Truths, Half-truths, and Sea Stories

Some days I can see why militias, meth lab operators, poets and one mad British-born elderly woman chose remote areas like that of my current hostess, in southeastern Arizona to take up residence.  It’s quiet, well, remote for sure – when you can’t get something as ubiquitous as Cable TV or a Starbucks out here, THAT’S  remote!    In the decade or two that Mom has been residing in the shadow of the Santa Rita mountains, there have been perhaps a half-dozen eccentrics and artists living within a quarter-mile or so.   Now you see, the three miles of bone-jarring dirt road and the half-mile sometimes Jeep-track side road doesn’t welcome lots of visitors.
Great times for the coyote-watcher, hawk-lover, and desert-rat, but not so inviting for the DINK, or mom, pop and 2.5 kids average family looking for a reasomable alternative to the violent street gangs or bland suburbia.   Not that it isn’t a great alternative – with the coming anarchy sure to grip America in the next decade (thanks to rubber-check economic policy and criminalizing healthcare-insurance-avoiders), I think many folks would appreciate high-ground to monitor revenuers and trespassers. With a well on the property, chicken coops -long disused as they are, and an inventive mind, all sorts of people should flock to this area to bid for this land.   You see, Mom has to move closer to me and my family.   Unfortunately,  as long as the money is tight and the eccentrics are few and far between,  the lovely A-frame some distance up an old dirt road will remain “in the family”.  
I wonder if I seeded the land with some medical marijuana and placed ads in editions of Craigslist, would I be able to write off the whole enterprise as part of the healthcare bill — there’s sure to be a buck in that rag for such “research”  .  We could even change the canyon’s name to Obamizona!