Southern Living

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. 

Opening Lines

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cowboy bar

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

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.

At Last!

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Train first tour driving day

Disappointment is not easy. Dealing with it takes time.

Back in March I had taken the road exam for the Commercial Drivers License (CDL) – a prerequisite for driving as a tour guide for the company. The test did not go well, as I have already described in my last, several weeks ago post. Sporadic training on bus driving – mostly backing up techniques – had done little to instill confidence that the next test would be much more successful. It was a dilemma.

So weeks were filled with driving shuttle vans throughout St. Augustine, learning back streets and alleys and always honing my narrative skills and knowledge on each and every passenger. And then it happened. I was told that train driving lessons would begin. But, what about the CDL? It seems the management had more confidence in my next driving test than did I.

So, fire up the train I did – with the best driving instructor in town. All geometry he said. Axels and radius’s, turning points, weight distribution,etc. Very nice. All I wanted to do was show people the city and talk about it. But, somehow it all came together. Until I had to learn how to talk and drive. Simple? Not nearly. See, the training consisted of first talking – giving the narrative tour – while someone else drove the train. Talk what you see was the motto. Problem was, different drivers = different speeds and when I would see what. Add to that, I’d sometimes get the sideways “short eye” look of disapproval. “What did you say”, I’d hear? “What did you just say”? My response, “Huh”? It seems some of these Southern boys think I have an accent. Well!  They’d ask,”where y’all frum”?  “Kin-et-e-kit”, I’d tell them. Their look said it all. What we had was a “failure to co-mu-nee- kate“! Another learning curve to overcome.

Next, was the drive and talk test. After figuring I could speak somewhat intelligently about the Ancient City, the bosses judged it was time to drive the train and give the tour – with only an instructor aboard, of course. Without a CDL – no passengers.

O.K. So, off we go down San Marco Avenue with me wearing a microphone headset. Since I was driving, the headset was plugged in so the mouthpiece was on my right side. Something new.

Me: “So, in 1565 Pedro Menendez landed ashore just to our left in the Indian village of Faigy“.

What the *&^%$)@#!  Was I having a stroke? Or did the Timucuan Indians really name their village after my beloved Redhead? The instructor couldn’t answer me. He was too busy choking on his morning coffee and laughing.

O.K. Gibby, I thought, keep driving. This will get better.

Me, again: “Now we’re heading toward the city gates of North Benson”.

Am I really back in Fairfield? Seriously, somebody better call an ambulance or get a straitjacket. I’ve lost my mind!

Instructor: “Why don’t we take a little time to figure this out? Pull over”.

Check list: Am I sick? I don’t think so.

Did I really pass the City Board test for Tour Guide? Yes.

Think, Gibby.

Boing! The light goes on!

The microphone is on my right side and I realize that I can’t think or speak with a telephone in my right hand. Always the left!! So, a quick change of the headset and and rearranging of cords and voila!

Instructor: “We’ll, that was interestin'”

It certainly was.

Weeks go by. I’m mostly a “talker”, giving the narration on tours while an experienced guide drives the train and observes me. And some more train driving and a bit more bus driving and backing up practice – the key to everything going forward, so to speak. That’s a thought. Sometimes to move forward you have to first go back. Hmmm.

And then the day of the bus test is announced. May 9th.

And then the next day everything changes. Good news for the company: The test has been scheduled for sooner – May 2nd. Good news for me: No backing up, parking, etc. I had, unknowingly, already passed that part of the test. Countless days and nights of worry – for naught! All I had to do now was drive forward. And remember speed limits and railroad crossings and not get rattled by the tester telling you to do something quickly and forgetting – safety first! O.K.

It goes well.

On Wednesday, May 4th I took a train out, with passengers (and an experienced driver as an observer) for my first tour. St. Augustine had a gale blowing in that day, but it was o.k. Just another test.

The next day another tour. This time the instructor sat in the passenger seats.

There will be another week or so of testing, instruction and observation. But things seem to be on track again.

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And, while my Redhead is always with me in thought, Faigy is not the village of the Timucuans. I now make sure the microphone is always on my left!

Hope to hear from you,

Bill

 

Learning from the Past

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So much for a part time job.  What had started out as an interest in being a tour guide in St. Augustine has turned into that and more.

First, the technical side of being a Red Train Tour Guide.  As I’ve previously written, the City test for tour guides was successfully taken over a month or so ago. Since then I’ve been learning to properly drive extended shuttle vans and also buses. The buses have been my nemeses, especially learning how to back and “off-set park” and to parallel park the buggers. A recent test was not completely satisfactory, especially since the standards were that of driving an 18 wheel tractor trailer – something I will not be doing and haven’t even been in one! So, training continues. In the meantime I drive an assortment of shuttle vans throughout St. Augustine. If nothing else it hones my tour guide narrative and whets my curiosity for learning more and more about what it is I’m driving by every day.

Secondly, the intellectual side of being a tour guide is, for me, the most interesting.  One morsel of information often leads to half-dozen more questions – at least. 450 years of a city’s history reveals a lot about human behavior and that there really is “nothing new under the sun”. Considering all of the strife, turmoil, wars, deprivation and human failings that occurred in this small area of Florida, it is nothing short of a miracle that this city of St. Augustine survived. It is becoming more and more clear that what would become the United States of America was only possible when the emphasis was on being united. Progress in becoming this very unique nation came about only when ethnic, religious, racial and economic differences became secondary to being American.

Are we becoming again a hyphenated society? If we are, then all of the sacrifices of our ancestors were for naught. Looking back may be our guide for going forward.

Telling History

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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.

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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!

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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