Getting Closer

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Just the beginning!

We’re a bit more than two weeks away from “D-Day”, the day the moving van will arrive and Florida will be in our past.

It’s been an interesting four years. So many people of our age have, for quite some time, been settled in the place and circumstances they are. Not us. Perhaps, that is the consequence of a fledgling being thrown from the nest. Or, perhaps, my mother was right – there is a bit of the Tinker in me. And, everyone knows about Redheads! In any case, off we’ll go. Taking those things which we can’t part with. Books, furniture and art we found together, photos. And memories, mostly pre-Florida. And one another.

Moving is like a kaleidoscope – look at it one way it appears as such. A little twist and it looks much different. An opportunity? A loss? A mistake? That it’s part of a Plan is all we’re certain of. If it were just up to me I’d certainly screw it up. So we’ll follow our hearts and listen. And see.

In the meantime, we pack. And pack some more. And give or throw away. It’s amazing that after three tag sales we still have some things we’re deciding not to take. The plan is for us to unpack only what is essential for our temporary home – the apartment in Waynesboro – and keep everything else in a spare bedroom: patio furniture, cartons of books, pictures, tools and some more. This way, we’ll have much less to repack when we find our new home – or it finds us.

We have become somewhat expert in packing. Heavy brown craft paper, used by contractors to protect new floors, makes excellent carton cushioning and protective wrap for china. Bubble wrap is less expensive on the internet. Home Depot has sturdier boxes than Lowe’s. Bending over boxes can give you a crook in the neck – set up a work station on the kitchen table. Columbus had an easier time finding the New World than you’ll have finding someone to help you pack. Nobody likes it. No Body!

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And More!

 

 

Staunton

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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.

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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.

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St. Francis of Assisi Church

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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.

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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.

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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 Playhouse.  Staunton certainly has no shortage of interesting things to see and do.

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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.

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All according to plan, Swoope, VA

 

 

 

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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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.

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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!