Man alive, I miss the farm. Sure, I lived in towns for 23 years, but no longer does it feel entirely right. Life feels more cyclical in the country, both for the changes in the landscape through the seasons and for the changes in the sky. I miss the little things, like Orion rising later and later as winter plows on. I hear they saw northern lights recently and are having troubles with coyotes. I see streetlights and hear sirens from the nearby fire station. It�s not the same.

But neither can I go back.

My old landlord had put in hours of work on that old kitchen hutch I bought back in 2002, replacing rotten wood with vintage oak from his supply, fitting new veneer into a door, making a new bread board, installing a new base for a bin and cleaning drawer pulls on his lathe. I�d long since finished stripping, sanding and staining, so we vacuumed, cleaned the thing with denatured alcohol, stained the new wood pieces, loaded it all up in a pickup, and brought it to my present apartment, where I�ll be applying several coats of odorless polyurethane finish this week, in hopes of having it done by the weekend.

It�s a solid, angular piece. Lots of storage. It�s not perfect, but it�s an accomplishment. I have no idea how to express my gratitude to the former landlord for all of his help. I wish I could get him a big gift certificate to the hardware store, but it�s not practical now. Must think of something.

When we dropped it off at home, I went back out, as M. Kat had guilted me into going with her and J to visit old friends an hour away. People with whom I�d lost touch, people who married and had children. Sometimes she knows when I need to be bossed, knows what will make me feel good, even if I don�t. For all my stewing and guilt, it was nice, sitting around with those boys with whom I�d gone to grade school, seeing them as doting fathers. One wee gem, who turns one on Thursday, was delightful�he was goofy and giggly and generous with hugs, patting my back each time in a terribly grown-up fashion.

It was nice, but I don�t want to do it every weekend. It�s exhausting, watching kids, running to block the pointy edge of the coffee table each time the critters tip over in the general vicinity. Nor do I want another Friday like this past one, which was the opposite of wholesome. I arrived at the mother ship by 6 pm and got home around 4 am. All cheap beer, no food. See, the Chicago gang (from my rock �n roll birthday last year) was in town. They�re hard-drinking, heavy-smoking dudes. Such dear friends that I have no idea of their last names. And though an assortment of pals from various social groups came and went, they stayed. Coach and I stayed. I allowed myself to be ferried to parties and home by a man who, though he seems to have no surname, has the descriptive moniker of �Blood Bank� before his given name. I�m confident I had no pot. There�s some small consolation.

And they�re all going to the Old 97s show this weekend, so that could be good. But though I received a kind offer, I don�t want to sleep on the floor. That�s a little too much party for one week, and wrecked backs don�t cotton to nights on the floor. I�m trying to forget that they�ll be seeing Kevn Kinney Friday night, without us.

I love to stay home. I do.