The Pirate's Den

As my River Dreams sink silently into the pools of my second parenting career, The Pirate's Den continues to carry less romantic ownership responsibilities. Empty, neglected buildings are a huge problem in any neighborhood. They attract all manner of vermin of all leg counts. The two-legged vermin get my vote as the meanest infestations, but the debate rages. All contestants in the debate seem agreed on that basic premise that empty, neglected buildings are a huge problem in any neighborhood.

Corona was newly crowned when DOS2 relieved me of that growing pressure when she retired from her day gig and moved to the River Region. Her night gig --caring for the disabled sister between us in age-- moved with her. The two of them looked like happy little clams when we visited them on our road trip this past summer. The children were too road shocked to explore the rivers with me, but DOS2's living room was unanimously voted the best camp site of the road trip. The best of the rest (Hot Springs, Arkansas) was not even a close second.

A month or three ago, DOS2's hubby (70 something) arrived to deliver the car he thought she should be driving and stayed to continue his business as usual. Our middle sister's wheel chair wouldn't fit into the hubby-approved vehicle, so? ? ? I reckon hubby is still trying to make the wheelchair fit? Maybe? Just guessing. . . Your guess is as good as mine. DOS2 is once more providing hospice care for 2 patients. This time in a two-bedroom house. Ideal for the two sisters. Adding in the senior romance strikes me as a bit over-crowded, but DOS2 is far more house-broken than I am.

Today finds DOS2 and hubby at a hotel near the house of Middle Sis's youngest daughter. By my road warrior measure, she is back in the region which she has called home since the early 70's. HS? I had already begun my tour of the throwaway kid camps when our birth family moved to that area. I never lived there long enough to call it home, but DOS2 is deeply rooted there with ownership responsibilities of her own. My anticipation anxiety is whispering to be ready for a new wave of ownership responsibilities a 14 hour drive away from our foster family headquarters.

Despite the rumblings of my anticipation anxiety, I leave the mood icon squarely on "Okay." The few panic attacks have been mild and manageable. I believe I am holding steady in my self-reminders to let the future take care of itself.