I am a gypsy at heart. Even after children.

Case in point – In 2008, I excepted my third counseling job, packed up the SUV, attached a makeshift hauler to it, our belongings hanging out over the edges, and traipsed with my adolescent children Beverly hillbillies like across 40 west to the tiny and until then unknown to me little town on an Arizona Mesa called Page.

That was an April. It took a good two months to find an actual house to live in – stayed temporarily at a best Western.

Page was a novelty to me. I’m an East Coaster by birth.

An adventurous spirit and possibly God lead me there. The clients were a mix of the demography of the town mostly white, some Spanish, some Navajo.
The need for counseling contrasted with the taboo against it but encompass all of the above and children. The job was rewarding, the town political. I was triggered a lot. I don’t like it when politics interfere with folks getting their basic needs met-especially children.

Page itself in the area though we’re interesting, a whole new aesthetic and I liked it.

The home I finally found to rent was very nice. One morning after living there for about six months, as I was just coming awake, I turned over to look out the window and saw colors, just colors right there at my window obscuring my view. So giant it was and shapeless – I actually didn’t know what it was.

At that moment the kids come running, “mom, mom come see.” I step outside and the sky is filled, overrun with hot air balloons, of all colors, shapes and sizes, with different logos on them – they block off the streets with vendors, children run around, get faces painted, beautiful Navajo jewelry is on display with other vendors. It is a joy, a frenzy of color and activity lasting for three days.

a balloon regatta they call it.