On down lovely 77 a stretch south from where the poem cycle about it begins, there’s a town on the mountain with not a whole lot to recommend it, except that there’s a Lowe’s, and we have a couple of gift cards from there, and a whole fat credit limit lurking behind that too.

I bought my washer, dryer, stove, and water heater there. Someday perhaps the last major household appliance, the fridge of great age, will be sourced there as well. Not to mention the dread day when the AC/heater thing gives up the ghost maybe. But even before then, there are reasons to head down from time to time, and so today we did.

There’s good breakfast down there too, even if the place is jammed with Mormons Without Masks … we got takeout, naturally.

Speaking of MWM, there’s a move afoot among them to secede from the northern half of the county. The motivations are political and frankly racist, because the far north is all Navajo and Hopi rez. I’ve listened to the MWM complain bitterly for years about how those damn Indians, who don’t even pay the property tax, have sucked away white resources from them, and even turned a red county dependably blue. (Something like 99% of Navajos went for Biden.)

This isn’t the only similar move trying to gain traction. In the southern part of the state where I was until a year ago, a bunch of rednecks are trying to reallocate themselves away from an overwhelmingly Hispanic county and into the loving arms of a white one. The rationales and rationalizations are very similar.

Anyway, we got sandpaper and paint, and slowly ever so slowly, my property value is rising on genteel realty wings like an ugly but aerodynamic fowl.