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Friday, Jan. 07, 2005
I realize that it is merely because of the amount of time I have on my idle hands these days. I realize it and do little to prevent it. But Iíve been falling down some really deep rabbit holes lately.

Spend enough time online and it will happen to you. You go a searchiní for the best recipe for pecan pie, say, and next thing you know youíre ass deep in some really obscure site checking out pictures of scuba gear or reindeer accessories or the like.

Weíve all done it. Fallen down the old rabbit hole of link after link, until we shake our heads and look at the clock and realize that 6 hours have disappeared and the working wife is due home any minute and did you take the chicken out of the freezer like she asked you to do? Hmmm?

I have to blame at least part of it on my dearly departed (but not entirely gone, thank goodness) Sundry buddy, a writer of vast talent who has taken to the big leagues of blogging with a vengeance. Check out her sidebar links in that story and if you're sharp of eye, youíll find the reason for one of my recent plunges into rabbit hell. It led me to This Guy, and heís funny and very readable in his own right, but he in turn led me to a half dozen others, and I spent nearly an entire Saturday reading about life in Antarctica. How there are people who live and work there year round, and how thereís a waiting list of people to take their place. It was several hours of pure escapism for me, some fascinating stuff. I understand that carpenters are in demand down there . . .

Yesterday I found a blog that was so outrageous I read the whole damn thing, 3 years worth, and thatís not so much a testament to how fast I read but to the hoot worthy content. Thereís a bunch of them out there and Iím sure that finding them is just a matter of continuing to click, and click some more.

Thatís how some poor rancher out in Colorado, looking for information on how to fill in or detect rabbit holes who will find his way here. By clicking, that is.

I mean, thatís how yíall wound up here in the first place, isnít it?


Hereís one more link on the progressively lengthening list of semi-worthless stuff I look at. Know him by his links, I always say. But Land and Farm is such a shameless way to enjoy the geography of real estate I couldnít let it pass by. For those of you looking to find a good deal on retirement property or investment land, especially if you need to cross the state line if youíre looking beyond your own borders, this is the place.

I commented a few days ago about how much Iíd like to pack up the truck and do a little escapism of my own in a nice warm place. Itís stuck with me. We all have a vision of tropical climes and umbrella drinks but I like to think mine is a little more modestly confined to the Southeast.

Iíve got another couple of years before all the kids are, at least legally and morally, free to move about on their own. Ally and I have been laughing about it (or crying about it) since the day we found out our third one was on the way and I gave her a congratulatory peck on the cheek and said ďThatís great honey, see you in about 18 years, okay?Ē Funny at the time, not so funny in practice. More truth than fiction, you see.

In the years of raising kids and running all over the Southeast installing stuff I realized something. One - I was gonna make good on seeing Ally in 18 years, really seeing her I mean and Two - we needed to spend our waning years someplace in the South. I mean, we live in the sorta/kinda South right now, a lot further South than lots of folks, but itís not the real South, you know? The palmetto tree, red clay, dirt farmer South.

I can read all I want to about hanging out in Antarctica but digging for clams on a beach in South Carolina is a whole lot more my style. Warmth becomes me. Iíve already lived in a near Arctic environment as a youth and have no desire whatsoever to go back to it. Humid breezes in March do not scare me, nor do fire ants. Or single-wide Baptist churches.

Convincing Ally of this wonít be a problem. She was raised down there, is comfortable with it. Her natural father (a whole Ďnother entry needed) still lives there and we visit him when we can. I donít think Iíve ever seen her more . . . comfortable, I guess thatís the word, than when sheís been lounging on his front porch on a sweetly warm Southern evening with a glass of iced tea and nothing but conversation to wind the day down. Her only objection would be relative distance from children, as would be mine. Weíll need to work on that.

But itís hard not to get a little misty eyed about a three room clam shack (with hammock and a cable modem) near the Gulf. Itís a rabbit hole I fall down every single time.


You may have noticed a (whee!) minor graphical improvement herein, and itís now easier to find the appropriate link for the guest book over there on the left (see it? ĎLeave a note for . . .í) but just for the sake of uniformity, Iíll leave the convenient Guestbook link down here as well, for a few days. Thanks for reading.

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