"What are you looking for?"
"On eBay," my husband said. "What's are you looking for this time?"
"A record player."
"We have at least two."
"Yes, but they run on electricity. I want one of those old hand-cranked Victrolas."
He sighed. He's used to this, I guess.
Back a couple of years ago, when Katrina was still swirling in the Gulf of Mexico, I told him that the New Orleans was done for. He laughed--"You're always predicting the end of the world."
"It's not the end of the world--just New Orleans. Look, I'm not the only one who sees it--National Geographic wrote about it, their local papers wrote about it."
And when the levees broke, he nodded his head and said he wouldn't doubt me so quickly anymore.
In less than a month, we move to Lansdale, a small town about twenty miles outside of Philadelphia. The reasons are varied--it's cheaper there, low taxes, low crime, a nice house we can actually afford without having a subprime mortgage. There's a nice backyard, with room for a vegetable garden, and we're on the R5 trainline, so getting into the city isn't difficult.
The other reason, the more esoteric reason, is this--I want land. Even if it's just a small plot. I need to get away from living in a small apartment with my husband, depending on fast food and surrounded by junk. I need to plant a garden. I need to be within biking distance of my parents and their four acres.
Maybe it's just a mental security blanket, but as I watch the gas prices get higher, and going to work costing more and more, it makes less sense to stay in the city. Even if they do have the best farmers' market in the Delaware Valley.