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I watched our neighbors leave this morning, the moving van had loaded their belongings a few days ago and they remained to clean up and attend to last few things before closing a chapter in their lives. They lived next door for two or three years, while going to grad school, like so many in this town - including Mike and I. We had neighborly conversations over the fence without much more socializing beyond me leaving them tomatoes and zucchini in the summers and sidewalk chats on our way inside our respective homes. Winter and summer they would stand on their back porch for a smoke – respectful of their landlord’s ban on indoor tobacco use. On the weekends, they would sit on the steps talking to their relatives on cell phones. Iowa City had grown on the young woman and she was reluctant to leave, but her guy had landed a job in Chicago so they would be transitioning to city life. They will miss this town and will likely return to visit and wonder what their life would have been like if they had stayed on. Mike and I opted to remain. Our coming here was a move away from our homes on the west coast and - as Mike put it - really when ‘our’ life had begun - not our childhood growing up at home or close by - but a separate life far away and of our own making. We no longer went 'home' for holidays - were were already there. Our steps were tentative and cautious, we are toe-dippers - not ready to fling ourselves headlong into unknown waters - but testing, testing, wading in, looking back at the shore a few times, all the while edging our way out into deeper waters. This is our adventure and if we seem sedentary, it is because we are wrapped up in our lives. We miss our home shore, our distant and departed loved ones, but we are contented with our choice. My Mom called me a ‘stick in the mud’, because I 
wasn’t on the move, didn’t have her restless nature, her WANDERLUST. But I am as much a product of my Dad as of her, with his need to work and build. Dad wasn’t a traveler, though his work took him far away at times. He didn’t need a change of outward scenery, because the land inside was always on the move. My path too leads inward, its destination whatever project is at hand. My friends are busy going here and there, they ask me what my plans are for the summer – meaning where am I going and what I will be doing. They eye me piteously when I smile and say I will be here, working and weeding my garden, drawing and reading books and walking around my neighborhood. Yes, I am a stick in the mud; my journey hidden from view, invisibly stretching far below the surface.
Easter is a week away and so Bunnies are on my mind. Our garden in Iowa is home to wild rabbits passing through or taking up residence. In the early years, when we had feisty outdoor cats, they would harass rabbits on a daily basis, catching their babies to torture and kill and I would try to rescue them but to no avail. Now our cats are soft indoor animals and critters outside roam free. One of the rabbits became ‘our’ rabbit. While a youth, he was attacked by something and one of his rear legs was badly broken. We expected him to be picked off quickly due to his infirmity, but he managed to keep surviving in the wild, hopping through our yard, one leg dangling. After a few months, we started rooting for him - admiring his survival skills - enjoying having a bunny of our own without the upkeep. He survived the winter bigger and healthier than before, traversing our garden on his three good legs. Eventually we no longer saw him, but still found ourselves looking for him every day.
My family had multiple encounters with bunnies over the years, beginning with three baby bunnies that Mom got it into her head to give my little sisters one Easter. I had a friend in school who was in 4-H and had baby bunnies to give away. They were black
eared Australian rabbits (-who really cared about the breed – they were Easter BUNNIES!!!) My friend checkedtheir rear ends and assured us that they were all the same sex so there would be no undesirable consequences. There was much squealing and joyousness for the first week. Then continual searches for wayward critters that had somehow ‘got loose’, we followed trails of bunny poops up and down the hallway to determine their destinations. It wasn’t long before they were ensconced in a nice hutch built by dad and located behind the rumpus room, out sight - out of sound - out of smell. Interestingly enough, there were soon more baby bunnies -the ‘same sexed’ parents seemed capable of breeding no matter what combinations we put them in. We were overwhelmed by the nuisance of continual birthing combined with no destination for the produce, since we didn’t eat them. So eventually they disappeared as many undesirable pets do when they have worn out their welcome. Later on Mom tried ducks thinking they would eat the bugs in our swimming pool, they did and in their place left duck ‘floaters’…..our dog loved chasing them around the back yard, they didn’t last long - soon travelling off to happy duckland. Mom was a sucker for the pet longings of her kids, we had lizards, rats, hamsters, fish, cats, dogs, horses, almost a goat, ducks and of course numerous rabbits. Later on - since we had the hutch already - a younger sister finagled 
getting ONE rabbit, a very big albino named ’Flower’. We all had unpleasant encounters with him. He often got loose at night running at large with his pink eyes glowing evilly in the darkness and making a harrumph gruuuummmph noise as he hopped in our direction. I worked nights as a waitress during his time at our home and had to be quick to get across the backyard to the pool house where I slept, lest Flower catch up with me. I should have kicked him, but was too much of a pacifist in those days. He would squirt us at will especially when feeding him and I confess that I occasionally turned the hose on him in retaliation. No matter how hard we try, we can’t quite wipe the memory of Flower off.
I watched our neighbors leave this morning, the moving van had loaded their belongings a few days ago and they remained to clean up and attend to last few things before closing a chapter in their lives. They lived next door for two or three years, while going to grad school, like so many in this town - including Mike and I. We had neighborly conversations over the fence without much more socializing beyond me leaving them tomatoes and zucchini in the summers and sidewalk chats on our way inside our respective homes. Winter and summer they would stand on their back porch for a smoke – respectful of their landlord’s ban on indoor tobacco use. On the weekends, they would sit on the steps talking to their relatives on cell phones. Iowa City had grown on the young woman and she was reluctant to leave, but her guy had landed a job in Chicago so they would be transitioning to city life. They will miss this town and will likely return to visit and wonder what their life would have been like if they had stayed on. Mike and I opted to remain. Our coming here was a move away from our homes on the west coast and - as Mike put it - really when ‘our’ life had begun - not our childhood growing up at home or close by - but a separate life far away and of our own making. We no longer went 'home' for holidays - were were already there. Our steps were tentative and cautious, we are toe-dippers - not ready to fling ourselves headlong into unknown waters - but testing, testing, wading in, looking back at the shore a few times, all the while edging our way out into deeper waters. This is our adventure and if we seem sedentary, it is because we are wrapped up in our lives. We miss our home shore, our distant and departed loved ones, but we are contented with our choice. My Mom called me a ‘stick in the mud’, because I 
wasn’t on the move, didn’t have her restless nature, her WANDERLUST. But I am as much a product of my Dad as of her, with his need to work and build. Dad wasn’t a traveler, though his work took him far away at times. He didn’t need a change of outward scenery, because the land inside was always on the move. My path too leads inward, its destination whatever project is at hand. My friends are busy going here and there, they ask me what my plans are for the summer – meaning where am I going and what I will be doing. They eye me piteously when I smile and say I will be here, working and weeding my garden, drawing and reading books and walking around my neighborhood. Yes, I am a stick in the mud; my journey hidden from view, invisibly stretching far below the surface.
