The Road Goes on Forever

And The Plumbing Issues Never End

“Better a spectacular failure, than a benign success.” 

So reads the epitaph of Malcolm McClaren, perhaps best known for being the driving force behind the Sex Pistols. It’s a great, cheeky epitaph, etched into an equally wonderful tombstone, which features a sculpture of McClaren’s head protruding from the granite.

McClaren’s is hardly the only gravesite of note in Highgate Cemetery in North London. George Eliot, Douglas Adams, Patricia Kavanagh, George Michael and Karl Marx are all buried there, too, among 170,000ish permanent residents squeezed into 53,000 plots. 

On my first visit to Highgate, back in 2013, I was there with my son Henry, then 22. I was standing in front of Karl Marx’s ironically huge memorial when I heard Henry say, “I feel sorry for Dorothy Dove.” I went to join him behind Marx’s marker and there it was—far overshadowed, not equal in any way—DD’s tiny little tombstone. 

On another visit, years later, I signed up for the guided tour. The docent regretfully informed me that no, he could not tell me where George Michael’s secret grave was located, though as we passed a certain area he seemed suddenly to develop a crick that prompted him to lean his neck a certain way, just as he also seemed to suddenly have a speck of dirt in his eye, causing him to blink dramatically. Perhaps he even let out a little careless whisper. I was so delighted at these secret conspiratorial messages to me—Look over there!! Now!!— that I failed to follow the docent’s fleeting prompts offered to help me spot GM’s grave. 

I learned a lot on that guided tour. Surely the docent’s kindness and knowledge—which I never forgot— greatly informed my desire to be equally excellent when I took on the mantle of docent at my current job. I discovered that the laurel wreaths frequently featured on gravemarkers symbolize “victory over death.” Inspired by this, shortly after the tour I popped into a tattoo shop in Nottingham to have just such a wreath inked on my arm (one of five pieces I had done to commemorate my escape from a violent man, and escaping him truly was a victory over death, the death of my soul which he had sucked dry.)

Of all the information I gathered about Highgate, the bit that visits me most often—pretty much every day—is how the paths in the cemetery are all curvy. There was a clear method to this madness. No matter what direction you look, it seems like the road goes on forever, to infinity and beyond, that there is no end—to the road, to life. Seems cemetery visitors take comfort in imagining eternity.

***

On Labor Day 2015, I first set foot on the property that would become the Tiny T Ranch. I called my business partner and announced I’d found a turnkey operation. He flew down, took one look, and pointed out that actually it was a tear down situation. No matter—he and his wife (also a business partner) put their faith in me and off we went, venturing into a massive project, converting an abandoned meth lab into an event space. I can’t believe I’m fast coming up on nine years living here.

I’ve detailed here over the years many of the ranch challenges, from dying livestock to nut job airbnb guests to employees who stole from me—both money and my identity. I still don’t want to dwell on what lockdown did to the business and my mind (these things very much overlap and both are still recovering from all that). There have been incidents with snakes, wild pigs, wasted humans (including one who was tripping so hard he called 911 on himself). 

Though there’s been plenty of tragedy, there’s also been a good measure of triumph. Nothing better captures this than remembering The Bob Days, those fourteen beautiful months, the last of his life, when he moved in and we had ourselves a sustained Pippi Longstocking adventure. Bob, an ancient midwestern farmer, helped me understand how to run a ranch. He helped me understand I needed to stop being a sucker. I’m sure he wanted to shoot the asshole I was with at the time as he (Bob) watched the abusive nature of that relationship unfold in real time. But instead, knowing not to push contrarian me, he stood by and waited for me to figure it out, caught me as I fell after the breakup, then made sure I was steady on my feet before he headed on to The Big Ranch. 

I think of Bob every morning when I head out to his green shed to fill up the feed buckets and serve breakfast to the menagerie, including the eight goats. (Bob always said, “Never get goats.”) I realize another indispensable lesson he taught me, not in words but actions. When you are running a ranch, there are no days off. None. You get up, you take care of business, then you do it again the next day. Chop wood. Carry water. Feed Insane Goats. Repeat. Rain, snow, sleet, hail, a hundred consecutive days of triple digits—doesn’t matter. You keep going.

Like Bob, I never, ever complain about caring for the animals, regardless of the weather. Because I know that of all the things I do to tend to my mental health, routine tops the list of Most Crucial Actions for a Steady Mind. The older I get, the more my daily to do lists look like carbon copies. This is not boring for me. It is comforting. It is healing. It is calming. 

Routine, though, is not a promise of a perpetual absence of chaos. Hardly. For within these routine days, something always arises to veer me off course. Most often this will be some fencing or plumbing related issue—last week it was a busted pipe up at the main fence line, where it seems the guys who mow alongside the road for the county ran over my cutoff, causing a very, very expensive gusher + broken pipe situation. 

Charlie— my neighbor, my plumber, my friend— headed right over to set things right. He’s been working on the plumbing at the ranch since long before I moved in. He grew up in our community and knew the people who built this place. I told Charlie that I think I am finally ready to stop panicking over these ongoing disasters. This has been one of the hardest things to unlearn, as I was raised to believe panic and rage were the first two steps to facing off with any problem, large or small. 

That’s a recipe for disaster for anyone, anywhere— to come out of the gates screaming over every busted pipe. But living in a 45 year-old house, living with so many animals and quite a few residents—there’s always something going wrong and, being Queen, it always falls to me to make things right. 

Which brings me to my driveway. My house is set back a good stretch from the road, one of the many things I love about it. The driveway gently curves from the front gate, down past the chapel, in between the house and the Molly Ivins Pavilion, and peters out into bumpy lawn out back by the outside water closet. Ever since Milo died in May, I have resumed walking the other dogs in the mornings and evenings. I especially like the evening walks, as we head up the driveway around sunset, walking west, toward the pinks and oranges painted across the horizon by the dipping sun. 

Every time we take this walk—Louise and Popo tugging at their leashes, snouting their way along in hopes of slurping up some fresh hot chicken shit—my heart softens and fills as I look at that gentle curve and remember what the cemetery docent taught me. The illusion of endless roads is an illusion, but that’s okay because it’s also so comforting. 

Contemplating the driveway, I think of Camus’ admonition: “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” Recently I had an epiphany I wish I’d had long before I got to this ranch—that all the panicky moments, great and small, are not separate from the daily, mundane chores, but are a part of the whole cloth of living here. Like I told Charlie, the next time something breaks, I’m just going to skip the panic part altogether and remember that I’ve gotten through so much already, and I will continue along this same curving path until I reach the actual end. 

When Bob was 88, he still worked every day. That was his choice. One day I came home to find he had moved a massive sheet of plywood some distance across the yard, over to his shed, to create a little ramp for his beloved golf cart. I was shocked and a bit shaken. There was no way he should have done that, given his increasing frailty. But I was also curious. “How the hell did you manage to move that?” I asked him.

”A little bit at a time,” he said, and grinned. 

The old punk that I am commends the young punk that I was for taking all those wild swings in life, for learning firsthand what it means to experience spectacular failure. Oh did I fail spectacularly so many times. But the old punk is also glad that with age comes, if not full on wisdom, then at least a learning— a little bit at a time—that maybe, at this stage of the game, some benign success might actually be the way to go. 

NOTES:

Thanks everyone for reading. Shoutout to those of you who have taken the leap to paid subscriptions. If you’re reading this for free and can swing $5 per month, please consider it. It helps. Also helps when you share this with others. 

The first printing of my new novel Grok This, Bitch SOLD OUT! Woohoo! Thanks for everyone who bought a copy. The second printing arrives on Wednesday. If you want to buy a copy, you can still do that at my Kickstarter. Or, if you prefer, you can Venmo me @spike-gillespie. It’s $30 for a print copy (includes shipping) or $10 for an e-copy. It’s very funny. Trust me. 

My next FREE Writing Workshop at Hampton Branch Library in Oak Hill is Tuesday September 17th 5:30 pm. It really helps if you REGISTER.

On Saturday Sept 21, also at Hampton Branch Library, I’ll be hosting a fun panel discussion about Banned Books. Also Kathleen Turner Overdrive will be playing a bunch of banned songs. That band is SO GREAT. This is a FREE event. There will be snacks. Noon til 4. I really hope you’ll join us. I Love the Library!