A Never Ending Love

As she was dying, sitting in the same spot where she had lived her life, building her empire, she said in disgust, “I can feel the vultures circling.”  And they were. Not unlike the book that she had read, The Good Earth, where the ungrateful sons carried away their helpless father who had lived his life for money and more.

She liked that book. She was a voracious reader.

A woman with a ninth grade education who had climbed the mountain top.  Danced the hula and spit in the devil’s eye.

She slept with a gun under her pillow. A result of left over trauma. A gang rape experienced as a thirteen year old. 

Circled by vultures in her youth and smothered by the birds of death, in the final days.

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Buried at Sea

This is just a journal. Nothing more or less. Just words typed on a digital page. Important only to me.

After the funeral fiascos over the past five years, and the refusal of my two oldest sisters to relinquish funeral plots, after their bold embezzlements from my mother’s inheritance, I decided to be buried at sea. The ocean has been my refuge, my entire life.

The other day I had one of the worst days. It involved lifeguards, called Nippers.

I lost it. I couldn’t believe these little boys, which they are in my eyes, the same as they see me as an old lady. And they even name themselves small boys. They removed me from the water. I was removed from the water, by little creatures that nipped and bit. I just cussed.

I wish the best for them. I hope they “save” many people. I hope they “sell” many surf instructions. That was their mantra as they were asking me to leave the water. “I am surf instructor.” Hearing that, over and over, just did something to me.

I feel buried at sea, before my death.

I apologized to them for my behavior, but the beligerent boss, (short, red head) turned his back on me.

He had a assumed I was a rich tourist. He erred in his eagerness to possibly rake in 65 an hour, which is what they charge as “instructors.”

You know what they say about assumptions.

I love the ocean. I will just go somewhere they’re not.

That was the mistake in the first place.

A synonym for nipper is nuisance.

God Bless us All

They actually named themselves after a Mongrel dog. A little nipping terrier dog. I call that fitting.

En Route 66 ***

Rooster, if we go down this path, what do you think will happen?

JBug depended on her husband. She looked at his grey hair and eyes that matched.

I don’t know. But if we don’t go, we’ll never know.

With locked wills and hubs, their minds were made. This wasn’t their first adventure.

Bocas Del Toro

Surfing excursions use to be quite different than it is today. For me anyway. There was a time when I could put my board on my car drive I-10, turn left and start surfing the coast. It was cheap as hell. It was a bit complicated at times, but it was “true” adventure.

Others were terrified to travel. They could surf great but they were skeered of “what was out there.” Something might “get em”.

I drove through the Chiapas during civil unrest. I followed the Federales to a bank robbery for a quick pass back to the border, to turn in a document.

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If You Grew Up In Jacksonville

But you lived so far out in the woods, that no one gets it. I just joined a group by this title. I commented on a man’s question “what’s the big deal about your ability to crack a whip?” He might be from Jacksonville, but he surely is not a Floridian.

Someone called Dallas Thomas an evil man. There was some mention of corruption. Like it is a thing of the past.

I always liked Mr. Thomas and his wife Gloria. Yes, he was an embezzler, but the current Judge Dearborn patted my sister on her head for embezzlement. I think you get lessons in embezzlement when you work for the State Attorney’s Office.

She worked in a cubicle for 35 years. I went to her retirement party. She was complimented on giving all the local government attorneys their start. She should have been one herself. But our mother was more about secretarial work for women, even though she owned the largest non-union mechanical contracting company in the city.

If you grew up in Jacksonville, it’s according to where in Jax. Who were your parents? Who were their parent’s? Did you go to Dorothy Warren Willard’s School of Dancing?

Who shot who?

It was a blessing one great uncle didn’t shoot anyone trying to kill a fly on the butter dish. (that wasn’t there) He was high on cocaine. Which was common in those days, because you bought it at the pharmacy.

Survival Tips on Growing up in Jacksonville

Don’t fuck with certain people. (you know who they are)

Learn to throw a punch and duck.

Carry a gun in your pocket book.

Learn to drive a car, ride a motorcycle and a horse. (you never know when you will have to make a quick getaway) And it doesn’t hurt to fly a plane.

Know how to jump out of window and run through the swamp.

Keep your mouth shut.

Know those judges and embezzlers, and House Representatives.

Help them to get elected.

Be an Olympic like swimmer.

Ski

Praise the Lord

Keep you house clean. Lift the corner of the rug and sweep all dirt underneath.