Staunton

20180921_2716
West Beverly St. Downtown Staunton

It’s been nearly a week since we made the trek from Jacksonville to Staunton, Virginia to prepare for our relocating there in about six weeks. Skirting the effects of hurricane Florence turned a nine hour trip into 15 driving hours through Georgia, up into Tennessee and finally slipping over the mountains into Virginia from the West.

Along the way we spoke of what lay ahead of us and what we were leaving. Four years earlier we had had a similar conversation of what we were leaving behind in Connecticut as we drove along I-95 toward The Bold New City of the South. We said we would make a home that would be our “forever home”.  As singer-songwriter John Gorka wrote, “the old future’s gone”.  Apparently, this bold new city requires a sensibility different than ours.

Here, friends were made, acquaintances, too. Some were lost, some just recently made. Some know, too, that this is not their “forever home”.  Our reasons are mostly the same: too much heat, traffic and violence. There is also the feeling that something better is possible, if only a chance is taken.

20180922_2726 (1024x768)

Our cross mountain conversation centered on what was most important to us. Not just now, but what has always been so: Family, of blood and heart, a sense of purpose and a sense of belonging to and in a place and a shared Faith.

20180923_2731 (768x1024)
St. Francis of Assisi Church

20180923_2739 (1024x683)

How odd, then, that by moving we hope to better have these things. The Redhead and I will be closer to “the kids” and our Connecticut friends. Staunton is also closer to northern Tennessee than is Jacksonville, making it easier to still be close with some of our family of the heart who will be leaving here, too.

20180922_2724

The Shenandoah Valley in many ways reminds me of the western Ireland of my heritage: rolling hills dotted with cattle and the abandoned homes of those that once worked the land, all in the shadow of the nearby mountains that, like those in Eire, also witnessed a bloody, never forgotten, conflict.  Yet, there is a gentleness to the land that has been smoothed by time.

20180923_2741 (1024x768)
Abandoned cabin, Churchville,VA

The main purpose for our trip was to find a rental property to settle into as we explored and learned the area. It turned out that finding something we liked was not as easy as we had imagined. But, after a few days a very nice condo-type apartment in the town of Waynesville, about 20 minutes from Staunton, was found and secured for our arrival in early November. After taking care of a few more business matters we spent the rest of our week exploring the area and enjoying an afternoon at the Blackfriars PlayhouseStaunton certainly has no shortage of interesting things to see and do.

20180921_2718 (1024x768)
Staunton Arts Center

Each day, now, we pack a little more. Boxing what we’ll need immediately and sorting it from those treasures we cannot part with but may not see again for a year. It is a strange experience.  We know that we both are resilient and optimistic and our prayer for guidance is simple: “Lord, let us know what You want us to do and give us the courage to do it”. Who knows what’s in store for us? It’s all part of a plan.

20180922_2727 (1024x768)
All according to plan, Swoope, VA

 

 

 

Heading to the Mountains

staunton1

It is 8:00 P.M., Sunday, September 16th and unbelievably hot here in Jacksonville. This evening my beloved Patriots have had a rather unpleasant trip to this Bold New City.

Normally, this would be enough to put me into a funk – at least until 90 Day Fiance comes on ( yes, we’re hooked) and somehow nothing seems quite so unpleasant by comparison. But, tonight, there is no funk. There is only a feeling of hopeful anticipation.

It’s been only two weeks since we first put our house on the market, accepted an offer and had the home inspection. What began one year ago as a mustard seed of curiosity bloomed into an idea and, finally, into the thought that, yes, it is never too late to start over again. Tomorrow, we will drive to Staunton, VA to secure a condo rental until we decide where, exactly, we want to buy or build a new home.

It’s a bit odd, moving again. When we moved here we thought it would be our forever and always home. Sometimes, life has a way of taking unexpected turns.  Those twists and turns can either be set-backs…or opportunities. With experience comes knowledge and knowing what you don’t want is at least half the battle.

Come along for the adventure!

After the Storm

irma2

You know it’s coming. Will it be the end of everything as we know it?  What happened to all the assurances that we were in a safe place? 

Like an unwelcome relative that insists on coming for the holidays, Irma, with potent unpredictability, smashes and wrecks and ruins everything she comes near.

We pray. At home, at church, together, by ourselves. Please, Lord, let Irma turn toward the ocean and let every sailor at sea escape her wrath.

First, it’s the islands of the Caribbean. Devastated. Then the mainland. Northward, then west. Please, spare the Gulf, we pray. She straightens. Northward, again. We’re assured she will weaken.  Every bully does. Eventually.  Toward sparsely populated areas she sets her sights. And, then, she sees her prize to the east. She wants to visit the City of Rivers. It’s been such a long time. Hasn’t it? I’ve missed you. Let me visit. Not a good time? Oh, I insist. Irma comes through the back door. But, not before first waking the dead of St. Augustine. Then, it’s over the rivers and through the woods to Grandma’s house she goes. And, to ours. She has misplaced our address. For now. But, like a raging drunk at midnight, she shatters the peace of our neighbors. Trees crash into homes, roofs are ripped, windows are shattered. And, too, are so many lives.

irma1

We are now three for three. This yearly upheaval has stirred up something within. Of smashing. Of terror in the night. Of trees strewn in the front yard, albeit now ones without lights.

A prayer, once said for many years, comes to mind: Lord, let me know what You want me to do, and give me the courage to do it. Amen

Punked

20170721bridge1

Nobody is going to punk her.

Today’s news carried the tragic report of an eight year old girl that died from injuries she had sustained several months ago. The details of the report, although few, are bizarre and shocking. The girl was at home with her family when she became involved in a game of Dare. Someone dares you to do something and if you do it you get to challenge them. If you don’t fulfill the dare, well, it depends on the group playing. This eight year old girl, surrounded by her family – adults and other children – was given the dare to drink a glass of boiling water using a straw. She accepted and the resulting injuries sent her to the hospital where, after several operations she was returned home, but with lingering complications. Two days ago she complained of breathing difficulties and before the arrival of an ambulance, she died.

Comprehending what type of family would allow this type of “game” to take place in the presence of adults is even really beyond the ability of someone that has seen a lot. But, what has left me absolutely shocked is the explanation and rationale of the events as explained by one of the adults witnessing the game – the little girl’s aunt. Going forward, I will refer to the little girl as, “Angel”.

Aunt to Reporter: Well, they were all playing that Dare game. Everyone knows you don’t dare Angel, because she will not be punked (note from Bill -while there are several definitions of the slang term, “being punked”, in this instance it refers to being made to feel someone’s inferior).  She will accept the dare and do it. Everyone knows that’s the way Angel is. So when they brought out the boiling water and dared her to drink it with a straw, she did. She wasn’t going to be punked. No, sir, nobody is going to punk her.

Angel, unfortunately, is not alone in refusing to be punked and then paying the consequences. Every day and I do mean every day, there are reports of people, many of them kids, shooting and being shot, killing and being killed. All of the old excuses for violence: the lack of jobs, the need for more gun control, poverty, poor housing, etc., etc., simply cannot explain what is going on. Here in Jacksonville we have an abundance of jobs, and good ones. What is considered to be a rundown neighborhood here would pass for a middle-class neighborhood in many cities up North. There are miles of beachfront and riverfront open to everyone, recreational opportunities are so many and so varied they can’t be counted. Most cost little or nothing. Yet, something is destroying us. Is it drugs? Is it families that teach their kids to not be punked, no matter what? What is happening?

For the sake of Angel and all the other Angels, we had better find out.

The Swerve

It’s been months since I’ve wanted to write, much less take the time to actually sit in front of a keyboard again. Why tonight?

Tonight our book club met to discuss this month’s selection, The Swerve. If you haven’t yet read it, the 50 cent review is: a Renaissance era papal scribe goes on a search for ancient classic manuscripts. He comes across a poem written by one Lucretius, a Roman living approximately 100 years before Christ. The poem , On the Nature of Things, deals with the nature of life. It has influenced many philosophers and writers and, according to the Swerve’s author, Stephen Greenblatt, formed our modern world’s understanding of life’s purpose and essence. Lucretius described a universe where there is no God, we were created by randomly colliding and binding atoms, our life’s purpose should be the seeking of pleasure and the avoidance of pain, all religions are a hoax and, at the end…nothing. Greenblatt apparently concurs. I couldn’t disagree more.

It’s been six months since I’ve gone to work. At times I think I miss it. But, actually what is missed is the doing of work. Not willing to work weekends, nights or holidays does limit one’s prospects of finding part-time work. Being able to enjoy time with The Redhead and to explore the surrounds of our new home are important. That she goes to work three days each week has put me in the unenviable position of haus frau. But, it has also given me time to think.

Retirement, for some, is the long sought after golden fleece, awarded after a certain number of years toiling in the workplace. Yet, there are those that really like to work. Perhaps they are the ones that were lucky enough to have drawn a paycheck doing something they loved. Those aren’t jobs, those are blessings. With work, I’ve been blessed three times, so far. Interestingly, each of those three work blessings came from out of the blue – completely unexpected.

20161204Little Talbot (2)

So, what might our book club meeting have to do with writing again? Writing helps clarify what I see. And, if I truly believe that we are put here for more that our own pleasure, perhaps, by writing, I will see what is now calling me. After all, even the sea bird in the picture above found his reward in the hurricane devastated moonscape of what was once lush Little Talbot Island. All he had to do was see it.

As always, feel free to comment.

Bill

Charlie

20160831_104547_resized

Tough day today, huh, Charlie?

“Yeah, it sure is. It seems a lot more days are getting tougher and tougher, for me at least”.

We’re in the break room, cooling off after driving our machines in the sun for an hour and a half on a day when the thermometer reads 103 degrees in the shade. Add another 10-15 degrees inside the cabs and today, like the past 10 or so, is indeed a Tough One.

He slips a “cooling bandana” from around his forehead. It is drenched in sweat as are his shorts and shirt. A mini cooler is pulled from the fridge and Charlie slumps into a chair while retrieving a half-eaten sandwich and a juice carton from the thermal bag. At 67, 140 pounds overweight, diabetic and with open sores visible on his lower legs, Charlie looks like he is losing the battle – with the heat, with the job and with himself.

“I wasn’t always like this”, he says. Was I staring or was he reading my mind? He had been a small-town policeman up north somewhere, I knew. Other than that, all I knew about him was that he was always polite, always soft-spoken and always the butt of jokes from the straw bosses up front that sat all day in an air-conditioned room criticizing Charlie for usually being a few minutes behind schedule on his tours. Miss your times and you, too, became a “Charlie”.

“My wife and I came down here after we retired. We had a small house. We’d go fishin’ and cook on the grill and drive around seeing the sights. We were happy. Then she got sick. Cancer. I took a job as a security guard to help with the bills. One day I was beat up and fell to the ground and hit my head. Never been the same. My wife died soon after”.

I’m sorry to hear this, Charlie.

“It’s o.k., it’s been a while. I live up the street, you know. At the motel. The one with the sign that says, ‘American Owned’ out front. Not many of those left. They treat me nice. No kitchen, though. I usually eat at Hungry Howie’s”.

Charlie is telling me this in a very matter of fact way. But, I’m not sure why. Is it because he knows that I, too, was “on the job” up north? Kind of like comrades?  I don’t know. All I know is that my eyes are stinging from sweat – or maybe it is something else.

Train’s in!

I’ve got to go, Charlie. See you later. Drink lots of water before you go out again.

He looks up and says, “Oh, yeah”.  And then, “You know, I used to be a somebody, once”.

Before I open the doors to go back into the blast furnace of St. Augustine in August I look around the office. It has changed. I will never again see it as I did just one hour before. Maybe I’ll be a few minutes late beyond the allotted 90 minutes of my next scheduled tour. Just so Charlie isn’t alone today.

Telling History

shrimp boats 2 (275x183)

The coast road from Jacksonville to St. Augustine was nearly deserted at dawn. Stars still shown as only the first glimmers of light arose on the horizon. A trinity of fishing boats were close to shore, facing land, booms out – embracing all. I’m going to work and it is a blessing.

Earlier this month I sat for the City of Saint Augustine Tour Guide test. Passing it (after lots of coffee and late-night studying – I thought those days were long gone) has given me more direct access to the historical records and the people who keep those records of this very complicated city. Saint Augustine is a city of peacefulness and charity. And it is a city that has seen incredible brutality. It is a city that gave shelter to refugees; it is a city that oppressed its own. It is also a city of tenacity, kindness and faith.

St Augustine Chapel

Studying the history of anyone or anything is like peeling an onion – even the sweetest of them can make you cry. On a recent trip to the St. Augustine Historical Society I asked the folks there what the most important thing a Tour Guide could do. Without hesitation their answer was: “Tell the Truth”.  I’ll do my best to peel the onion.

My next field of study were the manuals to qualify for a Commercial Drivers (truck, bus, etc.) License. I took the written tests last week and will begin training on buses this week. Since the State testers don’t have trains, I have to qualify driving a vehicle commonly used by commercial drivers before I can drive a train. Buses are not exactly the same as 65 foot trains – especially when trying to navigate tandem trains through the winding Old Town section of St. Augustine – but being able to drive both are required. Who can I get to be my first passengers? Hmmm.

If things go as hoped, I will take the practical driving test in 2 – 3 weeks. After that, driving the trains and giving tours will begin. I’m told that the goal is for me to be ready to commence with tours in time for Spring Break. Now, if that isn’t motivation, what is?  Yikes!

City Gates 1 (2)

But, safely driving the trains, while very important, is only part of the process of being a great tour guide. Dates, names, places can become very confusing for visitors to a city. I’m thinking more along the lines of being a storyteller. Problem is, time will not be my friend. I’ll need to develop several narratives – short vignettes – for each point of interest and weave them into the journey through the city and through time.  As any of my friends (and even some new acquaintances) know, short vignettes are not my usual way of telling a story. I love the road less traveled! I’ll have to fall back on some previous training for my narratives.

Back in my youth, as a young and inexperienced policeman, I had the very good fortune of having as my supervisor a tall, red-faced, Irish sergeant known as “The Tom-tom”. One evening, after making an arrest for what I considered to be the crime of the century, I submitted to Sgt. Tom-tom a considerable stack of 5×7 file cards detailing all the gory details of this arrest. Tom- tom looked at the stack, took note of the actual crime committed and then looked at me.
“What is this b.s., kid”?
“It’s my report, sir”.
“No, it’s not. This is b.s. Now, take this b.s. and cut it down to one file card – both sides – and no more. If you think I or the state attorney have the time or need to read your Great American Novel you are sadly mistaken”

I gave it great effort and returned with a much abbreviated account of the events in question – the stack was reduced to a measly 3 file cards.

I told you, one file card! Take this back; get it right, even if it takes you until tomorrow morning to do it”.

It did. But, the final report contained all it had to – nothing less and certainly nothing more. Tom-tom taught me to cut to the chase when needed and fill in the details when requested.

So, developing a narrative for my tours to within the given time frame is possible. I think. But, I’ll need help from you to do it right.

If you have taken an historic tour, anywhere, what about it did you like most? The least? Please let me know!

Hope to see you soon.

Bill

Back On Track

It has been some time since I’ve written here. The Holidays – Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year have taken their yearly toll. Not so much in the bustle but in the emotional stew they churn up and which takes some quiet time to digest. It is a heartburn from which we all suffer.

But this quiet time was not all for naught. Ecclesiastics (and The Byrds) say, “To everything there is a season”. My mother put it more succinctly – “Are you thinkin’ or stinkin’?” In other words, “Are you actually using your brain or just wasting time”? The quiet season has ended and now is the time to plant.

cowboy

How many of us have seen someone working and wished we could do the same thing? I have done so many times. But, Cowboys, Brain Surgeons, King of All the World and Folks That Can Actually Use a Smart Phone each have skills sets I don’t possess. Fashion modeling, sadly, just isn’t the same as it once was so ixnay on that, too.

Borrowing a page from my friend Cheryl’s “Book of Things You Might Like To Do and Things You Should Avoid”(sometimes referred to as the Meyers/Briggs Test), I did a self-evaluation of what I liked and might be able to do. Maybe something would develop from this process, I figured.

I have always loved history, so much so that I sometimes repeat it. Writing, too, has been something I’ve enjoyed, even though my writing a coherent sentence is often a struggle. But, from deep within my Celtic genes comes a love of storytelling – both as a listener and sometimes the teller. storyteller (2)

Life would be much less colorful and interesting without hearing the tales of gypsies waiting to take naughty children away, Irish fairies and leprechauns (they’re different), gangsters and bad guys with names like The Beaver, GaGa, Itchy and Da’ Phone and The Lump. No history of Cuba would be complete without the story of a naked dwarf being placed in the “foundlings’ gate” of a Havana convent nor would the memory of a certain Connecticut town be as rich without recalling The Ride of Louie the Dog. Storytelling is the life blood of history.

So, what to do?

20141103_2071

Friends and family that have visited us here in Jacksonville have most often taken with us a tour of St. Augustine. Some have toured with the Old Town Trolley, others on the golf cart with Peter Gold of Gold Tours. It has been the tours of the Ancient City with Peter Gold that we have, so far, found to be the most interesting. After each tour I would find myself digging into books for further information or verification of what we had heard from the guides.  So, what to do?

Several weeks ago The Redhead and I were down in St. Augustine. We were spending the afternoon just walking around viewing the sites, talking with the several shop owners we have gotten to know and enjoying walking the streets of the oldest city in our nation. Tour guides were everywhere: Carriage Horse Tours, Pedal Cab Tours, Ghost Tours, Wine Tours, Walking Tours and, of course, the trolleys – the orange one and The Red Train. Leaving town later that night we passed by the Red Train depot. One of us muttered, “I’d love to drive one of those”. The Redhead said, “Why don’t you”?

After a week or so of research we again went down to the Red Train. I filled out an application. We then took a ride on one of their trains and later spoke with the owner. A few days later I was filling out more paperwork and getting a physical exam.

Tomorrow, February 2, I begin training as a St. Augustine Tour Guide working for The Red Train.

History, writing, storytelling, tour guide, host to tourists and international visitors, getting to know as much of the “oldest city” – its people and places – past and present as I can absorb…what a job!

train engineer (2)

Hope to see you soon

The Front Porch

IMG_3314 (1024x699)

Is there anything more welcoming than a front porch?
For years I have lamented the near demise of the front porch. As a kid growing up in a city neighborhood, the front porch was part of everyday life. It was a playground on too hot or too rainy days, a fort, and the place to plan all the events that we could cram into our summer’s days. It was also, and probably most importantly, the place that neighbors visited when strolling by one another’s house.

IMG_3308 (797x1024)

Those old cement and wooden porches were the foundations of the neighborhood. We could play with Buster Madison all day long but he became even more popular when his parents came out onto their porch in the evenings after supper. It was then that Mr. Madison would treat every kid to a piece of butterscotch candy. Mr. Madison would tell us that what he was sharing with us urchins was a piece of Callard & Bowser Butterscotch –“the finest in the world”.  He may have been right, we just knew it was a special treat. To this day butterscotch of any type conjures up images of sitting on the Madison’s front porch with our little piece of England. At the other end of the block was Mrs. O’Leary. Her son was a policeman so we always settled down a bit as we passed her house. Ya’ never could tell when being extra nice would come in handy! Anyway, Mrs. O’Leary had some fine honeysuckle bushes in her yard. When she would sit on her front porch, we’d ask if we could pick a few (a few dozen, it always turned out) to get the honey. We could – if we didn’t trample her roses. Not being complete fools, those roses were treated with lots of respect for sure.
And, now, neighborhoods are mostly absent the front porch. We won’t even discuss gated “communities”. Our neighborhood, like so many others, has replaced the front porch with rear decks or sun rooms. Although, many of our neighbors have taken to setting up folding chairs by their front doors and garages to mimic the old porches. It works, kinda’. There’s even a sort of code: one chair, wave as you pass. Two or more chairs, you’d better stop and sit a spell. Our friends, Maria and Tom, usually have at least 4 and can somehow produce several others in the blink of an eye. Like true copy cats, we have assembled our hodge-podge assortment of “front porch” chairs, too. It’s great.
So, imagine my surprise and curiosity when it was announced that Jacksonville was holding this weekend its Second Annual Front PorchFest in the Springfield section of town (PorchFest) . Since The Redhead was up North visiting friends and family and my list of things that needed to be done had dwindled, I figured it was a good chance to explore another area of town and to see some front porches – I hoped.
Sure enough, Springfield is about 25 minutes from here, a hop, skip and jump from the downtown and Riverside areas. Tricky folks over there – hiding in plain sight. Arriving a bit early, 12:00 noon and the music was set for a 1:00 P.M. start time, I had time to walk around. It’s a mixed area, with Main Street being the closest thoroughfare. The neighborhood is filled with large, early 1900 era homes sitting side by side with bungalows and craftsman-style houses.IMG_3283 (799x1024)Some have been converted to professional office spaces but most are home-sweet homes. Mixed in is an ample dose of abandoned and run down houses and buildings. I’m told these are being bought and renovated on a rather steady basis. None the less, home is where the heart is and this place, it turns out, has plenty of heart!
For a bit over three hours the hands of time had turned back. Front porches everywhere! People were walking around on the sidewalks and in the road. Food trucks, set up on the periphery, sold everything from fresh ground beef hot dogs (yep!) to fish sandwiches to organic fruit “hand pies”. The Redhead will be happy to learn I was very sensible and stuck with the fish. I did get the address for the local bakery making those hand pies, just in case.
But, the music was reason most everyone was there. The Methodist Bell Ringers set up on the park green, A Soul Group was singing to heaven and us up on Silver Street. IMG_3296 (1024x768)Blue Grass was around the corner. IMG_3301 (980x1024)A folksy gal was on third and the popular Firewater Tent Revival was just up the block. Note the Drum Kit(note the drum kit)

Too much? No way! All of this was within a short stroll and a few hours. Evening would bring out larger musical groups, some of which I had had the pleasure of hearing at the Riverside Art Mart or my beloved Lillie’s. For me, previous and much looked forward to engagements (plus some unseasonable heat) kept my time at the PorchFest too short. So, I hoped to find that one special group or singer that would be “better than good”.

I was not disappointed. Complicated Animals is a duo now in Jacksonville, but singer, Monica da Silva, originally hails from Brazil. They call their style of music, Indie Nova. Their arrangement of, “Take a Walk on the Wild Side”, was an intriguing blend of Lou Reed meets Suzanne Vega meets Astrud Gilberto, without a hint of pretension. Wonderful stuff. Complicated Animals http://www.complicatedanimals.com/ can be found at several venues right here in the Jacksonville area when they are not touring. This Saturday they sung, just for me I think, from the front porch of a charming old colonial. Complicated Animals (1024x768)
How wonderful front porches are!

Hope to hear from you. Better yet, stop by. The front porch is all set!

After the first step

20150824_2565 (1024x651)

Nearly two months later than our target date and almost seven months to the date since we first saw our new home, our remodeling work is DONE!

To celebrate the event – and to thank all of our new neighbors for their patience and kindness during our home makeover – we had a Neighborhood Open House party this past Sunday afternoon. Friends we have known for about a year – before moving to this home and friends just recently met came and helped us celebrate and give thanks for all we have been given.

The week before the Neighborhood party we had two big events here: Our house – each and every room and space – was blessed by our parish priest and pastor, Father Jhon Guarnizo (Blessed Trinity Parish ). Our home is and will always be a house of peace and love.

Fr. Jhon and Debbie on Blessing Day. Note batik of St. Luke in background
Fr. Jhon and Debbie on Blessing Day. Note batik of St. Luke in background

The following day Sister Swammy (Linda) came with her husband, Dave, for a too brief visit. Linda and Dave met several of our friends at our Labor Day picnic where we gave some of our southern friends a lesson in how to make a “real” hot dog – grill it baby! No boiled or steamed dogs in this house! The Swammy also regaled our friends with the story of her vision of what our new home would look like and when we would find it – months before it happened. She was correct about everything. The Swammy was presented with a special memento of her predictions.

swammy linda 1

20150906_2570 (883x1024)The day after Linda left to visit family further south, our sun room floors were finished with a vinyl planking – perfect for the room since it is very durable and nice looking, too.20150910_2579 (1024x768)So, now that our construction work has been completed, what next? When we moved here to Jacksonville from Connecticut we did not expect to  become different people. What we did hope for was a chance to have a life which we could build together. We are doing just that.  Having completed step#1 of our new life we’ll need to think and pray for our next step to be made known. 20150915_2595 (1024x768)