There’s no anticipation quite so tedious as waiting for a package as it crosses the United States. Sometimes, I could swear the United Parcel Service is mocking me. “Your package left Bethesda, Maryland at 2:46 PM on Tuesday. Now, it’s in Alaska.”
I am… eventually… getting a new sleeping bag.
It’s a warm-weather bag somewhere on the budget end of “nice.” Mass-produced so that–ironically– it will get here quickly. The companies that make the nice, nice, nice bags would be delivering my summer bag just in time for winter. I like long lead times. They keep a little money in my pockets.
Summer isn’t here, yet, but it’s coming closer. At night, there’s a full hour or two before it gets cold enough for my winter bag to be comfortable.
I’m spending a lot of time outdoors. There’s not that much else to do. Not a whole lot before coronavirus, and a lot less, now. There’s no stay-at-home order, yet… but everything’s closed, anyway. The height of the social calendar is a drive through taco, or a trip to the grocery store.
So, I’m working my way through all the weather Nebraska has to offer.
I’m not actually going anywhere. Plenty of weather in the back lawn, and I’m still expected at the shitty day job. The neighbor’s dog is still getting used to me being there. The chickens haven’t stopped gossiping about it.
I’ve been writing in the tent.
Longhand while I lay in my sleeping bag.
I’ve learned that the zipper on a sleeping bag should be on the writer’s dominant side when they’re lying face down.
So… uhm… that would be the opposite side of my winter sleeping bag.
I’ve also learned that I’d like a couple more inches in headspace, if I were going to sit upright and type. That’s weird. I never feel like things are too short. It’s just not something I think about.
I’m not crazy about the idea of getting home with three or four months worth of writing that needs to be typed, so I’m still working toward the ideal phone-and-keyboard to go set up. It’s becoming clear that it has to work with the entire system, or it probably won’t work, at all.
Janet Crum
Karen