Plus ça change, plus ça change...

Well, we’re...back—I was going to say “home,” but I’ve learned to choose my words more carefully.  We’re back where we started from, let us say instead.  One of our first discoveries was that in our absence the old house had been home to a pack of Homo americanus rusticana (American hillbilly).  Of course, the habits of rusticana vary from place to place, but our set seemed to have two overmastering preoccupations—a passion for hammering or screwing fasteners into walls and woodwork, and a deathless hatred of window treatments:  blinds mangled or missing; screens torn; screen-frames bent; sills stained, scratched, sawed, and scorched.  It must have been stirring times here of an evening, with all the inmates hard at work on their individual projects.  So we have spent most of the last six months trying to restore the house to conventional habitability again. 

But the house was only the first thing we noticed—change now seems to be everywhere we turn.  For instance, while we were away, dogs became people.  Now we discover that they wear what bipedal people wear, go where bipedal people go, eat what bipedal people eat, and for all I know vote for members of congress to protect their interests.  It will take some getting used to.  Furthermore, I understand that corporations are now people as well, but, of course, that’s not as surprising, since they’ve had their own members of congress for years.  As Robert Frost might have put it, “The dear only knows what will next prove a person.”

Our home town has changed as well, in that it has somehow been transformed into a tourist destination, to the delight of local merchants and the exasperation of local residents.  Wander downtown now on a weekend afternoon, and you’ll soon find yourself shuffling along in the wake of Ethan, Tiffany, and Baxter, listening, whether you will or no, to a conversation like this:

Tiffany:  Wasn’t that a darling art museum?  I didn’t know they could make such beautiful things out of fish line!

Ethan:  I’ll say.  Cool Beans.  Baxter liked it too, didn’t you, Baxter?

Baxter:  (sniffs)

Ethan:  Hey, I’m kind of hungry.  Let’s stop in this bakery and get a cafecito and a palmier or maybe some madeleines.

Tiffany:  Ah, but hon, no.  Look, there are ten darling shops on this side of the street, and at least that many on the other side.  I think we should get to the end of the block before we eat.  Besides, Baxter can’t have French pastry—the butter makes him break out.

Ethan:  Well let’s let him decide.  What do you think, Baxter?  Are you hungry?

Baxter:  Woof!

Ethan:  See?

Sadly, we miss most of these enlightening exchanges because we rarely go downtown anymore, for the simple reason that there is virtually nothing downtown a non-tourist would want to buy.  The pharmacy, hardware store, stationery store, etc. were pushed out to make way for wine bars, art galleries, cafes galore, and shops selling fair-trade place mats and the like.  So it’s lucky for the merchants that they do have the tourists:   they’d be starving if they were foolish enough to rely on people like us to earn their living.

Because evidently we are not the only anti-capitalist subversives in our town:  Kathryn has recently stumbled upon a Facebook group called “Buy Nothing Bainbridge,” whose cohort are dedicated to re-distribution on a massive scale of unwanted possessions.  This is not barter, mind you.  People simply post pictures of things that they have but don’t want, and others arrange to come relieve them of the items, gratis.  Already, Kathryn has picked up a pair of wellington boots, a compost bin, a mailbox, and half a dozen blank notebooks.  Last night someone posted a picture of the bone from their dinner roast, a good deal of meat still on it, and asked if anyone would like it for the quadruped person in their family.  Tragically, I am not making this up. 

Kathryn has quickly formed an addiction to this particular group, and is constantly checking throughout the day to see what new treasures are up for grabs.  I have urged her to seek counseling, or at least to look for (or found) a group called “Acquire Nothing Bainbridge,” where people just hold onto the stuff they already have, and don’t try to fob it off onto others.  So far she has shown little appetite for making the switch.

So you can see that much has changed since we upped stakes in 2008, not least within ourselves.  Where to begin describing those changes?  Give me a while to think on that.