The pupperino, who never sits still. Unless she’s lying on the heater vent.
*
Today is my last day at what I’ve been calling (at least in my mind) The Hill House. Not because it’s Shirley Jackson-esque, but because it’s, well, on a hill.
I’ve been here a month, surrounded by trees and hens and art and southwestern colors that reflect away the gray and bring in the rare Oregon sunshine. Today, the windows are open, the dishes are clean, the puppy is waiting patiently for her owners to return and I am packing. Again.
Tomorrow I land back in the hustle and bustle of P-town. I’ll be there through the end of June. First, staying with some old-soon-to-be-new-friends in NE (yeah, I know that’s an odd tag. but it feels right), then house-sitting again.
After June, I have. no. idea. Not a one. That’s a scary and wild feeling, it really is, to know that in many ways (minus money, of course), the whole world is open to you. What do you choose when you have that much choice? How do you choose?
When (and if), I have an answer, I’ll let you know!
Far and fast, s.
Garden typewriter. Can’t imagine why I like it here.
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Chapter 37 
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