Eric’s 2001 Jeep is filthy. A beige dust covers everything inside and outside. I draw on the dashboard to prove a point and ease the boredom that quickly turns to a depression. It’s the first week in November and I’m in Sierra Vista, AZ, a small military town about an hour south of Tucson. It’s a true military town, a vast lonely desert with one main strip of life. The strip is a single downtown street filled with chain restaurants and stores that included a Buffalo Wild Wings, an Outback Steakhouse and a brand new Super Walmart, already decorated for Christmas just a few days into November. There’s not much else. I’m now stranded in the parking lot of the military base, waiting for Eric to be released from his orders.

Out my passenger side window is military base housing. Row after row of small square houses. Identical with the small random exceptions of faded plastic children’s toys in the random backyard. No grass. Nothing soft. Nothing alive. Rock and sand and void of all color. You don’t want to live in a military town, at least I don’t. I’ve been here one day and it’s all I can do not to cry.

Finally, just before I begin my 80th game of cell phone Tetris, Eric climbs in with a huge smile and paper in hand. We’re off. We are about to get out of here and trek 2,000+ miles to our new home in Iowa.

This is our chance. Sunglasses on, windows down and the radio set to an 80’s station, we begin our journey that will take us through a total of eight states: Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and finally Iowa. This was also our chance to be a family again, to make up for lost time, and to lay the groundwork for the next phase of our life - living in Iowa.

I am notorious for being a bad roadtripper.....bad. If I’m not constantly asleep I squirm and huff and sigh loudly. I question every navigational choice Eric makes and I’m told have an uncanny knack for pissing him off good. Not this time. I mentally prepared myself for the long journey, brought along my camera and neck pillow. I want this to be a good experience, I want to focus on Eric, the scenary, and the people we come across. I want this to be an adventure.

And it was. We chatted and joked, made references to the stupidest movies ever created and sang along to the radio. I took pictures of billboards offering “Snake Stuff” and sarcastic bummer stickers. And then.....then we took a detour.

New Mexico. Miles and miles of nothing but the random Dairy Queen billboard. Then there it was, a brown historical sign that read, “Fort Sumner and the Burial Place of Billy The Kid”. We both saw it at the same moment, paused, then looked at each other. “We could do that” I said. Eric nodded. “That would be cool.”

And we were off. An extra 20 miles off the main highway seemed like little effort for such an adventure, and the signs increased as we drew closer. “See the last stand of Billy The Kid” and “See the Official Billy The Kid Museum” flashed past us with dramatic flair. We grew more excited. Visions of an old military fort and images of the wild west came to mind. What we imagined and what we found were two vastly different things.

Driving into Fort Sumner, we were welcomed with a handpainted, faded sign stating a population of a mere 1,500. One gas station and a local version of a Dairy Queen showed the only signs of life. We were one of only three vehicles on the road. We drove down the main road, and took a right at the sign’s instruction. A single gravel road, barely wide enough for two cars. The scenery was a series of dusty cattle ranches, driftwood poles wrapped in barbed wire and a longhorn or two staring back at us. Eric and I remained hopeful through our confusion. We were in this for an adventure, and right now we were sure getting one.

At the end of the road we found it.....the Fort Sumner Museum. The Burial Place of the Legendary Billy The Kid. Large yellow painted letters raised above a large, warehouse style building with vast gravel parking lot. We pulled up the jeep amongst an older mini-van and a dust covered pick up truck.

The building's "backyard" was the historical cemetary. We entered the weathered wooden gate into the small patch of prairie. Small stone markers randomly scattered within a short stone fence. Nothing else except the hollow echo of the wind. In the center is a large square cage with a equally large plaque. The plaque read about how Billy The Kid and his two friends that were killed in the Lincoln County Wars are buried there, and that the original headstone was a mere piece of wood that read just one word, “Pals.” Later, a stone marker was placed, only to be stolen. The story continues that it took twenty years to find it, only to have it stolen yet again for an additional fifty years. After it was recovered, They bolted it to the ground, encaging it in solid steal. Eric and I wandered around, took pictures, and fathomed answers to questions that we had as we read various headstones and markers.

The other visiting couple long gone, we made our way into the attached “Fort Sumner Muesum”. It was sparse, cold and vacant. We walked in to the echo of the owner talking on his cell phone. We weren’t acknowledged. Eric roamed through various old newspaper clippings, one sheriff from one county blaming a sheriff from another on the headstone theft, along with random articles questioning whether Billy The Kid was even killed on that fateful day or if he lived a long and happy life. Beyond that were the oddest of souveniers, none of which had anything to do with the famous outlaw. As the owner stayed chatting on his cell phone, we quietly slid out of the building and back on the dusty road into town.

Roughly 20 miles later, we literally hit a fork in the road. We could turn right and hit the highway back to continue our road trip, or we could take a left, and visit the “Official Billy The Kid Mueseum” which was the museum that was on the town’s main road, and advertised with much more flash. So there was the “Fort Sumner Museum” and then there is the “Billy The Kid Museum”. And here we are at the fork. “What do you think?” Eric said smiling. I knew he wanted to go. “Whatever you wanna do love, I’m game, it's not like we'll ever be here again”. We turned left.

With large cut out letters and cartoon illustrations, The Billy The Kid Museum looked more like an amusement park than a instution of learning. Eric’s grin grew larger as we approached the front door. We were in for some fun. A vastly different atmosphere from the other place, we opened the door to a very warm greeting by the owner. A white-haired cowboy in his early 70s, with a sweet disposition and voice kin to Tony The Tiger. “Well hello” he said, “right this way to experience the Billy The Kid Museum, just $5 each.” Eric quickly went to his wallet and I found an opportunity for comedic interaction. “Wait a minute” I said, “am I going to learn anything more than I already know about Billy The Kid with this $5 ticket?”

The owner grinned. “Absolutely!” He said, taking Eric’s $10 dollars and guiding us left. “Just looky here, this is a genuine turtle fossil. You can see the head, heart and stomach.” He plucked down from the shelf a 6x6 inch sold rock with, sure enough, and outline of a turtle with three small stickers attached. One marked “HEAD” another marked “HEART” and finally one marked “STOMACH” with little marker arrows drawn. I made a face like I bit into a lemon and Eric laughed. “Was this Billy The Kid’s pet turtle or something?” I asked. Ever sweet and gentle, the owner informed us that much of the tour would be items from the town of Fort Sumner, as well as some treasures of the outlaw. His own father started the museum in 1929, which he originally titled “The Fort Sumner Museum”. Nobody came. Within the week the name was changed to “Billy The Kid Museum” and they have been in business ever since.

Scattered throughout the building were clothing and guns and equipment from the old military fort, as well as Billy The Kid’s shotgun. There was a documentary filled with interviews of old locals that knew the kid himself. Many talked of the Lincoln County battles for land and cattle and how a easy going William Bonny had indeed a bit of a temper when provoked, but was for the most part, a nice guy who was just sick of rich cattle barons cheating honest men. Room after room was filled with a combination of true military remnants with oddities such as a stuffed two headed lamb. The note attached to the glass box stated how the creature was taken out of the museum due to old age and deterioration, but so many travelers that had seen it as a child, had now brought their own kids to the museum hoping to see it and were disappointed to find it missing. Brought back by popular demand.

We meandered our way through the gallery of historical treasures, ending up in the souvenier shop. Not being able to make up his mind, Eric chose two different magnets for our refrigerator. After a short potty break and gas refill, we were back on the highway and headed towards Iowa. The entire “detour” took about three hours. Just me, my husband Eric, and people and places we would have never experienced otherwise. Thinking from that perspective feels good. That is what makes for a true adventure. We had a good time. Maybe this detour wasn't all we thought it would be....but in another way, it was MORE than we thought it would be.

With a deep sigh and a final promise by my brother Brent that he'll come by tomorrow and help me with mounting a towel rack and a toilet paper holder, I can honestly say that the house is done. It's beautiful. I can't wait to see Eric's face when he walks into his own home for the first time.

Friends keep asking me if I feel different. 

Sunday was a beautiful fall Iowa day. 60 degrees and sunshine. Our neighborhood is a sea of various oak trees with houses peeking out in a pattern that seems created only with the woods permission. There are leaves. TONS of leaves. And I'm learning about Oak trees. Their leaves fall late, and there are a lot of them. You can rake and rake and rake, and it will look as if you never raked to begin with.

Sunday I raked, and raked, and bagged and hauled. From a warm and sunshine-filled twelve noon till a cool gray 6PM dusk.

In the mid-afternoon sunshine, I was smiling, it was peaceful. I put on my headphones and selected Chris Botti on the ipod. Then Warren Zevon...then shuffled through my old running mix that always brought me an easy going happiness when I went for short 5 mile treks along the Chicago lakefront. For a while, I was actually having fun.

As the sun's warmth faded, and my leaf piles grew taller, my progress slower, my back ached. My legs itched and my eyes scratched. I had 15 bags of leaves at the end of my driveway, waiting for the next days garbage pickup. I looked back at my lawn in a quiet surrender. I didn't make a dent.

Today my neighbor hired a landscaper to "rake" his leaves. I watched out my window this morning as this woman dressed in overalls, fall jacket and ballcap strapped a high-powered blower to her back and noisily took over. I saw the leaves swirl in the wind and ultimately land in a messy pile. I watched rebellious leaves carry their way into my yard, into my driveway, back into my life. Fuck.

I can't wait to see Eric's face when I happily hand the garden rake and city-approved lawn bags over to him to finish the job.

Do I feel different? Not yet. I keep checking to see if I am. I keep opening the oven door of my life and in the same instant am clueless as to why the cake isn't baking. Cause I keep opening the damn door.

I think I'm just adapting. Life is a giant racquetball game, and you gotta stay alert. You gotta hit or dodge and various motions in between. That's what I'm doing right now. For the moment this is the best I can ask for. I rake leaves. I turn around and their are more leaves. I'd open the oven door, but I'm too damn busy raking leaves to bake anything just yet.