Hello and welcome to the bog- typo unintentional but fitting- wondering what to do now. In the last eleven days, I have helped hang drywall. Mudded. Taped. Textured. Trimmed. Caulked. Painted. Moved heavy cabinetry, wired in light fixtures and outlets. Scrubbed paint off the dog. Scrubbed paint off of self. Worked drywall mud out of hair. Cleaned out 300 gallons of foul sludge and drowned birds from a fishpond left unattended for four years. Stepped on a nail. Rode a creaky, heavy bike back and forth the quarter mile between our house and my parents house at least six times a day, carrying everything from a rake and sharpshotter spade to mops and brooms to bull-nosed corner trim balanced across the handlebars. Built a firepit in the backyard. Sat around the fire with old friends, saying whatever came to mind, the most enlightening black holes of conversation that can be borne of a sky littered with stars, dew-laden breeze and glowing coals, a sugar buzz from roasted mashmallows and the silence that is Western Kansas at night, even in the village of Marienthal. Walked the pasture on my family's farm to find the perfect south-facing hillside to put a tiny, solar or wind powered, windmill-watered, cabin with a soil roof, built out of strawbales, adobe, and western Kansas mud. Found it. Had fun drawing up the plans. Sighed, as many times and many plans before, and shelved the project. Ran four miles on a steak dinner, after dark when the wind died down and it got cool. Dug rotting bird carcass out of the dog's mouth. Dug rotting pond scum out of the dogs mouth. Dug horse turds out of the dog's mouth. Dug the howling cat out of the dog's mouth. Dug my sandwich out of the dog's mouth. Realized the pointlessness of maintaining a vegan diet in Western Kansas. Ate ice cream after dinner almost every night. Ate a Dairy King burger, onion rings and a vanilla malt. Ate my mamma's cooking. Gained five pounds in eleven days. Considered the circle of life, family values and one's heritage while reverting to the barefoot farmgirl I once was. Felt a thousand miles away from Summit County, and who I am here. Gave the dog a bath. And another. Fell asleep in my old bedroom, wondering if I had dreamed the last seven years. Screamed at the incessant wind. Remembered what summer heat felt like. Remembered how much I enjoyed puttering in my yard, tending to my garden and flowers- some of which still live. Put For Sale signs up on our first house, almost seven years to the day after Grandpa Jim whispered instructions to Bobby as he bid the winning bid for it. Stood in the shop/garage that Bobby built during those three months that summer, all after dark in the coolness after long, hot days spent farming for Berning Organics, and wondered how we could just sell all that labor and love. Took pictures, shut off the lights, and locked the door. Done. Just like that.

And now, I am home. Mountain bike race season starts in 19 days. It is supposed to rain all week. I have yet to begin training. Our little trip to kansas cost me dearly in that area. I am so out of shape it hurts- literally- and now I need to get some hours in at work, where I can get paid, not on my bike saddle, covering miles of pavement in hopes that I can be ready to hit the trails when they dry sufficiently.

As soon as I can get them loaded on my computer, I will post an entire post of pictures from our trip, and a little written narration. Check back as early as tonight, or at late as a week from now...