebbles on the sidewalk I just swept, the toll road company sending us a bill that we’ve already paid. I clench and curse quietly about all this minor drama that doesn’t matter.

I tell myself exactly that, that it doesn’t matter, but I’m still pissed off. My insides are still a fist.

How do I let it go? How do I laugh and breathe deeply and enjoy the strange scenery of a life off the rails? I need to figure that out.

A party erupted at our house Saturday night. I invited a few people from the neighborhood over, and they showed up as did others, one of whom I only sort of know, another of whom I didn’t know at all.

Shots were downed and schemes were hatched and beer bottles were broken and baskets were shot on Eli’s new hoop. I had an especially fine time.

Then Phil backed his truck into a steep ditch. Why Phil, who lives a maybe two-minute walk away, had driven to our house in the first place is a head scratcher. Why he’d decided to cruise home with a belly full of booze is another.

A tree prevented his truck from flipping over, and the front half of his truck, including a wheel that was off the ground, poked out into the road. We tried to push his truck and then tried to tow it, but we couldn’t budge the heavy machine.

It’s been a brutal year for Phil. His wife cheated on him and left him. He’s working several jobs, but money is always tight. He gets to see his son very little.

You’d think that a truck in the ditch would be enough to break him. But Phil remained upbeat and relaxed as we failed to get his truck unstuck and called wrecker services and hoped that a sheriff wouldn’t roll down the street.

I told Phil that if it we were me, I’d be angry and freaked out. I told him I might just put my head through a window.

He smiled at me. “What are they going to do to me? I mean, really. I’m already broken. They can’t hurt you when you don’t care any more.”

He patted me on the shoulder.

“Come on, bro,” he said. “Let’s get some cold beers and enjoy the circus.”

He yanked two Lone Stars from the garage fridge, and we walked up the driveway to the road to await the tow truck, and I drank deeply from the bottle, and I have to admit that I felt calm and pretty good.


I’m sure I’m over my 20-minute limit. I didn’t intend to tell this story, but then I started typing, and I didn’t want to stop. So I didn’t.