Ian Smith's Blog

Tumbleweeds roamed the desert – large, round balls, weighing next to nothing. They rolled across the baked ground, bounding high before the hot wind as if to leap for joy – exulting in their freedom. Their tiny withered root was broken; a single dry thread that bound them to their past lives. They were free to run, free to spread their seeds across a blighted cityscape.

The desert also had thorns. Tiny bullheads lie everywhere on the ground, waiting for their moment to strike the feet of passing animals and children. Bullheads were nothing less than weaponized seeds – diminutive rock-hard kernels bristling with spikes, cleverly designed to attach to anything that came into contact. They inhabited even the widest patches of concrete and asphalt. Bare feet had no place here, and even bicycle tires fell prey to them.

Horny-toads skittered here and there, darting in and out of the sun, rapidly crossing vast patches of rocky ground in search of nutrients. They were spined with thorns of skin, hardened protrusions that looked as if they had been borrowed from the bullheads. Stalwart desert insects buzzed about, surviving despite the distinct lack of water.

Fine molecules of dust blew, collecting on every surface. The city contributed its own touch to the desert air – the acrid smells of hot asphalt and heat-softened tires. The natural desert scent of sage and other wild plants were all but undetectable.

El Paso lay sprawling and massive under the hot sun, and the din of it reached Grey’s ears even here on the outskirts. Exhaust fumes boiled in the heat and released their poisons over the dirt parking lot, making his eyes water. He stepped off the bus, and the heat hit him like a slammed door. His skin itched, drying in the furnace of wind. Gravel and dead thorns crunched beneath his feet.

Their home was parked behind him, motionless at last. The retired Ford school bus softly ticked as it cooled, the old iron engine releasing heat in slow metal-on-metal contraction. Being well past its prime had not stopped it from making the journey from Northern Washington state down to El Paso, by way of southern California. Over two-thousand miles had been added to the old iron beast, but not a soul would ever know; the odometer never moved. It read a dubious 90,401. How many times had that number restarted from zero – cycling completely over before stopping forever? Dad said couldn’t tell.

The bus rested in a bleak landscape: a gravel parking lot. Around the perimeter were parked more buses, mobile homes, semi-trailers. Many of the buses could be categorized as antiques, and each semi-trailer displayed the words “Heaven Is For All” hand-painted on the side in huge, green letters. A tall chain-link fence circled everything, six feet of protective wire.

“Hey, you made it!”

A young lady exited a squat, low building that looked as if it had been a dentist’s office in a past life. She strode purposefully across the dirt over to where Mom, Dad, and four bewildered kids were standing, eyes shielded from the sun.

Dad and Mom shook her hand, and she beckoned them inside.

“Are you hungry? Come on in and we’ll have lunch!”

Grey’s ears perked up. He was indeed getting hungry. He seemed to be hungry all the time now. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food.

Inside, a commercial kitchen full of well-used stainless steel counter-tops glistened, and the nice lady made them all peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.

Grey and Asher gazed at their first Texas lunch with carefully-veiled disappointment. The sandwiches lay in a heap on a thoroughly unappetizing green plastic tray. They had eaten too many PB&J over the years; and frankly, Grey reviled them. But, he and his brother Ash knew better than to complain out loud. With mumbled thanks, they each took one and ate, trying not to think about what they were eating. The food here couldn’t be all bad.

They met Bob Mackie, the leader. He was tall, bald, and had skin like picante salsa – baked and spotted red from too much sun. He was loud and overly friendly – like a used-car salesman with a sick wife at home. His bold mannerisms blasted Grey’s delicate social skills, and caused the younger kids to shrink back behind Mom. Ash put on a brave face and shook his hand, and Grey followed suit, a bit guiltily. He couldn’t have his younger brother outdoing him.

The sandwich-making lady was his adult daughter.

The talk was loud but friendly. While Mom and Dad were getting acquainted, Grey and Ash went back outside to look around.

Behind the squat building, a tiny yard sat enclosed by a chain-link fence. The square of short brown grass contained a picnic table and a metal swing-set. The chains creaked softly in the hot desert breeze, and the whole place felt deserted. No green grass had survived its initial spring growth, and there was no creek or river in sight.

“Who’re you?”

Grey looked up. Three boys stood outside the fence. Two of them were Greyson’s age, and one seemed about Asher’s age.

“Hey,” Grey said, nonchalantly. He didn’t like the way these guys stared, like they were watching freaks in a circus. And he happened to be in the freak show.

“I’m Grey, that’s Asher,” Grey said. This was moving way too fast for his comfort. “We’re new.”

One boy was the apparent leader. “I’m Zach” he said. “Zach Mackie.” He was about Grey’s size, and looked sorta like Mr. Mackie, and a little bit like the sandwich lady. Grey knew that they must be related.

“This is Pete, and Billy.” Zach continued, motioning first to the older boy next to him, then the younger one. “They’re brothers.”

Grey nodded to Pete and Billy. They did not look like brothers. Pete was stocky, and looked tough, face flattened as if hit repeatedly by a brick wall. He had thin blonde hair. Billy had dark hair and a face that reminded Grey of a marmot.

“My dad runs this place,” Zach added. “Are you guys staying or just visiting?”

Grey nodded, and pointed out to their school bus, parked in the very center of the big lot. “That’s us,” Grey said. “We’re going to live here for awhile.”

Pete laughed, scornful. “What a piece of junk!”

Grey cringed inwardly, taking offense for some reason. He had no love for Dad’s old bus, but to hear this “Pete” kid make fun of it made his blood run a little warm.

“Yeah…” Grey said with a forced chuckle. “It’s kinda old.” He didn’t know what to say. How did one respond to such insults like this? It’s almost like the Indian reservation all over again.

Before Pete could answer, the door behind them burst opened and Bob Mackie strode out purposefully, followed by Dad and Mom. Mom was struggling to walk – the little kids hung tight to her legs, hindering her mobility. They looked about with wide, scared eyes.

“Zach, go tell Carlos we have new arrivals,” Bob ordered, motioning to an old mobile home further down the gravel lot.

Zach nodded to his dad, and he sauntered away; accompanied by Pete. Billy followed them.

“What a bunch of weirdos,” Ash whispered to Grey.

Today I stumbled across the blog of another person I deeply love and respect, and was smacked in the face with the brick-like fact that I had not written anything for too long. So I figure it’s time for an update.

Logging into my website just now, I swatted away the cobwebs that had collected. A grim expression is currently on my face. The realization hit me: I’d become one of THOSE. One of those blogs you find on the net – accidentally. The ones that scream abandonment. The ones where the wind echoes through the hypertext markup text like the howling of an old warehouse, moaning and complaining to anyone who will hear – mourning it’s loss of usefulness.

Visitors might, if they are of the thoughtful type, wonder briefly at the human being that exists behind the old words – wondering if perhaps they – I – exist still? No matter. After a few sad and slightly bemused clicks, they escape back over to the facebook tab or email app – barely suppressing a shudder.

So if you are one of the people who enjoyed the book, let me lay it out for you. Back in 2017 when I wrote Growing Up Itchy, my freelance design work was so slow that we had to dip into our emergency fund, probably the first time that happened. Moving to the country was probably 50% to blame, and the economy the other 50%, but since I was never a personable networking-type anyhow; shindigs where one holds a tiny clear plastic cup and a micro paper plate vastly annoy me. After all I am a thirsty person and excessive tiny refills makes me look silly – like a clown on a tiny bicycle. If we’re going to get to know each other, I’d rather do it viking style. Roll out the roast beast and we’ll get on with networking over heaping plates and large, full tankards, and medieval metal implements.

I can assume the Lord simply had other plans for me – for us, as far as income goes. After all, all of my work and income was gifted to me from Him, in whatever doses He chose, through no skill or activity of my own. I wrestled through the usual human self-doubts and mental flounderings, asking close friends and loved ones – “Am I’m being punished for something?” Or, “Do I need to learn a lesson? If so, what is it?”

Turns out, storms in life simply just happen. The good news is that He is always faithful and good, to the extreme distilled meanings of those two words. Jesus walked us through it. I admit that a part of me cried out for rescuing – but that’s not part of the deal and I know it. We’d simply never grow up if someone rescued us from every hardship.

In between writing sessions, my wife and I racked our brains to answer the age old question – “how do I get money?”

Eventually, we stumbled onto something creative, and now, two (three?) years later, It’s starting to look like this venture might be able to pay the bills. But I’m having to push the boulder uphill to make it happen. Free time has been more or less nonexistent, including time to write. My creative itch is being very well scratched by my homegrown business, and my mental capacity at the end of every day is only sufficient for hanging out with the kids. As I write this now, I have one eye on the clock, and realize that I’d better cut this short. I haven’t even eaten or had coffee yet and it’s 10am.

A couple of winters have slipped by now – and my plans of writing by the fire with slipped by them.

The Struggle Bus has about 14 chapters done in first draft. There’s a lot of fun stuff in there, and when I look at it I do get excited. It will be finished someday, but I cannot promise when. Making goals is always a good thing, but it’s so embarrassing when you can’t keep them.

To my dear friends, keep on encouraging me – I welcome your prompts, and it shows that you care. Thank you!

13-year old Grey and his family leave their unusual back woods pioneer life to join a travelling tent-evangelist group. In the years that follow, their travels take them across America with a group of well-meaning misfits. They move from adventure to adventure in a life that is a mix of church camp, gypsy caravan, and hippy commune.

Hey my friends. I’ve joined NanoWrimo this year for the first time. I hope to use it as a means to set writing goals, and if all goes as planned, should have the vast bulk of the sequel, The Struggle Bus, written this month.

You can follow my progress here.

Halloween is a strange and unusual holiday, but it’s nice to spend time with family and friends.

Let me take this opportunity to share the spookiest photo from Growing Up Itchy.

This picture is from chapter 15: Explosive Sundays, where boys of all ages are overjoyed when an unexpected event interrupts a sleepy back-country church service.

You can find the book available on Amazon here, in paperback and ebook.

Hey friends – I’m excited to release the video trailer for my book, Growing Up Itchy. You can watch it here:

Thanks to my Friend, Eddie Mathews for the great audio soundtrack.

Today I took the exciting step of ordering the first print proof of Growing Up Itchy. If it looks good, I’ll be publishing it on Amazon a short while after.

Jean Smith over at jeansmithartist.com painted a beautiful cover painting for me, and it looks great. Thanks mom!

I released chapter 1 to the email newsletter last night. Hope you all enjoyed it!

If you aren’t subscribed, please click here and fill out the form!

I’m about settled on the book cover design. You know how it is, I could tweak it forever, but now that my beta feedback is all done, I’m ready to put this aside and get to editing.

View it on facebook.

The beta readers have been a real help, and I was able to identify some common themes from their feedback. The first chapter was the hardest to get just right, and I’m going to completely rewrite it. I think that’ll be the 4th rewrite! Also, I’m going to work on the tone of the ending of the book some, as well as squash various grammar bugs.

If Facebook is your thing, please head over and LIKE the G.U.I. page, and remember to share with any friend who might be interested!