Holt Florida
Just outside of Pensacola
There is something about dirt and sticks and mortar and permanence that makes the heart beat faster. Even if you’ve never set foot in a place, if that place is your own, it can engender such tender feelings, such commitment, such incredible loyalty as to defy ordinary reason.
Such are the feelings I am dealing with, a mere five hours away from my new house in Palm Coast, Florida.
Never mind that I have spent the last four days on line, researching fire pits, chairs, curtains, bed frames and bookcases. Never mind that in my mind I have entirely rearranged four rooms in this house that I have lived in for all of one and a half weeks. It is mine, mine, mine, and I can’t wait to get there and make it my own.
Despite the face that some rooms remain empty, I will change two of the rooms I have already decorated. I will depend on Craig’s list to get rid of the old memories in favor of the new memories I hope to create. I’ll sell the hutch and buy a marble top for the buffet. It’s cooler, and more modern. I’ll move the guest room to another location, so that I can put in a lovely bureau, all the better to feel comfortable and welcome when you visit. I’ll even move the entire dining room, the one room that has a full complement of furniture, to the living room, sell the table and spend money on a glass-topped table that will be a showpiece for all who enter the front door.
Flexibility is the word, and change is the option I embrace with enthusiasm. My family room will be modern, oh joy, with one solidly antique chair to defy the convention that modern means cool, spare and mostly, uncomfortable.
I will spend whatever it takes to put in that punch of yellow, that statement of my individuality. A color I have never ever used, but it will probably end up looking like all the rooms I have ever decorated, I’m afraid. We are who we are, after all.
But meanwhile, this is so exciting. Sitting in a bus I will not live in for at least three months, the longest stretch in over three years. Anticipating that I have all the money in the world, and all the options in creation, to create the dream home of my future. Except that now is my future, and the reality is, it had better be functional and comfortable, or my husband will put the kibosh on my grand schemes, at the risk of his taking up residence in the bus in storage.
But nobody, yes nobody can rain on my parade. Hey Mr. Arnstein, I’m almost home.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Zoned in the Zones
Route 10 from Phoenix
To Benson AZ
Although we have both said that we are in a real hurry to get home to our new little home—one we have lived in for a week and a half of the four months we’ve owned it—we are only going two and a half hours down the road today.
We’ll be stopping in Benson, AZ, on the border of New Mexico, at a strange little resort whose main attraction is its homemade planetarium. We stopped there a couple of years ago, and while staring at the stars is something I do regularly, the night of the star gazing was one of the most painfully boring I have ever experienced.
It had mainly to do with people’s politeness. Instead of lining up for a quick peek into the telescope, as we impatient New Yorkers would undoubtedly have done, these gentle folk remained seated, each in turn toddling up to the step stool, gingerly mounting it, putting an eye to the scope and observing the faraway constellations, all the while murmuring their awe and admiration in appropriately hushed tones. The little building wasn’t heated, and after the warm daytime sun, it was darned chilly. Each constellation took the group of 13—note the number—at least half an hour to view. And there were five to see that night.
And that doesn’t catalog the guy with the night blindness, who had to be escorted up and back from his seat, by his equally doddering wife. Oh the pain.
So hearing that Benson was our intended stopover, I sweetly asked why my dear husband was choosing to map such a short trip for the day—bearing in mind that, you know, we wanted to get home. Here’s what he said, knowing full well what a wonderful time I’d had the last time we were there.
“We need to take short trips when we change time zones, so our bodies will get used to the shift in time.”
Now that’s creative. That’s also ridiculous, given that each time change involves only an hour, but I have to give the guy credit. He’s nuts for astronomy and has been talking about going back to Benson since we were there, but he never would want to appear so selfish as to deny my need for speed and stop at a place I so volubly disliked.
Oh wait. Maybe he’s right. I’m feeling confused right now. Is it eleven o’clock? Ten? Twelve? Is it really Wednesday? Maybe It’s Thursday! If so, it’s my birthday. OMG, I wonder if this time zone thing can work for years too. Maybe I just got younger. Oh Calloo Callay, oh frabjous day, maybe I’ll be four years younger by the time we hit Florida. If that’s true, then Hello Benson! I’ll be staying here a few days longer.
I just love them stars.
To Benson AZ
Although we have both said that we are in a real hurry to get home to our new little home—one we have lived in for a week and a half of the four months we’ve owned it—we are only going two and a half hours down the road today.
We’ll be stopping in Benson, AZ, on the border of New Mexico, at a strange little resort whose main attraction is its homemade planetarium. We stopped there a couple of years ago, and while staring at the stars is something I do regularly, the night of the star gazing was one of the most painfully boring I have ever experienced.
It had mainly to do with people’s politeness. Instead of lining up for a quick peek into the telescope, as we impatient New Yorkers would undoubtedly have done, these gentle folk remained seated, each in turn toddling up to the step stool, gingerly mounting it, putting an eye to the scope and observing the faraway constellations, all the while murmuring their awe and admiration in appropriately hushed tones. The little building wasn’t heated, and after the warm daytime sun, it was darned chilly. Each constellation took the group of 13—note the number—at least half an hour to view. And there were five to see that night.
And that doesn’t catalog the guy with the night blindness, who had to be escorted up and back from his seat, by his equally doddering wife. Oh the pain.
So hearing that Benson was our intended stopover, I sweetly asked why my dear husband was choosing to map such a short trip for the day—bearing in mind that, you know, we wanted to get home. Here’s what he said, knowing full well what a wonderful time I’d had the last time we were there.
“We need to take short trips when we change time zones, so our bodies will get used to the shift in time.”
Now that’s creative. That’s also ridiculous, given that each time change involves only an hour, but I have to give the guy credit. He’s nuts for astronomy and has been talking about going back to Benson since we were there, but he never would want to appear so selfish as to deny my need for speed and stop at a place I so volubly disliked.
Oh wait. Maybe he’s right. I’m feeling confused right now. Is it eleven o’clock? Ten? Twelve? Is it really Wednesday? Maybe It’s Thursday! If so, it’s my birthday. OMG, I wonder if this time zone thing can work for years too. Maybe I just got younger. Oh Calloo Callay, oh frabjous day, maybe I’ll be four years younger by the time we hit Florida. If that’s true, then Hello Benson! I’ll be staying here a few days longer.
I just love them stars.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
She’s baaaaaaack!
Route 10
From Desert Hot Springs CA
to Phoenix AZ
After a long spell of nothing, I finally have regained my muse and will be writing again of our travels. First, however, let’s catch up.
After almost three year of hitting the road, we bought a house in Florida. Why? Because the price was right, the pool was there, and although we are still in love with this exploration that has become our life, we also began to feel the need for seed … and dirt and walls and rooms to go hide in. We were in our new little castle for exactly one and a half weeks, and then we got in the bus again and headed for San Francisco and Christmas with Jeff.
It was a lovely holiday with our beloved son, and from there we headed South to the desert, where we spent a wonderful couple of weeks with our friends Irwin and Randy, playing cards, eating too much and generally having fun. We did a little exploring too, including a tram to the top of the highest mountain in Palm Springs, and a drive to the tippity top of another peak, from which we could see the entire Coachella Valley which comprises Palm Springs, Palm Desert, Indian Wells, Rancho Mirage and more, undoubtedly the priciest desert in the world. And breathtaking as long as it isn’t raining and making foot-wide ruts in the roads. Which it does from time to time.
We took off from LA to Cabo San Lucas in the Baja of Mexico, that little finger of heaven that sits between the Sea of Cortez and the Pacific Ocean. There in Paradise, we spent four weeks of complete hedonism, soaking the sun into our old bones, regrouping with Joyce and Marty, Robin and Rodney, and yes, eating and drinking too much. It was colder than we’d experienced before, but when cold is 65 degrees, you put up with it and try not to complain too much. The highlight of the trip was a whale watching tour, something we do every year. We didn’t see a lot of whales--actually saw more from our patio overlooking the ocean—but we did get to watch a family of humpbacks, including the father, very unusual, and the new baby born the previous day. Amazing.
We landed back on US soil on Saturday, took a couple of days to hang with Irwin and Randy, do copious amounts of laundry, pick up Zeus at the dog sitter and check out the bus. Right now, we’re driving on the mostly boring Route 10, and expect to land in phoenix by nightfall, where John has promised to help me replace the entire selection of needlepoint threads I accidentally left by the pool the day I decided to indulge in Happy Hour, where the Margaritas were two-for-one. If drinking and driving are a no-no, then drinking and sewing should be too. Ach! All that beautiful silk thread, purchased with such care, and more beautiful colors you’ve never seen. Not to mention what they cost. I don’t want to think about that.
And here we come round to the reason I haven’t written in so long. Needlepoint! Blame it on that blast from the past, when we were young, and all the pillows on our couches were made by hand and whole shops opened in honor of the fad, with canvases that sold as high as hundreds of dollars. And let’s not even discuss Bargello, which came and went like the maxi, midi and minis that were popular at that time.
I got into needlepoint shortly after I convinced John that a needlepoint canvas was as much fun as, if not more than, hooking rugs. I was up to my ears in the damn rugs, as he was turning them out faster than I could find surfaces to lay them on. The man is certainly goal-oriented, that’s for sure.
So I got him into needlepoint, and he took it up with a fever, and then I went to a shop in South Hampton, as much to keep a worried eye on his expenditures for his craft as anything else, and ended up buying a small, exquisite painting of a seashell canvas for myself. And that’s when I stopped writing. I’d found a new, old, way to waste time creatively.
And I guess I’m a lot like Erma Bombeck, who confessed that she’d do anything to avoid writing, including polishing her paper clips. If you’ve ever cleaned the lint between the keys on your keyboard rather than, oh say, start a term paper, then you know the feeling.
But I have no thread anymore! I think God is reminding me of my true calling and letting me know that it’s only eight months until the next Writer’s Convention, where I promised myself I’d have my book finished and reading for the agents, editors and publishers I’ll hook up with to make me famous and rich.
Not that I have any pretensions or aspirations at this point in my life. Right. And where would Grandma Moses have been if she’d believed that.
Maybe I should tell John to skip that store in Phoenix.
B
Jeff & Keith's Tree
Dad & Son
The Christmas Dog is exhausted
John, Irwin & Randy
Shannon's Birthday at Irwin & Randy's House
Me & Shannon
Joyce in relaxed mode, setting up the evening Scrabble game
The Arch at Cabo
Whale Watching
Out on the Ocean
Me, John & Marty
From Desert Hot Springs CA
to Phoenix AZ
After a long spell of nothing, I finally have regained my muse and will be writing again of our travels. First, however, let’s catch up.
After almost three year of hitting the road, we bought a house in Florida. Why? Because the price was right, the pool was there, and although we are still in love with this exploration that has become our life, we also began to feel the need for seed … and dirt and walls and rooms to go hide in. We were in our new little castle for exactly one and a half weeks, and then we got in the bus again and headed for San Francisco and Christmas with Jeff.
It was a lovely holiday with our beloved son, and from there we headed South to the desert, where we spent a wonderful couple of weeks with our friends Irwin and Randy, playing cards, eating too much and generally having fun. We did a little exploring too, including a tram to the top of the highest mountain in Palm Springs, and a drive to the tippity top of another peak, from which we could see the entire Coachella Valley which comprises Palm Springs, Palm Desert, Indian Wells, Rancho Mirage and more, undoubtedly the priciest desert in the world. And breathtaking as long as it isn’t raining and making foot-wide ruts in the roads. Which it does from time to time.
We took off from LA to Cabo San Lucas in the Baja of Mexico, that little finger of heaven that sits between the Sea of Cortez and the Pacific Ocean. There in Paradise, we spent four weeks of complete hedonism, soaking the sun into our old bones, regrouping with Joyce and Marty, Robin and Rodney, and yes, eating and drinking too much. It was colder than we’d experienced before, but when cold is 65 degrees, you put up with it and try not to complain too much. The highlight of the trip was a whale watching tour, something we do every year. We didn’t see a lot of whales--actually saw more from our patio overlooking the ocean—but we did get to watch a family of humpbacks, including the father, very unusual, and the new baby born the previous day. Amazing.
We landed back on US soil on Saturday, took a couple of days to hang with Irwin and Randy, do copious amounts of laundry, pick up Zeus at the dog sitter and check out the bus. Right now, we’re driving on the mostly boring Route 10, and expect to land in phoenix by nightfall, where John has promised to help me replace the entire selection of needlepoint threads I accidentally left by the pool the day I decided to indulge in Happy Hour, where the Margaritas were two-for-one. If drinking and driving are a no-no, then drinking and sewing should be too. Ach! All that beautiful silk thread, purchased with such care, and more beautiful colors you’ve never seen. Not to mention what they cost. I don’t want to think about that.
And here we come round to the reason I haven’t written in so long. Needlepoint! Blame it on that blast from the past, when we were young, and all the pillows on our couches were made by hand and whole shops opened in honor of the fad, with canvases that sold as high as hundreds of dollars. And let’s not even discuss Bargello, which came and went like the maxi, midi and minis that were popular at that time.
I got into needlepoint shortly after I convinced John that a needlepoint canvas was as much fun as, if not more than, hooking rugs. I was up to my ears in the damn rugs, as he was turning them out faster than I could find surfaces to lay them on. The man is certainly goal-oriented, that’s for sure.
So I got him into needlepoint, and he took it up with a fever, and then I went to a shop in South Hampton, as much to keep a worried eye on his expenditures for his craft as anything else, and ended up buying a small, exquisite painting of a seashell canvas for myself. And that’s when I stopped writing. I’d found a new, old, way to waste time creatively.
And I guess I’m a lot like Erma Bombeck, who confessed that she’d do anything to avoid writing, including polishing her paper clips. If you’ve ever cleaned the lint between the keys on your keyboard rather than, oh say, start a term paper, then you know the feeling.
But I have no thread anymore! I think God is reminding me of my true calling and letting me know that it’s only eight months until the next Writer’s Convention, where I promised myself I’d have my book finished and reading for the agents, editors and publishers I’ll hook up with to make me famous and rich.
Not that I have any pretensions or aspirations at this point in my life. Right. And where would Grandma Moses have been if she’d believed that.
Maybe I should tell John to skip that store in Phoenix.
B
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