Wasco

Wasco, CA. 30 miles somewhere outside of Bakersfield. 30 miles of field after field after field out in the middle of nowhere. The smallest town made up of 99% Mexicans. The air is brown, due to all the surrounding farm work going on. Dust. Lots of dust. You have a layer of it coated to your body as soon as you walk out the front door. This is Wasco. My husbands roots. His place of origin. And this is where his entire family still resides after 60 someodd years....why Wasco??? i don't have a clue. But people are born here and it seems as if they get stuck. They don't know of life elsewhere. Life of mountains, and streams, and rivers, and FRESH air. It really really baffles me why people chose this. Its a mystery.

This is where I am this week. I packed me and the kids up, hitched a ride with my mom, 86 year old grandpa and 84 year old grandma (who conveniantly were driving down to LA), and came to visit the Gafner clan (the 1% of wasco thats not mexican).
Despite the encredible surrounding conditions, we are having a good time. The kids get lost in hours upon hours of playing and running and swimming with all their cousins. I have to remind them I still exist, and that I am still their mother who feeds them, and bathes them.

However, I am ready to come home. Its only been a few days, but I am tired and ready to be home. So tomorrow, my mom, grandma and grandpa are coming back up from LA, picking us up and we start the 7-8 hour drive in a Lincoln Continental with two very elderly's who can't hear a thing, two kids, and one 9 mo. pregnant lady. My poor mom. Should be interesting. Pleast pray.