My Million-Dollar Donkey Read Online Free Page B

things out.
    I suggested we hire a construction company to slap up a quick, affordable home on our big tract of land, thinking that would allow us the time and money to take that promised trip to Paris. I wanted us to immediately start making up for years of servitude to everyone and everything except each other. Mark, unfortunately, had other plans. He wanted to be in control of everything connected to our new home, from designing the floor plan to sanding down the individual logs that would become the foundation for the earthy decor. Building a dream house was a millionaire’s right, in his opinion, and since we’d never been in a financial position to create a home that reflected our tastes and ideals before, he was obsessed with his ability to do so now.
    “But we agreed we’d take a trip to celebrate our good fortune and focus on our love,” I whined.
    I was still reeling from the sting of our old acquaintances’ disrespect. What better medicine for hurt than to run away to some far-off place with my husband so I could curl into his arms for warmth, self-worth, and comfort? I wanted to travel not so much because we needed a vacation, but because I wanted to be exposed to new sights, sounds, textures, and experiences. I had a romantic notion that venturing hand in hand into the unknown with the love of my life would set us on a path where we approached each day as a banquet of experiences to be savored. I was starving for that kind of existence and believed our moving was a part of a new spiritual journey we were ready to take.
    “We will travel. Later. I’m going to build a home for far less than what the local construction company wants to charge us, which means after I’m done, we’ll have extra money for travel,” Mark said, too busy leafing through building magazines to look me in the eye with understanding, love, or any other fond emotion. His obsession with leaping into his solitary desires now that he had money to burn was more than a little disappointing to me, because I was attached to this ideal of the two of us celebrating together.
    I attempted to write my way out of my funk by composing a book about the emotional trauma a dancer faced when retiring, using it as my MFA thesis. I begged Mark to read the manuscript to give me feedback. Mostly, I think I wanted him to recognize my grief and show interest in my new art and recognize that I needed a friend – no, a lover, at this time of emotional turmoil.
    “I hate that you’re writing this,” he told me, putting the work aside after half-heartedly reading a few chapters. “Move on. I am.”
    Nothing I said or did could get Mark to focus in any direction other than towards his building aspirations. Eventually it became obvious that my new main squeeze (the donkey) and I would just have to create our own entertainment until my raw wounds started to scab over a bit.
    So I hunkered down with books to investigate just what kind of adventure a gal could have alone on a big chunk of undeveloped land. I subscribed to Mother Earth News , Hobby Farms, and Grit Magazine. I devoured country lifestyle memoirs and how-to books on homesteading. I even re-read Walden .
    Meanwhile, I blogged. I journaled, ruminated, and cried. I wrote and wrote, telling myself the avalanche of words was necessary as part of my MFA studies when, in reality, I wrote because that was my process to hold it all together. I wrote my way into viewing my new life as happy, fulfilling, and steeped in deeper connections. Life was good, on paper if nowhere else.
    Each day we drove from the decrepit vacation cabin where we were temporarily camped out to our beautiful fifty acres to visualize our future. Looking at 50 untamed acres of trees and woodland debris was daunting with spring heads and a creek swallowed by underbrush. Where should we begin? Everything takes time. And money. We thought we had a windfall to work with, but our stash quickly dwindled on items we didn’t anticipate, such