Dateline: My house, Redford, Michigan, 10:30 p.m. Pewter gray skies, piles of soot blackened snow, icy drizzle...home. In spite of the weather, I'm content to be here. My old house welcomed me with open arms, no catastrophe's (like leaky roofs or basements) had occurred, and everything was just as I left it. Loyal and true, just as it has been for the past 31 years. I enjoyed my time in the sunny south, but more and more I've come to realize the rareified atmosphere of Naples is not the kind of place one can really live. Oh, lots (and lots!) of people do live there, but I can't seem to fit myself into any of the demographics. I'm not old enough to be retired, I'm not rich enough to be not retired, I'm not young and beautiful, I'm not a golfer or a tennis player - what do I do? More often than not, I stay inside the walls of my gated community, avoiding the snarling traffic and road construction, just reading, walking, sitting out on the hill and listening to the fountains. Don't misunderstand - it's a gorgeous place to rest and retreat, and I still love my home there. But I still love my home here, too, probably even more. I love my friends, and my musical groups, and yes, even my work. It's real life, the one I've carved out in 51 years of living. Even at my age, I continue to discover things about myself, and about life in general. I thought I was ready for the nouveau riche lifestyle that a second home in Naples seemed to represent. I thought I would get a head start on my golden years by building my retirement home in this southern paradise. But the fact that so many other people seemed to feel the same way has sort of spoiled it for me. It's too crowded now, too trendy, too busy, too overbuilt...too much. I consider myself extremely lucky to have our home in Naples as a place to visit, a place to retreat from the harsh winter weather, and, of course, a place where we can visit our son and daughter in law. But as far as a place to live - I belong here, (or a place like here) where people work for a living, hang their clothes outside to dry, and can feel comfortable going just about anywhere wearing jeans and a sweater. It's home.
The Difference of A Day
Dateline: Lexington, Kentucky, 9:28 pm And what a difference today was...smooth sailing today, the hemi engine on the Charger whirring across the mountains with nary an interruption, moving so quickly my favorite landscape was almost too much of a blur. The worst thing that happened - we had to settle for Wendy's for lunch (couldn't find an Arby's, which is Magic and Molly's favorite place). The best thing was stopping here. Each time we drive down I-75 and pass the Kentucky Artisan Center, my heart itches to stop and peruse the handmade work for sale inside. Today, since we had plenty of extra time and daylight, I begged for a few minutes "just to see what it was like." Such a treat! A bright, wide open building, chock full of marvelous work by Kentucky artisans. Paintings, wood carving, etched and blown glass, jewelry, the softest of woven blankets, hats, and scarves. A wide assortment of books by local authors, and recordings of bluegrass music. While Jim walked the dogs around the nicely manicured grounds, I raced through like a kid in a candy shop, picking up several items for myself and some to give away as gifts. Even with the small side trip, we reached the hotel before dark, settled in, and brought home grilled chicken salads from Cracker Barrel across the street. Now I'm propped in the easy chair at the Hampton Inn, my feet up, contentedly sipping wine from a tiny bottle, and telling you about my day. Nice.
What a difference a day makes.
I Love the South
Just have to say, I love southerners. Real, true, "southren" people, I mean. Like the lovely lady manning the coffee station here this morning. Picture me, bleary eyed and disheveled, in desperate need of my morning injection of caffeine. Picture her, slender and well dressed in a black sweater set and camel colored slacks, every hair of her grey bob perfectly in place. "How y'all doin' this mawnin?" she greeted me, the gentle modulations of her southern accent soothing and soft.
I succumbed to her friendly patter, and was treated to a five minute discourse (all in those dulcet tones) about her recent experience with a root canal, and how she "went round" to the dentist yesterday and he was "just purely wonderful" and took care of everything.
"Well, y'all have a safe trip now," she said, pouring my coffee for me, and sending me on my way with a warm smile.
"Thank you so much," I replied, inadvertently replacing my midwestern twang with the barest hint of a drawl.
And all this at 7:00 in the morning.
I love southerners.
Tales from the Road Redux
Dateline: Macon, Georgia, 10:18 pm Here we are, back in the La Quinta Inn on Riverside Road. My feeings about the return trip from Florida are akin to my feelings about taking down the Christmas tree. Not nearly as much fun on the return. And today's trip didn't change my feelings. It was long, and boring, laced with intermittent contstruction slow downs and one complete standstill due to a horrible roll over accident, the aftermath of which made me shudder and say a silent prayer. We had considered stopping in Valdosta for the night, but since it was only 4:30 when we rolled by the La Quinta Inn (exit 18), we opted to travel the extra 160 miles to Macon. In retropsect, we probably should have stayed in Valdosta, because those 160 miles are billboard laden, construction ridden, ugly miles. The speed limit carreens between 70 and 55 and 60, with Georgia Highway Patrol lurking behind every concrete barricade. By the time we finally rolled in, it was after 7:30 and no one (including the furry four footed passengers) had eaten dinner. But now, after some take out from the Italian restaurant on the corner, a glass of wine, and a brand new episode of ER on TV (the first TV I've watched in two weeks!), we're all feeling better. And, by the way, in case you're wondering why we're always staying in La Quinta Inns - they're all dog-friendly. (Magic and Molly have been conversing with the rather noisy West Highland Terrier and miniature dachsund in the room next door to prove it.) Tomorrow it's on to Lexington. I'm anticipating a much nicer journey through the Smoky Mountains (my favorite part of the trip). And on Saturday, the flatlands of Ohio. And then, home.