Arizona day 3

Grandpa’s drunk wife is having a hard time figuring out if she should feel appreciative that we’re all here setting up in-home hospice care and meal delivery, or feel insulted that we don’t think she can care for grandpa because she’s a nonfunctional alcoholic. 

The answer is: yes.

(She’s the daughter of his dead best friend, they teamed up after my grandma and her dad died, about 30 years ago. We care about her in an annoyed way.)

This time we had a family of quail along with the rabbit outside the camper. A puma went by, but she strolled into the beige brush with her beige fur before I could flatten myself to the window with my phone.

Spot the quail and the cottontail

Won $3 on a $3 scratch lotto ticket. Feeling pretty damn smug about that.

In the afternoon, I took my mom thrift shopping, which in Kingman means picking a path through piles of paint cans and confederate flags (“We have WWII German flags! See owner!”) and peering into dusty glass cases full of marbles and switchblades. Mom wouldn’t let me get a suitcase full of knives and gun-shaped lighters, because she doesn’t know how to shop for kid souvenirs, I guess.

The furniture goes outside, where it is safe from water damage

I am used to being comfortably invisible, as a middle-aged middle-sized haole, but suddenly there are big men with big beards who are looking at me like a pork chop. Sorry, boys, I am a piece of old salt fish in a pork chop suit. Run for it.