New Beginning

Heading to the Mountains

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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!

God doesn’t play golf

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So, what’s all this about being “retired? Retired from what, I wonder?

In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t written a word on my blog for about ten months. I’ve noticed, though. Each time that the thought of writing something, anything, would materialize into a vague urge, it would disappear only to mind-creep again into some form of consciousness. The fact is,  I didn’t have much to say, or write. It was a time to think. And, so I did. thinking monkeyIn no particular order my thoughts ranged from: Was I happy? Was it a mistake moving to Florida? If it wasn’t a mistake moving here, was it working out as I had hoped? What was I supposed to be doing with my time, my life? Aren’t retirees supposed to play golf? I don’t play golf. And, I doubt God will hold that against me. He didn’t either, I think. 

The happiness question was a tough one to figure. Am I ecstatic? No, or at least rarely. Am I unhappy? No, I’d say it’s more that there’s a feeling of being unsatisfied or unfulfilled. Hmm, after six months or so of “deep thought” this was the best I could do? Oh, well, it was a start.

Now, The Move thing. Was it a mistake? No, of that I’m sure. If we hadn’t left Connecticut life probably would have been more difficult and certainly more unpleasant. Florida has been good in a number of ways. I obtained my commercial driver license and became a Licensed Tour Guide in St. Augustine. And drove The Red Train! That was mostly interesting and fun… until the heat became a bit much.

First day giving tours (576x1024)We also turned a somewhat wreck of a house into a really beautiful home that became a favorite gathering place for the friends we made here. That was fun, interesting and a useful thing to do.aquiline11818 drone2

And, we made some nice acquaintances and friends here. Some are gone. Some moved on. But, the really special ones, the true friends, will remain an important part of our life. But…here it comes, the heat. Who wudda’ thought? My DNA, my genetics, whatever, are just not capable of enjoying 6 months of what I consider summer and 3 more months of what can best be described as, “The Nether World”. devil picOther than that, it’s great! And, that heat did something I did not expect. It took away my desire to do much, especially outdoors. It and I just weren’t working. And that brought me to my next Big Question: What was I supposed to be doing with my time and life?

Surprisingly, that was the easiest question for me to answer. Simply put, I was meant to work; to do something that mattered – to myself and maybe to others. I enjoy working. Really. And so, over these past 10 months I’ve pondered, along with my Redhead, as to what to do. We travelled some distances, too: Tennessee, North Carolina, and South Carolina. Searching to find a place that better suited us and we it. We searched these areas several times and came pretty close to deciding upon Greenville, SC as being our new home. But, in the end, each had some shortcoming (for us) that we wanted to avoid: too much development, too remote, too hot (that was a deal breaker for several places), too costly or too kooky (and believe me, I know kooky)! And, then, an unexpected, but entirely welcome, event happened and it gave us reason to check one more area in our quest – Virginia. I resisted at first. My impression of Virginia was that it was too hot and too close to DC. I guess some geography lessons in grammar school were for naught. After lots of research, we became intrigued by the Shenandoah Valley area, particularly the Staunton area. The climate seems agreeable: moderately warm summers and with lower humidity and cooler night temperatures than here in Florida, real winters with snow, but perhaps a bit shorter in duration than Connecticut winters. Our adventure up there during July was very pleasant – jeans during the day and a light sweater some nights. Also, for me, the allergies that plague me here in Florida were welcomingly absent in the Staunton area.

There are a number of other things about the Valley that appeal to us both, but one in particular calls to me: auctions. Yes, auctions. Because, back in Connecticut, it was at small town auctions that I discovered some of my best antique and vintage furniture finds. And that was the foundation of my passion – taking old, sometimes just plain discarded furniture and restoring it and finding it a new home. It was work. And it mattered to me and to the many people that wound up with a piece of furniture from Redeux. Bill in workshop20121010

And, so, this week we placed our beautiful home on the market. Within a few hours (and after praying for God’s guidance and St. Joseph’s intercession) we had an offer. In two months we will say goodbye to Florida. 

Ying Yanged

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(20171016Litchfield CT

For the first time in almost four years I went North. Back to friends and places once familiar. Back to changing leaves and temperatures and shifting feelings. Funny that I chose October, the birthday month, the time for reflection and deflection.

I was not myself. A mood that had crept into me for several months came along for the trip. And ghosts long thought banished popped up for a pre-Halloween surprise.

It is difficult to explain except, perhaps, through metaphor. When a ship sets sail into rough water it had best make sure its ballast and cargo are balanced. Mine was not. My Ying was Yanged. And, like an unbalanced ship, I rocked this way and that. I complained that the New York traffic bothered me, when in actuality I normally couldn’t care less. The heat in Florida is terrible, I complained (what a news flash that was!), ditto the traffic here and the crime 10 miles away. Had I become a kvetch? Oy Vey! 

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But, what was the problem? It has taken me these past two weeks or so to settle and reflect. The problem is me (Isn’t it always?). I don’t like being retired. I’m not even sure what I’m retired from! From two professions it could be said that I’m retired. A third was more a passion and an unfinished work, one that I thought I could continue here in Florida – restoring antique / vintage furniture. It hasn’t happened for a number of reasons. And, not making excuses, they are legitimate reasons. Truth be told, however, I like working. I need to work, again. Volunteering hasn’t been successful (still trying, though) and my one job experience here was a mixed bag (see my post, Charlie, September 2016).

It was while visiting Tiverton, one of my favorite areas up North that I again visited the weaving studio and shop of Amy Lund. I had met Amy a few years past when I had my shop, Redeux Vintage Furniture, in CT.

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While visiting RI we made a “field trip” to see some craftspeople and Amy’s shop in Tiverton’s Four Corners is a favorite. Her enthusiasm and love for what she does is inspiring. It was a treat to visit her again, to see her work and to make a small purchase. If you’re ever in that area of RI stop into Amy Lund’s weaving studio  . 

After leaving Amy’s shop I knew I had to again work. It’s a matter of having a balance in  life. And no one wants to be unbalanced!

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So, what’s next? Another trip North! Well, kind of North – North Carolina and Tennessee to be exact (not sure if they’d like to be considered Northern States!). We’ll visit friends and view areas not visited before.

Thanks to all my friends up North for their welcome and patience with my “Yanged Ying”. Thanks, too, to HM for her special prayers. And to Geraldine Wahlgren, “that German Lady”, who took a chance 51 years ago this month and opened her heart and home to two young boys. I will never forget.

Opening Lines

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There are opening lines and opening lines. Some slam the door before it is more than slightly cracked and others lure you in, intrigued, mesmerized or just plain curious.  Ask any woman that has ever stepped foot into a bar or pub – she knows.

Part of our pre-hurricane Irma ritual, after stocking up on water and non-perishable food items,  was to secure, as best we thought,  our most valuable, needed or beloved items.  Our books were among the first to be moved to “higher ground”.

My love affair with the printed page, illustrations and special bindings began when I was around 5 years old.  Dick and Jane became my first friends. Later, Long John Silver and Robinson Crusoe would protect me and show me how to survive the sinking ship, Home.  Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry inspired a sense of adventure and survival. Oh, how I related to Huck.20170916_123659 (2)

So, now, the storm has passed. My collection of friends and mentors, saints and those not quite so much so, have been returned to their place of glory – a bookcase in our sunroom overlooking our pond and all who visit our home.

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Handling them, dusting them and rearranging each just so was a labor of love. Seeing them as individuals, rather than as a collection, brought up memories.  All good. Some books I’d nearly forgotten. Some I want to experience again. And then I had an idea.

Choosing mostly at random, I have picked several books from which to share the opening lines with you. To say I have eclectic taste in literature may be somewhat of an understatement. But, I’m sure many of you will have read some of these. If not, maybe these opening lines will interest you as much as they did me.

               “The motto was ‘Pax’ but the word was set in a circle of thorns. Pax: Peace, but what a strange peace, made of unremitting toil and effort – seldom with a seen result: subject to constant interruptions, unexpected demands, short sleep at nights, little comfort, sometimes scant food: beset with disappointments and usually misunderstood, yet peace all the same, undeviating, filled with joy and gratitude and love. ‘It is my My own peace I give unto you.’ Not, notice, the world’s peace.”…In This House of Brede, by Rumer Godden.

               “ We don’t get mad anymore. There’s no point. The story is as familiar as the dialogue and the dialogue is now a monstrous cliché, and just as numbing.

Quite recently I went home.  Charlestown, County Mayo, where I was born 37 years ago, is an Irish Rural town. Village, perhaps, would be a better word. It was built in spite at the height of the greatest tragedy in the history of rural Ireland: the Great Famine.” … No One Shouted Stop!,  by John Healy.

               “Good-bye’, they were all crying. ‘Good- bye, Peter. Good bye, good-bye’.  And he meant to call out ‘Good-bye’ again to all of them, but the lump in his throat choked the cry to a squeak.” …The Golden Ocean, by Patrick O’Brian.

                “At the end of her life, Edith Stein considered herself one of countless “hidden souls” who are part of the invisible Church and who regularly remain hidden from the world. She was a contemplative nun, a member of the Discalced Carmelite Order. Yet, as Edith herself pointed out, throughout the history of humankind the visible Church has grown out of this invisible one”…Edith Stein, by Maria Ruiz Scaperlanda.

                “The first thing Miss Judith Hearne unpacked in her new lodgings was the silver-framed photograph of her aunt. The place for her aunt, ever since the sad day of the funeral, was on the mantelpiece of whatever bed-sitting-room Miss Hearne happened to be living in. And as she put her up now, the photograph eyes were stern and questioning, sharing Miss Hearne’s own misgivings about the condition of the bed-springs, the shabbiness of the furniture and the run-down part of Belfast in which the room was situated.”…The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, by Brian Moore.

Perhaps one or two of these opening lines will pique your interest enough to track down and read the book. Some, such as John Healy’s  thoughtful, No One Shouted Stop!, a history of my family’s home town in Ireland, may be somewhat hard to find, but worth the search.  Brian Moore is, perhaps, one of the best modern writers to come out of Ireland. Rumer Godden’s writings have stayed with me for years. Both Moore’s book and Rumer Godden’s have been made into films. Nicely done, too.

I’d love to read some of your favorite “Opening Lines”.  But, please, no, “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a joint like this?” I’ve heard it before!! (I wish).

After the Storm

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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.

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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

Oh, Boy

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I read the news today, oh boy…

Come out ye Black and Tans and fight me like a man…

These two snippets of wildly divergent songs keep playing in my head these past several days.

The first, of course, is from the John Lennon song, Day in the Life, and is familiar to anyone that has listened to the Beatles Sgt. Pepper album. The second is from the Irish rebel song written by Domenic Behan ( Lyrics.) Before I explain why these two songs are on auto-play, let me give you a bit of personal background.

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I am of the first generation on my father’s side of the family born in the United States. Both sides of the family, however, came from Ireland. I grew up listening to stories of fairies, leprechauns, keeners, ghosts, Tinkers, famines and beloved Saint Patrick. And, the Black and Tans. (Historical video)

My father and uncles were children during the time of the Irish Rebellion of 1919 -1921. At the time, they ranged in age from 11 to 14. When I was about 9 or 10 years old I asked, innocently, why my uncle Pat limped so badly and why my uncle Frank had two scars, white, irregular circles, each on either side of his cheeks. It was the “bloody Black and Tans”, I was told. “What’s that”, I asked? The British Army, was the answer.

 You see, before the age of telephones and the internet, many people had to communicate face to face or in writing. This was certainly the case in rural West Ireland of the time (even up until the 1950’s in many areas). The Irish Rebels – IRA – used fleet-footed youngsters to spread the news of the Black and Tan mercenary military units approaching villages and towns. The Tans, recruited from the ranks of unemployed soldiers following WWI and, reportedly in some cases, the mental wards and prisons of England, had quite the reputation for pillaging, murder and rape. Their approach would strike terror and hatred into the civilians of towns and villages.  Uncle Pat, then age 14, was caught in County Clare and, as he was correctly suspected of being a “runner” for the IRA, had his instep crushed by the butt of a British rifle. Never would he run again. Uncle Frank actually did have a printed IRA message concealed in his mouth when he was apprehended by the Tans in the mountains of County Mayo. Since he wouldn’t open his mouth to expel the message, a pistol was placed to his cheek and the bullet blew the message and his face to shreds. He was 12. My grandparents, fearing for my father, who was a runner, too, sent him to the relative safety of English coal mines to work underground until he could buy his passage to America. He was about 12 when he left home – forever. Nearly 100 years later, Black and Tans are still a curse and cursed in Ireland.

So, why are the songs of John Lennon and Dominic Behan playing in my head? Because, two days ago I read the news and could only say, “oh, boy”.  It seems that some folks in our government are seriously discussing the idea of raising a mercenary force of fighters to replace U.S. troops in Afghanistan. Mercenaries bought and paid for by us – the American citizen, to fight a war Congress has not the guts to declare. These forces would be recruited from former U.S. soldiers. The report stated some of the reasons for considering this proposal are to continue the war in Afghanistan – but at a lower cost; troops would be under the control of Afghan authorities, thus removing the U.S. from some culpability for “irregularities” and we could bring our boys and girls home. How nice. See: u.s. mercenaries

Have we lost our collective minds and souls? The idea of the United States using mercenaries to fight its war – even if those mercenaries are American – is sickening.  War is bad enough. But, using proxies always comes back to haunt you. Just ask the British. If the war in Afghanistan is, after all, a “good” war, should we not fight it ourselves? If it is not, isn’t 16 years enough?

 Yes, I read the news today and said, “Oh, boy” and pray that years from now Afghans will not rise up in their own variation of the Behan song: “Come out ye ‘Mericans, and fight me like a man”.

Punked

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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.

Best Foot Forward

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So, you’re retired?

Yeah, kind of.

From what?

Well, I guess from a few things.

How do you like it?

I’m looking to be un-retired.

This conversation, with several variations, has been happening with me more and more frequently. I wonder, am I looking much older than I feel? Do I have that look of being part of the leisure class? Does my latest fashion statement that I consider to be a combination of bon vivant and bohemian nonchalance really signal that I am not reporting to any legitimate work anytime soon? Upon viewing a picture of this outfit, emailed by The Redhead, my buddy, Maryellen, called to tell me that I needed an intervention.

fashion statement

Maybe, I just need a job.

For a few weeks I have attempted to volunteer my time and whatever talents I may have to several area charities and non-profits. Phone messages remain unreturned or the person that I do get to speak with tells me to go online to get information and to leave a contact number. But, I’m speaking with you now, I tell him. No, you have to go online, he says. I do. But, after I fill out the online form a window pops up telling me it’s best to directly call the office.

Yes, maybe I just need a job.

So, what to do? I’ve told myself no weekends. No nights. No holidays. Last week I was told to not put so many obstacles in my way in finding a job. Good advice. After all, it’s only part-time work I’m looking for.

I’ve made a mental list of what I have in the past liked to do and what I can now still do. Several things have come to mind. A business that we’ve had dealings with recently seemed that it might be a good resource in locating a lead. I called and explained that I was planning to un-retire and wondered if they might know of any similar business that might require part time help. As a matter of fact we do, they said. Us.

I’m putting together a resume this weekend. And Monday I’m going to put my best foot forward. But, guaranteed, no matter what the outcome is, that best foot forward won’t be wearing socks and sandals. At least not black socks!

The Swerve

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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.

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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

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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.