VA bound

Denton, North Carolina - 6:00 a.m. EST
I have an hour or so of chores, then I load the Prince for the last time on this trip. With luck, we'll be in VA by 1:00 p.m.

Quincy and I are tired. We're ready to land. God speed, please.

No grit, no glory

One of the best compliments I've ever received was when Peter Campbell said I had "grit." I'm not certain now if his comment followed Quincy breaking my toes from a full rear or some other stupid thing I did at the ranch clinic, but I remember the sentiment. The truth is that I didn't feel that worthy of it. But Peter doesn't bullshit people, so I accepted it.

Surviving the first half of this trip took grit. I'll own it. Again, the grit was necessary to keep going in spite of stupidity (lack of knowledge, experience, common sense …), but still. I haven’t blogged because I haven’t had time to do anything but make the next stop and try and sleep for a few hours. What follows is the highlights and lowlights of the first half. 

Day one: Blast off
It started well. Quincy loaded in trailer, Pam was following me in my car, and I only had to get to San Diego. How tough could that be?

·       The Grapevine on I-5 is nuts. With a horse in a trailer, it’s downright harrowing. Anyone who has any doubts as to my need for a 1-ton truck to haul my rig should have been in the passenger seat on this leg. Trust me, I needed everything Bridget had to get me over it. It wouldn’t be the last time I was grateful for her. 

·       I-5, through LA, rush hour. Bad idea. Stop. Go. Stop. Stop. Inch forward. Two hours. Change lanes? You would have thought I was asking for the first born of the driver next to me. I literally had to lean my head out the window and make eye contact to gain access into their precious lane. On the upside, there was a hotel in East LA named “Destiny Inn,” with a balcony that looked over the freeway, advertising a honeymoon suite for a mere $54.99. You need not pay me for this hot tip if you’re looking for post wedding bliss. 

·       Full, 20 gallon water tank tipped over in the tack room of my trailer. It didn’t spill, although it leaked. But there was no way I could lift it back up. I decided to postpone that problem until later, ala Scarlet O’hara. 

·       Driving into Little T ranch in San Diego in the dark. Another bad idea. Huge ruts, big puddles, dark and cavernous drive down into it. (My Air Force buddy Cynthia and her husband Barry rescued me here – He righted my water tank, they brought me dinner, and they remained cheerful and supportive as my anxiety spilled all over the place). The first two stalls the gal showed me were mud puddles. I wasn’t happy, nor was I buying off on the two options. We found our way to a stall on higher ground. OK, a victory.  

·       Driving off Little T ranch the next morning through obstacles too numerous to mention. It was a “circle” (i.e., advertised as an “easy pull through.”) The gate I had to drive through didn’t look wide enough to begin with. Add a very ominous piece of rebar that cut into my already tight clearance, and I was on my way to agitation. The boyfriend of the gal who owned the place offered to direct me out. He didn’t speak much English, but he was very enthusiastic. The hill I was on to get out was steep, rutted, and muddy. I had to drive through the first gate (with the rebar) and turn sharply to the right to get out to the street. He was gesturing wildly and shouting. Then, the gal came out. She started offering her advice on the project. They didn’t agree. They both believed they knew better. I was on the hill, Quincy was probably close to falling over, and I am now panicked. I got out, yelled “stop!” muttered a few obscenities, and said, “One person. That’s it.” I pointed at the boyfriend. I was swayed by his enthusiasm. We escaped.

Day two, Tucson

·       Drove to the mailing address rather than the physical address of Doubletake Equestrian in Tucson. This was after 40 minutes in downtown Tucson traffic. I came to the address, in a residential neighborhood, and I knew there was something wrong.  The owner came out and directed me to the ranch with “easy” directions. I set off. 30 minutes later, I arrived in the area where I’m supposed to be. Unfortunately, the name of the country road I was supposed to turn on was apparently a popular choice for the street-namers. There were three (count them, THREE) streets with the EXACT SAME NAME. They were conveniently located next to one another. So, of course, I went down the first two, which were the wrong choices. This wouldn’t be such a big deal, but for this rather large rig I have with a limited turn radius. The country roads weren’t wide. So, I had to find places to turn around. I did, but again with the panic. I set out on this trip determined to save myself from turns and backing up. So much for determination. 

·       A beautiful barn, lovely people. Good. Nice dinner with friends. Sleep (sort of). Up at 4:00, determined to get to Fort Stockton, Tx, that day (a ridiculous goal, as it turned out). Decide that loading Quincy in the dark would be fine. (Note: my mentor and trainer Gina has said to me, on several occasions, “Cindy, when you find yourself saying ‘it’ll be fine,’ stop. Reconsider.” I didn’t heed her advice.) We started at 5:00 a.m. I finally got him loaded at 10:36. Yes, the math and the situation were ugly. I was exhausted. I had pulled, threatened, cajoled, used a flag, tried a long-line approach, gotten “help,” cried (a lot), called Gina every hour, and considered relocating to Tucson. When I finally got him in, it was due to drugs, his exhaustion, and God’s mercy. I was a wreck. I got him off the ranch, stopped on the dirt road a half mile later, and sobbed for 20 minutes. Then, I drove. I never made it to Fort Stockton.

Day 3: Sierra Blanco, Texas 

·       9:00 p.m. – It’s dark, I’m tired, and I can’t drive anymore. I pull off on a one exit town that boasts only one gas station, a mini mart, and a suspicious-looking hotel named “Americana Inn.” But it had a relatively big parking lot. I believed Quincy and I could be OK there for the night. There was no way I was unloading him before getting to Houston anyway (my trailer is big enough for him to lay down), so what did I care what the hotel was like? I pulled in. 

·       Abu, the hotel proprietor, didn’t look happy about my rig or where I wanted to park. We negotiated. I moved to a different part of the parking lot. Abu grumbled, but consented. I got a room ($50). I saw the room. I determined that there was no way I’d sleep in the bed there, but I made use of the electricity to charge my devices and the bathtub for cleaning Quincy’s buckets. I also watched an episode of “30 rock,” which was oddly satisfying. While I was scared of the place when I first drove in, I felt more comfortable after doing all my barn chores. I’d made a home for me and my horse in a two-bit parking lot. Bring it on, cheap motel people. Granted, I locked both Quincy’s doors and my own, but still. I felt a little badass by the time I went to bed in my luxurious camper, Betsy.

Day 4: Sugar Land, Texas (i.e., Houston). Pre-heaven (i.e., Kendal and Gretchen’s house). 

·       Long, long drive. 13 hours. Too long. Traffic, LA style, through San Antonio and through Houston. Quincy was antsy to get out when we got to Sugar Land stables. I wanted to turn him out immediately. The barn manager, Janet, was begrudging but willing to let him out in the pasture at the front of the property. The fence was electric. I was a little hesitant, but he was so antsy and needed to stretch his legs. So, I turned him out. He promptly hit the fence, got a wild look, took off, snorted, and was generally agitated. Poor guy. 13 hours in a damn trailer (albeit with a few nap stops in between) and then shocked. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. We had left Abu’s hotel at 6 a.m. We arrived at Sugar Land stables at 7 p.m. After settling Quincy in (which included removing, unsuccessfully, a very fat tick from his neck), unhooking the trailer, dealing with the spilled chia seeds in the tack room that were soggy from the leaking water tank … I arrived in heaven (aka, Kendal and Gretchen’s house) at 10 p.m. A stiff drink, a dip in the hot tub, the good company of my hosts and one of my favorite people on the planet, Darren, and the first half of the trip seemed over.

Day 5: Sugar Land, Texas. Shea Stewart, my saving grace

·       I called Genae, Gina’s daughter, and was ready to pay for her time plus a $1,000 plane ticket for her to come out and finish the trip with me. There was no way I could go through another trailer loading debacle. I was terrified of that possibility. Bless her, she was willing to come. 

·       Shea Stewart, Quincy’s body-worker and generally amazing horseman, happens to live in Fort Worth, Texas. Because of my need to see her, she pulled together a few other clients that weekend in the Houston area, and came out to give Quincy cranio-sacral work and give me a trailer-loading lesson. I’d already gotten great counsel from Genae at Morning Sun Ranch, but apparently I’m one of the remedial students.  I needed help. Shea applied some no-nonsense principles with me, and with her help I had Quincy loading with no trouble.  I was so confident at the end of that session that I spared Genae from a crazy trip. You’d think this would be the happy ending, right? Well, it is. Except that Quincy is a five-year-old, which is the equivalent of a two-year-old child. 

·       Sunday night, Quincy pulled a four-foot board out from the front of his stall and onto his back. He grabbed the blanket bar with his teeth, which happened to be connected to the board, and worked it up until he could flip it up. When the barn worker came running to the stall (after seeing the board fly through the air), he was standing on the board and VERY upset. Idiot. He didn’t seem too worse for wear the next day, but it’s hard to know yet. When we left today, he seemed to be moving fine. God willing, he will be.

Grit. Yes. I kept going. The second half will be better. My session with Shea and my weekend in heaven has fortified me. Stay tuned.

Pre-roadie madness

Crazy couple of days. Weird weather, crazy horse, endless details, numerous small trials (which seemed much bigger in the moment they happened). Beyond the details of the trials, what I'd rather note are some of the people who saved me from them.

Pam. My best friend since I was 11 years old. She is a single mom of two teenaged boys with a gigantic job -- her own law practice -- and she picked up and left for four days. For me. She was doing multimillion dollar deals from my camper one minute, and helping me pack my truck in the next. And she froze in my camper, cheerfully. I tried to help. I piled every coat and towel I had on top of her. She didn't get warm until much later, but the cheer remained.

Mike. The father of Morning Sun Ranch. He helped me strategize my various conundrums. How to jack up my camper. How to get my camper stand on top of said camper, without harming myself or others (it involved his tractor. I am coming to appreciate the right tool for the job). Dry humor, even when I felt like crying my eyes out. He made me feel more competent than I am. And he made me laugh in the process.

Austyn. Mike and Gina's son, who just kept being competent while asking, politely with laughter, "you need some help?" Most of the time I tried to say "no." But he'd amble over anyway, and then I'd say, "well, yeah ... kinda." Today, when I went to hook up my super duper hitch that extended beyond my camper, I couldn't lift it. (Truly, it's heavy.) I've gotten better about just asking Austyn for help rather than put myself through the agony of trying to do it (the really guy-type stuff) on my own. He smiled and came over, and I jabbered on about how heavy it was, how we'd have to do it together, blah, blah, blah. Before I could barely get the jabber out, he'd already gotten it done. Cheerful, good-natured competence. He laughed at me, and I joined him.


Doug. Helped me back my truck into the razor thin margin under my camper. Then, later, reminded me to buy a jack and a lugnut wheel. Good call. I wouldn't have remembered. And that's one of those things that you don't think about until you need it.

Judith. She traveled with me on my maiden voyage to the Peter Campbell clinic in Washington state with Luna (my horse trailer) AND the super duper extended hitch. By the time she got there today, I was near tears because I couldn't remember how to hook the damn thing up. There's lots of chains and bars and hooks and clips. Really, way more than normal trailers. She showed up, reminded me of how it worked, and basically saved me from a complete meltdown.

Genae. The weather was nuts this past weekend. My horse was also nuts. I took him out for a hand walk, and he was rearing and tearing around like a madman. At one point, I yelled, "Hey, I could use some help here!" because Genae was nearby the scene of the crime. He fell at one point. Freaked me out. She came over and, being the good horseperson she is, stopped about 15 feet away from the madness rather than rushing into it.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"No. I need you to take him."

Which she did ... while I tried not to cry from the fear that came up when his front feet came within inches of my head. She talked to me. Led him on a short lead. Talked to me some more. He tried to rear. She shut it down. And talked to me. Once we got him to his stall, I left to cry in my camper for 30 minutes. But after that, I was OK. Genae has skill, talent, and a way of talking to me about what is going on with my horse. I woke up the next day ready to take it on. Quincy, partly because of Jack, has been a gentleman ever since.

Doug's horse, Jack. Jack gave Quincy someone else to push around. Jack pushes back. I turned them out together for the last few days, and watched them jab and dodge and rear and kick. It's what horses are meant to do. After time with Jack, Quincy was not only a little tired, but back to mellow. Surfer boy needs his friends.

Gina. Quiet, patient, steady. It almost doesn't matter what I talked to her about in the last couple days. I don't remember, anyway. All I know is that I feel calmer when I leave the conversation than when I started it.

These are only a few of the amazing people that surround me here.

Today's the day. Time to get up and get out and get on the road. Stay tuned.

Blast off.

From Morning Sun Ranch, with lots of love

Going away party. Do you people have any idea how much I'll miss you????

Check, please

The list is getting smaller. For some reason, I have resisted compiling the scraps of paper and the scraps in my mind to one complete list, so checking things off is primarily a mental exercise. I have to say that mental lists are the greatest alarm clock ever. I am awake a little earlier every day. Today, I was up at 4:00, but refused to get up at first because it's cold and I ran out of propane last night. As a result, I am bundled up in fleece, sweats, and half-finger gloves, and I'm drinking irradiated coffee from microwaved water. Which, let's be clear, is still pretty luxurious depending on your frame of reference. I'm the most grateful for the coffee and the gloves.

Court saga: The Conclusion 
On Wednesday, I once again attacked my paperwork beast. I began around 7 a.m. and finished with a completed filing at 2:48 p.m., with 12 minutes to spare before they closed. Some highlights:

• Talked to my paralegal 8 times, once rather frantically from the courthouse
• Killed at least one tree's worth of paper in mistakes
• Ran out of toner dangerously close to my appointment time with the notary
• Learned that notary public people no longer use that groovy stamp (it's not copy-able, hence the change)
• Got turned away from the window 3 more times
• Found a drug store in the final 40 minutes to get tools for correction and reassembly (staple remover, stapler, staples, big envelopes, change for the copy machine at the courthouse)
• After two solid days of wrestling, I filed. CHECK.

Packed up my office on campus
Primarily, this entailed one full box of academic books to help me complete my own book. Doug and I have a publisher deadline this year.  The second box was made up of electronic tethers of various sorts. Also took my brand new IMac. New home office: CHECK

Vet check, final vaccinations, health papers, horse hotels
Quincy is legal in all our drive-through states and his hotel itinerary is confirmed. CHECK

Sanity
Pam is coming tomorrow to help with the rest of the list, drive my other car down to her house, and basically restore my sanity. Best friend showing up for the 80 zillionth time to save me from myself. CHECK


Four days until blast off.

Forms over function

At about 3:00 today I became aware of the stress that began in my jaw and ended somewhere in my Achilles tendon. I was at the courthouse today, trying to file what I thought was simple paperwork, but alas ... legal documents are guaranteed employment for attorneys. The clerk, apparently disgusted with my disorganization and tentativeness, waved me away to the "self help" center. Fair enough, I guess. Granted, there was NO ONE else in line, but she's probably just the document-taker. I won't judge.

So, I trotted over the self-help center, if not cheerfully, at least not grumpily. I know when I'm out of my league, and I appreciate good advice from the people who know. I didn't even have to wait that long, which may have had something to do with the fact that the manager of the center likely only spoke English, and it was clear I was the only one waiting who fit that category. So, she directs me to a table, where I start to gather my forms in piles. In a tone that only hinted of the condescension that was to follow, she said, "It's really easier if you just give me all your forms to start with." I shrugged, compiled my stacks, and handed them to her.

She started to cluck. "Oh, well. Hm. This form is different ... well, this may be a problem. I'm just not sure about this..." Then, she looked up with a false brightness and said, "Let's just go pull the case file, shall we?"

I don't know if I actually shrugged or just did it in my mind, but all I really wanted was the forms to be correct. Whatever "we" needed to do was fine by me.

She came back and said, with a little artificial slowness, "These are not the forms you need." I waited during the pause, hoping that she would enlighten me. But she still had some work to do on me before she revealed the answer. "See, you have an amended petition here."

I rushed in. "Yes, see the mediator we saw yesterday said these were the forms ..." She cut me off.

"You don't need an amended petition, you need to file [fill in the blank here with a bunch of legal-sounding terms that meant absolutely nothing to me]."

"OK," I said, "but she said all we had to do was ..."

Again with the cut off. All I was going to say was that she told us something that was obviously wrong, and I wanted to know what I needed to do instead. But she's been down this road before, clearly.

"I'm telling you," she said, impatiently, "and I do this every day. I do know what I'm doing."

Um, OK. I never said she didn't. I tried to ask another question, again, only because I wanted to get the right forms.

"So, if we don't need the amended petition, then what do we ne ..."

Again with the cut off. Then, she proceeded to write vague legal terms in big letters and draw circles around them for emphasis. The terms still meant nothing to me. Remember, I thought this was going to be simple. I know when I'm whipped. So, I attempted to interrupt the instruction that was based on vocabulary of which I had no understanding.

"So, should I just get my last attorney's paralegal to do this? Because I'm not completely following this, and ..."

Again, she cut me off.

"You can do whatever you want. I'm not here to give legal advice."

I took a deep breath. I began to notice the tightness in my jaw.

"I'm not asking for legal advice. What I'm asking is whether or not I should try and fill out paperwork I don't understand."

Can someone look annoyed and bored at the same time? "That's why I'm explaining it to you."

OK, so let's review this situation. I am a relatively well-educated person. She had been explaining this process to me for a good ten minutes and I was completely flummoxed by it. All I could think about was the other people waiting for help. What a wickedly cruel combination of complexity and condescension. I was simply fortunate enough to have an understanding that this was a domain expertise problem, not an intelligence problem.

"I appreciate that," I said. "But I'm thinking that I may save some time by having someone else prepare the paperwork."

"Well, if you want to spend the money, that's up to you."

She handed me the paper with the big letters and the circles. I thanked her, picked up my (now worthless) pile of forms, and got up. I looked at the group of people waiting to get help. I really hoped my helper didn't speak Spanish. I was also glad I had the money to get someone else to fill out these damned forms. I'm guessing the rest of my fellow help-seekers didn't have that luxury.

So, I located some new forms online tonight, attempted to fill them out, and will be sending them, tomorrow, to someone who knows more than I do. How can a few forms be so exhausting?

I'm sorry, fellow help-seekers. It's not you, it's complicated. Hang in there.

Seven days until blast off. 

Betsy's back on Bridget

With the help of my friends Austyn and Doug, we managed to get Betsy (my camper) back on Bridget (my truck) today. It was touch and go there for awhile. At one point, when the camper was completely jacked up as far as it would go (necessary to clear the truck bed), a gust of wind came up. Austyn grabbed one of the jacks and said "whoa ...." (and he wasn't talking to a horse). The camper was tippy, as in potentially going to blow over. Austyn held on to stabilize her. I'm parked above a steep hill, and I just got a flash of what it would look like if she toppled down it. The wind died down, and then Austyn began the excruciating work of trying to get me to back Bridget into the razor thin margin between the jacks (an inch and a half at most). I kept coming at it at a slight angle, which didn't meet the razor thin requirement. I was getting nervous about my abilities (I think Austyn, calm as could be, was nonetheless nervous on my behalf :-)

Then my friend Doug drove by. Lots of hauling/RV experience. In a slightly panicked voice, I yelled "Hey Doug, I could really use your help!" (note: a huge understatement). Doug came over, also calm as could be, and got on the other side. Now I had two calm people trying to talk me through the razor thin margin. After a couple minutes, Doug came over and asked politely, "Do you mind if I give it a try?"

I jumped out of that driver's seat like a shot. No pride here, people. Doug, with Austyn's help (I don't think I was that useful), backed her in after only two tries. But even with his experience, it was an inch- by-inch process. That is one small margin of error.

After it was over, I realized how dangerous that situation could have been (well, how dangerous it was, actually, and how lucky we were). I need new jacks that are more stable, 25 years newer (the camper is a 1994), more accommodating of big dually wheels, and electric.

"Hello, trailer service people ..."

Nine days until blast off.

One of the reasons I'm going

 What follows are my observations of a speech my new boss gave to a group of his managers last year.

A leadership moment

It was 4 o'clock on the final afternoon of a three-day, midlevel manager’s meeting. A hundred or so auditors were thinking about getting home, getting a drink, or both. The room was a large conference hall, stocked with 70 tables in 10 rows facing a big stage, fluorescent lights overhead, the kind of windowless light that makes everyone look slightly gray. The kind of room that sucks the oxygen out of the air.

The Director got up to make his closing remarks. He started with recognition of several people who were retiring, offering up thanks and honoring their years of service. People clapped, their enthusiasm dependent on how well they knew or cared about each of the of the retirees. The applause died down. People glanced at the clock, their watches. The Director fumbled with his first slide, made a self-deprecating remark about his need for glasses. Polite laughter.

The slide came up. Twelve expectations for the way ahead. A recap of what they’d been talking about for three days. Setting clear expectations with customers and following through. Finishing any audit they started. Being timely. Getting through the audit backlog. Taking care of the workforce. Communicating better. After he read each one, he paused. At one point, somewhere around the middle of the list, he said, “I need you to get this done. Can you get this done?”

The silence was deadly. He tried again.

“If there’s barriers or impediments to getting this done, I need to know about them.”

More silence. There was only 30 minutes until they were released. Home. That drink. He continued with the list. They snuck another look at the clock.

He finished with number 12. Paused. Those of us on his side worried a little bit. He was somber. The oxygen continued to leak out of the room.

Then he said, “You know, we’ve had a lot of critics.” Got his second slide up. A long quote. Someone in the audience took off his glasses, rubbed his nose wearily, and put them back on. His neighbor sat next to him, staring stonily ahead.

The Director said, “This is a good quote. Anybody know who said it?”

A voice piped up from the back: “Teddy Roosevelt.”

“Yes! Very good,” he said, obviously pleased. Then he read it out loud.

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood ...”

He stopped there and said, “‘marred by dust and sweat and blood.’ That’s a great line, isn’t it?” He sounded a little like a kid. You could feel the start of a slight smile in the crowd.

He continued.

“... whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."

As he read further, his voice took on a different tone, raising in enthusiasm. Reverence for the wisdom of Teddy Roosevelt. A certain sense of determination.

“I really like that quote,” he said, looking out at the crowd. Then, with a self-awareness that foreshadowed the integrity that was to follow, he said, “I think that quote is really for me.” He laughed, and the managers laughed too, genuine this time. The energy in the room began to shift.

“We have a lot of critics,” he repeated. The pause was short, but pointed. “Frankly,” he said, “I’m sick of the critics.”

The guy in the glasses looked up from the table.

The Director seemed to pull himself upright, straightening up from his bend toward the microphone. But no one had any trouble hearing the conviction in his next words.

“This is a damned good organization,” he said. There was a crack of emotion in his voice that was barely discernible.

No one was looking at the clock anymore.

“We have a great workforce, and you do excellent work. I’ve been listening to the critics for two years. The naysayers are wrong. It’s time to stop apologizing.”

The shift was palpable now. The room woke up. The oxygen came back.

“We have got to prove them wrong,” he said. “I have faith that we can do that. I have faith in you.”

Picture an organization that has been kicked so many times that it doesn’t even bother getting up anymore. The kicks still come, but they’d gotten pretty good at contortionist moves that made the blows bearable. Here was a man who was daring them to get up. Fight back. Who was ready to fight with them. His next words conveyed his certainty.

“Let’s get it done.”

Completely uncharacteristic of this crowd, they gave him a standing ovation. Auditors, enthusiastic. Unmistakable amazement. One woman started to cry. A crusty senior manager shook his hand and said, “Let’s get ‘er done.” Managers shaking other managers’ hands. Hope, embodied in an artificially lit room.

A leadership moment.

The chaos before the dawn

Is there any way to slow down the days? Please?

A hint as to what possibly goes through my brain in any given five-minute period: Vet check ... health certificate ... final vaccinations ... trip to the dentist (for me, not Quincy) before I leave ... renter's insurance for VA ... travel funding needs to be in place before March 22 ... am I ready for mediation on Monday? ... 45 student presentations starting tomorrow -- grading, sigh ... final edits on Director's message for the Year in Review due this week ... when the hell can I get my hair cut? ... gotta get my academic books shipped because there's no way I've got room to bring them with all Quincy's stuff ... I haven't gotten my license plates yet for my truck, which I need to deal with, and that means a DMV nightmare ... speaking of which, where are all the proofs of insurance on all my vehicles? ... How can I possibly have dinner with all the people I care about before I leave? (hint: I can't) ... security clearance transfer ... 2011 faculty activity report is due before I leave ... I need a new bank in VA, a national one ... which means I have to change all my direct deposit stuff ... gotta call and get final, clear directions to all the barns on my way so I keep myself from getting lost and having to back up my rig, EVER ... Final budget numbers due for my VA gig Wednesday afternoon ... Did I forget clothes at the drycleaners? ... forwarding my mail ... why can't I find a matched pair of black socks for the last couple days of grown-up clothes for teaching? ... cleaning up my office at work after months of neglect and paper collection ... Will Quincy be ready to travel? ... Will he load on the road? ... Will he survive this intact? ... Will I?

OK, now that I've gotten that out, let me say this:

• Just driving onto Morning Sun Ranch (where my humble abode is located) is a breath of fresh air. Wow, I will miss it and my family here.
• My dad drove five hours from southern California, both ways, to take me to dinner Friday and run errands with me on Saturday. Awesome. 
• Sarah, my right arm, keeps me organized and sane even within my chaos. She makes me look smarter than I am. 
• My pastor is full of encouragement for just about everything I'm going through.
• I have the most beautiful, amazing horse on the planet.
• Bridget, my faithful truck, is ready and eager for the trip. She'll take care of us all. 
• Lisa, my colleague, is going to make sure we get the last two years' of work out to the academic community this year.
• Pam, my best friend since I was 11 years old, is flying out to drive down with me on the first leg of my trip. 
• I could go on (really, I could). 

So, who cares about some DMV errands? Hell, I've got two vehicles to get there. What do I possibly have to complain about?

15 days until blast off.