Sam, the boxer/lab six-month-old puppy who’s thrown in his lot with me, and I have landed in the Great North Woods to live in a Tiny White Box. (If I’m not careful, another sentence like the last one–with its common words capitalized–will make me sound as if I’m living in the 17th century, instead of the grand and glorious 21st, where we’ve got rocket packs and universal peace.
The first couple nights here have gone well, although Sam has endeared himself to no one with his judgment that the porch of the bunkhouse is an appropriate place to take a dump. While it could be Sam has a peasant’s view of the gentry who sleep in their wilderness luxury with fire and bed frames, I kind of doubt it. Although . . . Sam’s upper body strength might be perfect for pulling a noble-filled tumbril to the execution point about a mile or so out of town. But I digress.
Ernest Hemingway had a great line in a short story–“He was awake a long time before he remembered his heart was broken.” After being married to Liberty House for five years, and being father to a series of 10 veterans, I think it will take me a long time to stop thinking about the place, fretting and wondering if things are okay. Still, I haven’t called to check in, the sun is shining here and I’ve got a few novels and a memoir to write–along with planning for the first Tiny White Box veterans writing retreat starting September 22.
According to my phone, I’ve now been sober 3751 days. Huh. It seems like just over 10 years ago I was a suicidal drunk. (Unable to complete a thought, the author now contemplates what a “phone” that has no service should be called. Until I go south in three weeks to visit my daughters, the box in my pocket is little more than a music, podcast, audiobook player. And reminder of how long I’ve been sober.