Turning Pages

[jaynsandy]

Sandy and I, along with my cousin, sister, and brother-in-law, spent the last weekend in February and the first week of March cleaning out my stepfather's house. He passed in November 2022, leaving behind a family who loves him and a house packed with keepsakes of his life. Before we started working at the house we took part in a very well attended celebration of his life. There I learned just how much his family loves him.

As we discovered, sifted, and sorted the remnants of his life I couldn't help but think about what all this stuff he'd amassed really meant. His interests, with their attendant accoutrements, were wide and varied. It felt like he would latch onto a passion, or hobby, only to lose interest and turn to something else. There's a good chance that I'm wrong. The only internal life that isn't a mystery is our own.

I can only aspire to be as eloquent as Robin Wall Kimmerer who wrote "Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story."

We found that, in his spare time, Grant's stories were those of a Miner/Rockhound, a Motorcyclist, a Hunter, a Watchmaker, a Collector (of National Geographic, Reader's Digest, bank receipts, tax paperwork, and more), a Leather Worker, a Mechanic, an Electrician, a Hypnotist, a Conspiracy Theorist, a Believer in spirituality, a proud Father, a happy Grandpa, an indulgent Uncle, a Brother, and last but certainly not least a Gardener. He, like everyone, was truly a multitude.

The sorted remnants of Grant's life affected the sentiments of each of us in relation to what story line we happened to be in. Sandy and I found the greatest gift Grant unintentionally left behind for us purely by accident. Sandy found some Altoid boxes with seeds we think Grant took from his own garden.

Sandy showed them to me and, as I marveled at the beautiful beans, my brother-in-law told us that he'd found a box of seeds under the stairs.

These vacuum packed bundles of life are all heirloom non-hybrid seeds. Seeds that have been sitting dormant on shelves in Grant's basement for (maybe) decades. All they've been waiting for is the opportunity to partake of the symbiotic magical miracle that sunshine, soil, seeds, and water perform to create life. This truly IS a box of life and I'm so excited to find a piece of ground to settle on. A piece of ground to be tilled, fortified by compost, and sown with the seeds that Grant unknowingly gifted me and my family. The bounty of this humble box will sustain me, my family, and my future new friends and neighbors.

Grant will be there when we make fresh garden salads from whatever is in season. It'll be because of him that we'll slice into a beefsteak tomato. Sweet Corn from these seeds will taste sweeter because Grant stored them. Our future neighbors will also benefit. As Robin Wall Kimmerer writes with regard to harvesting "Never waste what you have taken. Share. Give thanks for what you have been given. Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken."

All this stuff about gardening and the symbiotic magic of soil, sun and water acting on seeds is the frame of reference I want to remember Grant in. I've written, before, about how he planted ideas in my mind and heart. Ideas that, when I was in the right season of my life, were harvestable and truly made a difference in who I am at this point of my story.

Grant, I'm positive, understood that life is a gift. We found a constant reminder taped to a cupboard door in his kitchen. These five words are the Reader's Digest (which Grant loved) version of "Never waste what you have taken. Share. Give thanks for what you have been given. Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken." These small and powerful words are the only constants in all the stories that were Grant. They're the one thing that we could always, always, expect from him. Is there any wonder why his family loves him so much?

[jaynsandy]

"A fair is a fair is a fair."

That was my thought when Sandy and I were graciously invited to attend the Tunbridge (VT) World's Fair with her cousin and his wife. I've never really been a "Fair person". I've always seen the Fair through my perception that it's only a "...competitive exhibition of livestock, agricultural products, and household skills held annually by a town, county, or state and also featuring entertainment and educational displays". Don't get me wrong, those are great reasons to have a fair. It's important to show the community at large that vital agricultural skills and traditions are being passed on to a new generation. It's a testament to stewardship when you see young people (a group that just keeps getting bigger from my perspective) displaying the skills and commitment to slow food and staying small. Not being raised in a community that valued those traits I never really felt an affinity with any of those displays of mastering traditional skills though I've begun, in the past few months, to take a great interest in those very things.

The timing of the Fair is "...just and appropriate in the circumstances" in that it's a celebration of another productive year. Crops, both flora and fauna, are being harvested. The air is getting clearer and crisper. Winter is on its way. There couldn't be a more appropriate time to gather and celebrate the largely successful completion of another Spring and Summer season.

As we were leaving this morning Sandy and I thanked our hosts for both their gracious hospitality and for sharing the Fair with us. We were told that it was an experience for them to see the Fair through our eyes. That feeling goes both ways since I saw a side of the Fair I'd never seen before this weekend.

Another definition of Fair is to "...smooth the lines of (a vehicle, boat, or aircraft) to reduce drag; streamline". We were extended incredibly warm hospitality, by people we'd just met, because we were with people who've been integral parts of the community for their whole lives. We saw young people (again a very large group) donating their time to make the Fair a pleasurable experience for their guests. These volunteers are the most important aspect of the Fair. Not only do they keep the wheels turning by giving time to their community, they work with like minded people from their community. They know who can best help them help others in their community when needs arise. Let's face it, the young people you see working on Antique Hill or in the Cattle barns are the same faces you'll see in action when the community is threatened by disaster or hardship. If that's not streamlining community action I don't know what is.

It was a fantastic weekend of (maybe) too much beer, too much food I'm not used to and too little sleep. It was also a weekend of seeing the most important part of a Fair that I'm not sure too many "outsiders" see.

Turns out that a fair is a fair is a fair after all.

[jaynsandy]

I'm sitting here thinking of cookies. Not the kind you get on the Internet. Not the cookies you buy at the store. I'm thinking of cookies made from scratch at home. Remember those?

They were always special to me. The aroma as they baked. Warm gooey goodness that somehow, on an almost primal level, lifted your spirits and made the day complete. Remember that feeling?

I'm sure you thought of a different cookie than I did as you read this. Though cookies come in all different shapes, sizes, and flavors we all have a favorite that, when we think of it, transports us back to a moment of contentment. That moment of contentment is the one thing they all have in common.

Why am I thinking of cookies? Sandy and I just came back from a celebration of her Aunt Denise's life. As Donna (Denise's daughter) spoke at the celebration she told us that her parents wanted their ashes put into a cookie jar. It seemed whimsical and a little odd at first but the more I thought about it the more it made sense.

We all have good memories associated with cookie jars. Cookie jars always held special treats that could make your day and take away bad feelings. Cookie jars, really their contents, always had a magical way of lifting your spirits and making you feel better.

Good call Denise! You couldn't be in a place any better than a cookie jar.

[jaynsandy]

How well do you remember your childhood? That idyllic time of skinned knees, free summers, sleepovers, neighborhood games, and friends who were learning what it meant to be human right alongside you. Remember back when all you really owned were dreams?

A recent exchange with one of my Facebook friends reminded me, kind of forcefully, of that time. A simple exchange really. It had to do with James Doohan (Mr Scott in the original Star Trek) getting wounded after landing at Juno Beach on D-Day. This friend of mine is a self professed WWII and original Star Trek series nut. I'm not surprised, he was that way back when we first met in grade school.

I started thinking about how we had very similar outlooks as we were growing up. We liked the same board games, liked to dream up new games, and tried to figure out how to write an adventure game using BASIC. We ran from an incredibly accurate rock throwing classmate, "practiced" karate on a neighbor's almost life size doll (sorry about the dislocated arm), saw "Tora, Tora, Tora!" and "The Hindenburg" at the Cinedome (a few times), and made sure to watch Star Trek whenever it came on. Then there came a point where (to paraphrase my favorite group) I began to sell my dreams for small desires. We drifted apart because he didn't sell his dreams and (I'd like to believe) stayed true to who he is.

So I think about all that and I wonder about the distinction between friends and real friends. What does it mean to follow your dreams when they change as you change? How much of who I was, back then, remains now? I'm thinking about this as I lay looking at the trees around our campsite and it occurs to me that the answers, so to speak, are in front of me.

As trees grow they add girth as they add height. You can see that some years are harder than others by how thin (in relation to average) the tree rings are. But, at the center of the tree, is that initial sapling. That first sprout, reaching for the light and space to grow, forms the core of the tree.

Thinking about that perspective feels right and true. Learning what it means to be human is, in effect, the pruning of initial growth. If you believe in causation like I do you have to admit that the friends of your youth have a huge affect on who you'll eventually become.

I have, at my core, the dreams and predilections learned back in the halcyon days of my childhood. We all do, in one way or another, and maybe, just maybe, that's what retirement is all about. Remember what it felt like back when your dreams were all you really owned?

[jaynsandy]

Seeking teaches us things finding never can.

-Philip Gulley

In the beginning I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.

-Mary Oliver

Up until a couple of weeks ago I hadn't heard of either Mary Oliver or Philip Gulley. It's funny, to me, how real serendipity is. I didn't hear of Mary or Philip until I was ready for how they thought as they wrote.

In retrospect these past 32 months of living in a fifth wheel, traveling across this country, and spending time in just about every geographical region there is, has been an exercise in silence, seeking, and discovery.

Silence, to paraphrase Philip Gulley, is what allows us to clearly see ourselves. It takes away the distractions we hide behind (without realizing it) and it allows us to really feel what is important to us as an individual. I'm not typing about the absence of noise when I type about silence. I mean the absence of noise that inhibits inward peace. Birdsong, rustling tree leaves, babbling brooks, good conversation, and the sound of the wind in the desert are all welcome. Wondering how to get ahead, thinking about the next thing I want and don't really need, comparing myself to an external ideal; that type of noise is not welcome.

Back in August of 2019 I wrote that Sandy and I were going to simplify our lives and spend some time living on the fringes of society without really knowing what it was we'd find. It turns out that the traveling we've done has shown us just as much of our internal landscape as it has the physical landscape. Maybe we have developed a different perspective of our lives. We've had the silence, and time, to understand who we are and what we want to be.

I've always told people that we're rewiring instead of retiring. I'm now beginning to think that I need more of an external purpose. Something that matters, has the potential to make a difference, and that's not focused on making money (for myself or others). Interestingly enough I keep thinking that I'd like to teach Language Arts (as it's called now) in a high school. Not an easy job nor one that can be taken lightly but one with so much upside potential.

The discovery that I'd like to teach as my next life is what I think Mary Oliver meant when she wrote about going into the world before she knew who she was. We all go out into the world as we grow. We all react to life as we find it. I wish everyone would take the time to just listen to the silence, see the world through their reactions to it, and figure out who they really are.

[jaynsandy]

I sometimes lose sight of fundamental truths. The funny thing is that I don't realize it until coincidence steps in to remind me. I took a chance and bought The Cloister Walk (by Kathleen Norris) at a Goodwill store three days ago. A sentence in the preface couldn't have come at a more opportune time.

"Benedictines are everywhere, and like a good family, they keep interfering in what I like to pretend is my own life."

I think the author wrote this in the sense that fate determines the course of one's life but that's not the way I took it. I interpret it to mean that family is everywhere in the form of communities we join. I'm not thinking only of physical communities but communities of the like minded. Those we meet who share some of the same aspirations, outlook and temperament.

We all, in one way or another, work on the hearts of those we meet. We till the soil of each other's lives and plant ideas that flower and bring fruit, or we plant weeds that may choke the life out of beauty trying to express itself. Though we all have the responsibility to tend our own gardens we can't always control what germinates there.

Sandy and I are fortunate in that we both had a beautiful idea fertilized and encouraged by a couple of people we met by chance. Bruce, and his beautiful wife Aloma, gave me what I consider to be one of the centerpieces of my own garden. It's a hybrid of "life is short", "live in the moment" and "a body in motion stays in motion".

We learned, with profound sadness, that Bruce recently passed away. Though he's gone from this world he lives on, every day, in the garden of my mind. The seed nurtured by him (with the help of Aloma) continues to bear the fruit of beauty and contentment. For that I'm grateful beyond words.

Our lives really aren't our own. We use the materials, given us by others, to create who we are. Every once in a while we're lucky enough to meet someone who turns over a new piece of ground and plants a life changing idea in our heart. I'll always cherish the day Sandy and I met Bruce. That's the day he, and Aloma of course, became part of our family.

One of my favorite songs is linked below. I couldn't get it out of my mind as I wrote this.

https://youtu.be/SAxtFSpHxts

[jaynsandy]

Sandy and I spent a day (September 9th) on the Honkey Tonk Highway (also known as Music Row) in Nashville, TN. I can't recommend spending the day there enough. It was an incredible experience where we heard covers of everything from Alanis Morissette to Otis Redding to Van Halen. Though the majority of the music being played in the bars is country that's not all there is.

We saw a solo performer who sang with closed eyes and clenched teeth in Alan Jackson's Good Time Bar.

Tootsie's had a quartet that was absolutely incredible at improvising. Their challenge to the audience was to pay $20 to request a song and if they didn't know it they'd give the money back. A couple of requests for obscure songs almost stumped them. The front man's memory (aided by a tablet mounted on the microphone stand) saved them. As he, playing the guitar, and "Sticks" (the drummer of course) laid down the basic rhythm the fiddle and bass filled in. It was an amazing display of virtuosity.

The band we watched at The Redneck Riviera (first round is BOGO for all military and first responders!) really knows how to entertain. The place was rocking to music ranging from AC/DC to Patsy Cline.

The band we watched at the Wildhorse Saloon was middle of the road. I wonder if their playing would've been better had there been more people and energy in the place.

I mention these four groups because they made me notice something I'd never seen before. They all were using mobile technology and, with the exception of the Tootsie's quartet, paying attention to a virtual audience. From time to time it looked as though there was texting going on when in reality it was an online request, or tip through Venmo, coming in. It's all over the place on music row.

Maybe I'm missing something but I don't see how streaming this experience could, in any way, compare to the live experience. Of course it's cheaper since you're not paying bar prices for drinks, parking or the fuel to drive. It's also cheaper in terms of living. If you're not living live how else can you tell a stranger "because I had chili for lunch" when they ask how the barstools next to you got emptied? How can the frisson of excitement caused by a great performance truly be amplified by the crowd? How else could you meet the two couples, from Phoenix, celebrating a birthday or the four young women, from Texas, celebrating a divorce while eating delicious late night breakfast tacos at the Sun Diner?

You can't.

Living life live is uncertain, unpredictable and scary at times. That's what makes it so exhilarating when looked at from the right perspective.

Anais Nin wrote, in what was published as volume 4 of her diary, the below paragraph. I wonder what she'd have to say if she could see our society today.

The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow. It eliminates the vice of procrastination, the sin of postponement, failed communications, failed communions. This thought has made me more and more attentive to all encounters, meetings, introductions, which might contain the seed of depth that might be carelessly overlooked. This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us. The dangerous time when mechanical voices, radios, telephones, take the place of human intimacies, and the concept of being in touch with millions brings a greater and greater poverty in intimacy and human vision.

-Anais Nin. The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947

[jaynsandy]

I've been giving a lot of thought to the ideas of Epicurus lately. Some of you may be wondering who the heck Epicurus is. Others may be wondering why I'd be thinking about the opinions of an ancient Greek guy in Pepin, WI. I'm certain there are some people reading this and wondering what the hell is wrong with me, I assure you that I'm fine.

I used to think that an Epicurean lifestyle, championed by Epicurus (born around 341 B.C.E.), meant the "... pursuit of pleasure, especially in reference to food, comfort and other luxuries.". Perhaps a mild form of hedonism. It turns out that the way I defined Epicureanism was wrong. Epicurus was really all about the Greek concept of ataraxia which, loosely defined, means the lack of mental disturbance (for some reason I thought of Jeff Spicoli here).

When one takes a deeper look at the whole "lack of mental disturbance" concept the underlying theme of "good enough" presents itself. Good enough doesn't mean settling. Good enough represents an attitude of gratitude toward whatever happens to you. Not only is perfect the enemy of the good but the good is the enemy of good enough.

Another perspective encompassed by Epicureanism and "good enough" is the view that one should take time to focus on the experience of being alive, rather than compulsive doing. It also means interacting with people and seeing an end rather than a means to an end.

It's hard to believe but there are times when it's not possible to find good enough. Times when, unexpectedly, there is too much mental disturbance. When that happens it's time to make a change.

Sandy and I are hitting the road again. We've made the difficult decision to leave Pepin, WI and our workamper gig earlier than planned. We're going to miss some of the great people we had the good fortune to work with but it's time to move on.

I could take this opportunity to write about how important internal customers are to any business. I could riff on my thoughts about the proper utilization and care of human resources. I won't do either of those things here. It's enough that those concepts are in my mind as I write.

Instead I'd like to end by paraphrasing Wendell Berry (from his essay Nature as Measure) who, while writing about a natural agriculture (human nature included), instead of industrial agriculture, likened the process to approaching the world in the manner of a conversationalist. The farmer (or business owner) would not impose their vision and demands on a world conceived of as a stockpile of raw material. They would ask what nature would allow them to do there, and what they could do there with the least harm to the place, their natural, and human neighbors. Good conversations are impossible without active listening.

[jaynsandy]

This morning, while walking back from the Pepin Public Library I noticed a stone bench, under a shade tree, outside a local church. "In memory of ... 2007" was etched on the backrest. My first thought was that 2007 wasn't very long ago. Then it hit me.

Four. Teen. Years. That's one quarter of my life.

Twelve of those fourteen years were spent living life as we're expected to. I spent those years parsing and measuring time into discrete blocks. At times I'd ration my time and mete it out, grudgingly, to things (and people who weren't kin) that I'd rather not have spent it on.

Time flew and, I have to admit, I wasn't really having fun. The more valuable I thought my time was the less it really meant to me. Those twelve years passed in a blur with my only real anchor being my family and some close friends I could always spend quality time with.

The past two years have been a true paradigm shift with regard to time. The past two years have, in general, felt more full and real than the previous twelve. Now that I have all the time in the world to spend how I see fit it really means a lot to me. It's an interesting contrast that now I don't have to parse, measure and ration my time it's value and importance to me are in agreement.

It occurs to me, after these months of travel, that instead of growing I've been undergoing a kind of regression. A regression to the mindset of my youth where having a choice regarding how to fill my day was much more important than the actual choices made to fill it. Taken in that context I can't help but think that it's not unreasonable to define "Adulting" as a loss of freedom.

[jaynsandy]

Sandy and I, during an agenda free day of hiking and meandering, stumbled upon Metz's Hart-Land Creamery in Rushford, MN. We're on a quest, of sorts, to find "the cheese" one of my old co-workers used to give us for Christmas. We didn't find "the cheese" but we did find a great place.

The creamery is situated on a family farm in the middle of the proverbial "nowhere". In this case nowhere happened to be a beautiful mosaic of rolling hills and farmland punctuated by silos, farmhouses guarded by shade trees, and barns.

As we got out of the truck we were welcomed by one of many dogs on the property. The dog escorted us to the door of the creamery, while nudging our hands to be petted and scratched behind the ears, turning aside only when we opened the door to enter. As it turned out the dogs were excellent ambassadors for the overall vibe of the place.

The creamery itself appears to be relatively small upon entering but looks are deceiving. Refrigerated cases filled with a cornucopia of cheeses and gelato lined two of the walls. The other two walls were taken up by windows into the production side of the creamery and a cashier's stand. Unlike other creameries we've visited while looking for "the cheese" all of Metz's milk based products are from their herd.

We were greeted by a man and woman who, we learned as we talked, own and run the farm and creamery. A family operation in every sense of the phrase. We told them about our travels when they asked where Sandy and I were from and, in turn, we learned a lot from them.

We learned that their herd consists of Jersey and Holstein cattle. That the Jersey cows produce milk with a higher fat content than the Holstein milk. That the Holstein cows produce more milk than the Jerseys. That mixing the two milk products together gives their cheese a distinctive texture and flavor. That last bit of information was validated by a sample of newly made, still warm, cheese curds. Their squeaky, salty, sumptuousness perfectly demonstrated that these folks knew exactly what they were doing.

We also found out that this is a first generation operation. That this dairy farm was started not long after the man got out of school in 1983 and that the creamery was began in 1985. I've always been fascinated by what would motivate people to embrace, and be content with, a lifestyle that involves so much work and discomfort at times. Milking cows twice a day happens every day even when it's 20 below and snowing or 95 and humid.

I think, and I may be wrong, that what keeps people living this life (and I'm grateful they do) is that every day one has the chance to discover what a miracle this life is. There is life that grows up out of the ground and all other life comes from that. Whatever you decide our origins are, God, the Big Bang, our whatever it's just a magnificent thing to be here. Maybe the people who live and thrive in the heartland are really in touch with that.

I think that another part of what keeps these family operations going is the contentment that comes from belonging to a community and making something of value for that community.

I'm grateful for the insight I got at Metz's just as I'm grateful for the cheese and gelato we bought there. Though it's not the home of "the cheese" I'm sure we'll be back.

[jaynsandy]

The winery Sandy and I are working at is expanding it's acreage under cultivation and planted 3,500 Marquette vines in a newly excavated and trellised plot. There are more trellises and vines to come. A well and warehouse are also planned for completion in the next few weeks.

Since there is no well and irrigation system the vines need to be watered by hand. A couple of days ago I, and three coworkers, were watering newly planted vines by hand. This consisted of following a truck, with a water tank in the bed, and spraying water on each planting for thirty to forty seconds.

We worked in hot, humid and still air. There wasn't a speck of shade anywhere. The water we were sucking down became the nectar of the gods as the day wore on. It was an afternoon of monotonous plodding and counting and plodding and talking of (as it turned out) not so inconsequential things with my coworkers. I felt like the sun was nailing me to the ground through my neck.

I was surprised to realize that I was curiously content despite all the discomfort. I was so surprised that I've thought about that contentment a lot. I wanted to know why it happened.

It occurred to me that when I approach a new task with no ego it's easier to find purpose and a sense of joy. I don't mean a disregard for how the task is done when I type "no ego" but a disregard for what I'm doing as a definition of who I am.

What I mean is that, while we were plodding and watering we were talking. We were relating to one another. We were finding common (and uncommon) ground. We were learning new things about each other. In short, we were being the social animals we, at our most basic level, really are. That's who I am. I think that's how most people, if they give themselves the chance, are.

I think Doug Adams, of all people, summed up the basic ethos of vagabondage in 'The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul':

"A life that is burdened with expectations is a heavy life. Its fruit is sorrow and disappointment. Learn to be one with the joy of the moment."

[jaynsandy]

Sandy and I have been fortunate enough to spend a couple of high quality days with our full-time RVing godparents. It's been so good to see and spend time with them. Given medical issues that we'll all face as our lives wind down I'm grateful for the time we spent with them and am hopeful there is more time for us in the future.

A Mentor is defined as "someone who teaches or gives help and advice to a less experienced and often younger person." Oftentimes the teaching is done with no conscious effort by the mentor. As is normal with me I was reminded of a song while talking with them.

"Force Ten", a song by Rush, is about being aware. Aware of yourself, your surroundings and how you can affect, and be affected by, them. Lyrics linked below:

https://www.rush.com/songs/force-ten/

During the chorus the song slows down suggesting, through rhythm as well as words, that it's important to "look in, look out, look around". Parenthetic statements, below, are my interpretations.

"Look in —To the eye of the storm (where you're calm)

Look out —For the force without form (what drives you spiritually)

Look around —At the sight and the sound (where you are)

Look in look out look around —"

The thing that really strikes me about the past two days (besides these wonderful friends of ours) is the happy coincidence of talking with them and finally finding a readable book of Chinese philosophy. They gave me a hard time for being excited about finding this book; which is really just a distillation of Chinese philosophy.

"Who reads that stuff?"

"Why do you ask rhetorical questions?"

Amazingly (though in retrospect I shouldn't be surprised) they already know the message I've taken out of the book so far (I'm only on page 102). The Importance of Living (by Lin Yutang) tells me that a sense of detachment (takuan) toward life will result in high-mindedness (k'uanghuai) "... which enables one to go through life with tolerant irony and escape the temptations of fame and wealth and achievement, and eventually makes one take what comes. And from this detachment arises the sense of freedom, one's love of vagabondage and one's pride and nonchalance."

The calm acceptance of life's rhythm and eventual denouement. The joy and sense of anticipation when faced with uncertainty. The appreciation of who, where and when you are.

I place Hope among the above lessons. Hope that Sandy and I can continue to practice this lifestyle and, more than that, hope that more high quality time with our RV godparents is in the future.

Picture by Doug Berry

[jaynsandy]

Due to hurricane driven changes in travel plans Sandy and I ended up spending part of October 2018 at the Sea Mist Campground in VA Beach, VA. It was there that we met Bruce and Aloma; a couple who, by their example of over a decade of full timing in their RV, inspired us to execute our dream of traveling the U.S. in an RV for at least a year. I like to tell them they pushed us off the cliff.

Sandy and I returned to Sea Mist in July 2019. We'd just sold our house, gave away the vast majority of our possessions, and hit the road. It was, for me at least, the true beginning of our current chapter. I wrote, back then, that I thought I'd write about the symbolism of the vast ocean with it's ebbing and flowing tides but decided it would be too cliche.

https://jaynsandy.tumblr.com/post/186451110050/on-the-beach

Still thinking that...

Now, 20 months later, we're back. Back at the beach that was the spiritual beginning (for me at least) of this adventure. Looking at a map of our travels it's interesting that our route resembles an analemma.

In astronomy, an analemma is a diagram showing the position of the Sun in the sky as seen from a fixed location on Earth at the same mean solar time, as that position varies over the course of a year. The diagram will resemble a figure eight.

Image by Astrosurf

Year after year, the sun traces this endless shape in the sky and in every shadow upon the earth. So no matter what your life is like on any day just remember that all of life is turning lazy, crazy eights. Life changes right along with everything else. When you're traveling along a ribbon with no beginning and no end, the occasional stumble means nothing. Keep an eye on your feet if you want to. But consider, for just a moment, looking up. Turn your face to the sun. Take a few courageous steps along the path of eternity.

[jaynsandy]

Lately I've been musically obsessed with "Colors" by the Black Pumas. This morning the song really affected (colored?) the way I thought about my surroundings as I walked. The grey green sea. The tan, tan, tans of the sand. Gradations of grey in the overcast sky. Ivory undertones of sea's foam. Though none of these colors are really my favorites (though my time in the Navy did give me an appreciation of all the different shades of grey 😁) the combination triggered one line of this song to really jump out at me;

"It’s good day to be a good day for me a good day to see my favorite colors".

Every day is a good day to be, you just have to take the time to see.

[jaynsandy]

"The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return." -Milan Kundera

There are times, like this morning, when time gets rolled back and I find myself immersed in the past. It's always an experience that involves all of the senses.

The sound of the surf. The juxtaposition of a glassy ocean and it's waves. The sun reflecting off the water as it rises. The quality of the light coming from the east. The smell of the salt and the beach. The onshore breeze of a morning chilling my face. A clean and unbroken horizon that obscures unlimited possibilities.

All these things transported me back to the wonder I occasionally felt while in the Navy. Because it didn't happen all the time it really made me appreciate it when it did. There are sights and feelings that you can't experience until you get out of the sight of land; this morning made me long for them again.

Regardless of the etymology of nostalgia I don't feel like I was suffering so much as I was motivated. Maybe that'll be our next chapter?

[jaynsandy]

Anais Nin wrote that "Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." I didn't think about that phrase when I met Sandy. After I'd been around her enough to know I never wanted to be away from her I still didn't think of that sentence. Whenever I did think of her (which was just about all the time) in those early days I wondered how I had been able to get along without her. "Where've You Been" by Kathy Mattea musically captured my feelings back then.

30 years ago, today, Sandy and I swore that we were each other's favorite humans. We promised to have each other's backs for as long as we both live. In that time we've added three fully functional, decent, most favored (to us) humans to the big world. Of all the things we've done together I'm most proud of that.

I didn't fully appreciate it at the time but Sandy and I embarked on our own world building journey when we swore our vows. (It's amazing how two halves can come together and make two wholes.) Our world has been shaped by her patience, laughter, patience, love, patience and common sense. Now, all these wonderful years later, when I think of her (which I do just about all the time) I think of how wonderful our little world is. "Oh, What a World" by Kacey Musgraves lyrically captures my feelings these days.

What a wonderful world. And then there is Sandy.

https://youtu.be/FL5eYXrlP1c

[jaynsandy]

Sandy and I are currently parked in Niceville, Florida. Our rig is under a canopy of live oaks celebrating their age with streamers of Spanish moss. We can watch sunrises and sunsets over the Choctawhatchee Bay. The climate, though not balmy, is pretty comfortable given the time of year. Just the same it feels like something is missing. It took a trip to see our two youngest children to realize why.

Vin de noix (walnut wine) is a sweet aperitif that isn't really a wine. This traditional French drink is made from macerated walnuts instead of grapes. Vin de noix is important in that it distills how the old villagers view time. A barrel is typically started with the birth of a child. It gets topped up with nuts and alcohol every year through the life of the child. Each barrel contains some small part of the vin de noix that is from the very beginning of the child's life. Each barrel represents the path of time and may help foster an awareness of the ages of man.

Driving, maybe for the last time, through the streets of Winchester I was struck by how the old has been preserved while the new has been welcomed. Stately houses from the 19th century give way to buildings from the early to mid 20th century. Modern data networking and consulting businesses are housed in buildings on the historic register. Old town sits one block away from the grand building that is the Handley library. If you look closely one can see the path of time in Winchester. It's magnificent.

Above photo was taken by Peter Vladislav Uhlir

Handley Regional Library

That's what is missing here in this area of Florida. There is no feeling of the path of time. The tourist trade and developers' bulldozers have homogenized this place so that everyone who travels here can feel at home. The barrel has been emptied and refilled with a whole new batch.

Come to think of it everywhere we've been, that we enjoyed, has kept parts of the past in the community. The people who live in those places have managed to resist emptying the barrel before adding more to it.