live. work. dream.

It’s a swampy night here in Vero, and we’ve spent the last few hours swatting away bugs while enjoying the last of the holiday season. This monumental year is coming to a close, and even after thousands of miles and too many towns to count, we are both nowhere closer to deciding where we want to live, or what we want to be when we grow up.

We have our favorite regions, but really, the only decision we’ve been able to make, is to decide not to decide. In essence, that is a decision of sorts, right?

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And no, that doesn’t mean I’m growing dreads. It just means finding a good barber is hard for a fulltimer.

Ever since Rhodester wrote about his salon experience, I’ve been meaning to write about getting a haircut while on the road.

Then René wrote about how one fulltime RVer colors her hair. But yesterday, Valerie asked who cuts my hair while traveling. And Brian mentioned an old song about going home to get your hair cut.

“When you get a haircut, be sure to go back home
When you get a haircut, get a barber you have known
Since you were a little bitty boy sittin’ in a booster chair
Or you might look like Larry, Moe or Curly if a stranger cuts your hair”

The Haircut Song by Ray Stevens
From his classic comedy album “I Have Returned“

I’ve been putting this off while thinking of how to write it without expletives, but the time has come.

So I just gotta say it. I need a fucking haircut.

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When you go to a Farmer’s Market, have you ever thought about the amount of work it takes for a farmer to get there every week, so you can have the freshest farm fresh produce available? I never gave it much thought, until we started hawking White Rabbit’s wares at the Fort Pierce Farmer’s Market.

For three weeks, we’ve been getting up at 5:30 am every Saturday to sell a variety of organic produce, nuts and grains. The market is only four hours long, but it takes an entire day to set up, tear down, clean up and take stock back at the Farm. By the time we’re done, it’s usually around 3pm and we are exhausted.

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At every county fair we went to this summer, René would just have to sit on the tractors. And ever since we saw the antique tractor pull in Corey, PA she has wanted to ride a Farmall.

Well, she finally got her chance on the Quant’s 1958 Farmall 230. As one customer of the farm store said, “Looks like she’s having too much fun to ever get any real work done!” One thing is certain, Craig Morgan’s International Harvester is René’s new favorite song.
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Not only big Mexican families can enjoy holiday traditions, you know.

We had our own little taste of a “white” Christmas on the farm too.

On Christmas eve we even had the joy of carolers coming to sing for us at the trailer. Those Quants are one crazy bunch.

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If you’re planning an extended road trip, it’s inevitable that a major holiday or other important family occasion will collide with your itinerary. At some point, you’ll have to decide whether or not to interrupt your dream with a trip back to reality.

When planning our own journey, I knew that Christmastime would present a huge dilemma. My Mexican family is big on Christmas . . . really big. Each year, dozens of relatives gather at my Mom or sister’s place each year for the big party on Christmas Eve. We gorge ourselves on Mom’s homemade tamales, empty the liquor cabinet, and wait for Santa to finish pounding shots so he can make his midnight appearance for the kids.

Last year Jim and I missed my family’s party, because Jerry had just had his leg amputated. This year, we had to decide; should we find a way to get back to L.A. to be with my family? Or ignore the holidays and keep traveling along?

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I’m sorry, I just cannot get into the holiday spirit when it’s 80 degrees out with high humidity. OK, I haven’t had a White Christmas since I was a kid in New Jersey, but if I want one this year I’ll have to go to the beach. The white sand is the closest we’ll be getting to snow this year.

But, since it is Christmas Eve after all, here’s our little tropical holiday greeting from the Sunshine State …

Where I come from Fireworks are for the Fourth of July! But here in Florida, they get all pyrotechnic for the Holiday Winter Fest. Hell, why not? It sure feels like July … Merry Christmas to all, and to all Bah Humbug!

Ah, sunny Florida. The state name alone conjures up images of white sand beaches, sun baked old farts, golf carts, and tropical umbrella drinks.

But there’s one unique aspect of Florida that the tourism guides fail to mention. Bugs! Mean bugs. Flying bugs. Stinging bugs. You name it, this state has some of the nastiest insects that we’ve encountered on our entire trip. Pest control is big business in this state, but as usual, nature bats last.

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When Jim and I told friends that we were staying on a farm with people we’d never met before, more than one person asked, “How do you know they’re not total psychos?” Well, my response to that is, “How do they know that we aren’t psychos?”

You don’t know.

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We haven’t had any good Mexican food since we left California. In fact, we haven’t had any, or even tried looking for it until recently.

The reason? In all the miles we’ve traveled we hadn’t passed through any communities with enough – shall we we say, authentic color – to warrant a dinner out until we reached Florida.

But once we saw an authentic looking Taqueria, a Mercado selling dresses and phone cards, and our first Tecate billboard in over 29, 000 miles, we figured the food was worth a try. While it wasn’t bad, it was nothing to write home about either. But here I am doing just that.

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