Chicken shack

As I sit here listening to a mix of old and new blues and Americana music on a rainy June afternoon, it feels like I’m living in a Tom Waits song. About 20 feet outside the door of this ten by four foot shed, there’s a chicken pen; behind that are a couple of goats, three cows, some ducks and turkeys. On the other side of the windowless wall are about 20 huskies which our hosts mush in the winter. Otherwise I’m surrounded by verdant Wisconsin farmland.

To use a Palahniukism, the way I got here is this:

My girlfriend Maureen – who turned my life from post-engagement vapidity to endless unforced smiles – has a good friend who lives nearby. She knew we were planning to move to New Orleans, and suggested that we come up here to Door County where we could get jobs among the flood of seasonal tourism that this part of the state thrives on in order to save up some moving money. So after being mysteriously rejected by a couple of housing opportunities, the friend mentions that she knows a couple who own a farm where they take on borders every summer. There are rooms in the house, but they were all taken. So here we are in the chicken shack. It’s small but comfy, and once we got used to waking up to the sound of roosters and trying to sleep through the occasional howling of the Siberian dogs, things are pretty damn okay. Weird, but good. Mo had already landed two jobs before we got here, and I ended up cooking full time at a pub down the road. We are surrounded by good country folk, most of whom know each other of course. I think we’re both happy to be out of Madison, as good as it was for us. And we are making progress towards our goal of landing in the Big Easy and finding ourselves home at last.

Mo justifiably quit one of her jobs, keeping the more lucrative of the two. With only one car between us and the way our schedules work out, it’s tough for us to both have more than one job each. So I’m going to try to supplement the income by selling photography. The tourists who come up here have nothing but money to spend, and I think I can make a little scratch off them with fridge magnets and notecards of the local scenery. So, without further ado, or permission from George Lucas, I hereby officially announce the meager beginnings of Kessel Run Photography. Wish me luck.

Our neighbors.