Oh hell yeah – I stayed one step ahead of the shoe shine, two steps away from the county line. Just trying to keep my customers satisfied. Satisfied.
*I have written about it throughout my blog* My writing is full of the truth. Confessional. That is why it is obscured. But it can be unearthed. You have to want to know.
*The photo is of my 1991 Toyota that I drive on Amelia Island, FL. Land of the rich and famous. One time sunny place for shady characters. Some consider keeping this rusted, mule of a vehicle, on the road – criminal. I have fun.
*Catch me if you can.
*Whitehouse/Westide is a part of Jacksonville FL – It is called Zone 4 – which is across the board, known as a heart rate zone. It is where I am from.
I am, in the count down, to exit. Yet, another exodus. Sure, it’s a vacation, and I am a tourist in Costa Rica, but it’s more than that. It’s a continuance of a dream. Yes, I know my abode will be there waiting, behind the fence of hibiscus, surrounded by bougainvillea, birds of paradise, a large mango, cacti, lemon trees, avocados and oranges. It always feels magical when I enter through that gate. It is my Oz.
The house is on a dirt road, adjacent to a large farm. No crops just land. It was originally a Spanish land grant, to the family that still owns a portion, of the tract.
A hotel, with all of the amenities is in front of me, and on the ocean. Their neighbor is the Costa Rica Sailing Center.
The town of Flamingo/Potrero is currently constructing a large marina. Playa Potrero, Pasture Beach, the one time home to a herd of cattle, that stormed the beach, in a slow saunter, to get their dose of salt from the ocean, is now going to usher in boats and more boats. You can’t have both. Cows and boats don’t mix.
Such is progress.
Here, I leave behind the billowing smoke of two paper mills, on the island, Amelia, which is also an international tourist destination.
Paper mills and high end condos don’t seem the perfect match either. Gone are the days of sand dunes and shrimp boats. Ah, who cares.
I have goals for myself. I always do.
I have to thank my sister Deena, her grandchildren, and my Crossfit group for the outcome of my most recent days; friends and family. And I don’t want to forget God, who never forsakes me.
This year is ending, and I have to say I had the one and only Christmas that I have everenjoyed. I have surfed on Christmas days and they were great, but I was hardly aware it was Christmas.* I have remembered yet another great December 25th. It was the first one that Rooster and I were together, in 1983.
My goals for the future are my health and my attitude.
It’s 3:30 in the morning and the rain has woke me. I can’t help, but hear it’s relentlessness, on my tin roof. The sound of the rain brings joy to my heart. It promotes contemplation. It heals me. It washes the earth.
When I was young, on a Saturday afternoon, in the middle of this neighborhood, looking to score, at the local tavern, The Island Bar, I found myself surrounded by police cars, I was shocked to be white. It was so obvious. They were there to break up a fight, I was really wishing I was a different color. They looked at me, cutting their eyes, saying, “what the hell are you doing here?”
I live in Fernandina Beach, which is now known as Amelia Island. The Island has had that name since 1562, however, Amelia became obsolete through the years. But sales and marketing is paramount these days, and well, it does sound pretty.
It use to be a small fishing village. Those were the days. And then came, “The Plantation.” Back in the mid 70’s, development dug it’s first foot hold, and has yet to cease. The once beautiful island is home. to concrete, electrical wires, golf course chemicals and a large population of high end vehicles, either screaming from one red light to another, or creeping at a syrupy slow pace, driven by an ocatarian, hoping to arrive alive.
We all want to arrive alive. We all want to enjoy the island. For me, it becomes more and more of an endeavor, day by day. I am a minimalist. I like to surf fish. I use one rig. I hold it in my hand. I now share the beach with a slew of fisherman. Most will have four or five pole holders for each person in the car.
Yes, we drive our vehicles on the beach, in designated areas. At one time, we had access to the coastline. Now we are limited to one mile, of beach.
And it’s all because of the turtles. They are endangered. So, mile by mile we have been removed from the beach, to protect them. OK. I love nature. I love the turtles. I will hunker down, in between the other nature lovers, and catch my fish. I follow the rules. I have to. If I don’t there’s a man, in a truck who will promptly arrest me.
I’ve done something unusual today. I am on my porch writing. I am in my daughter’s alcove. It’s where she comes outside to smoke, on her too brief, visits with me. It’s on the street side of my home, where I have two, white rockers, in between a round table, covered with a nice table cloth from a second hand shop, around the corner.
It’s almost becoming too light, for me, to feel at ease, out here, in my bathrobe. In my too thick, soft, warm and embracing coat of comfort ~
2 the easing or alleviation of a person’s feelings of grief or distress: a few words of comfort | they should take comfort that help is available. • [in singular] a person or thing that helps to alleviate a difficult situation: his friendship was a great comfort. 3 US dialect a warm quilt.
The wind blows hard through the tree, across the street. It makes the rushing sound of impending rain. Rain that will pass us by, today, The bird, that sang alone, is now in concert, with others near by and blocks down the road.
The first car passed at 5:26. They were in a hurry.
I took the picture above, in yesterday’s evening. Around the bend were hoards of people. Everyone enjoying themselves. Children swimming, in the dangerous currents, of the Nassau River. Not a care in the world.
Back to my right, are fishermen. Some good and others, not so good.
We had to leave when the fish started biting, due to one of the many laws and regulations, here on Amelia Island. You cannot be on the beach, after sundown.
I took all of the comfort that I could get, in my afternoon hours, walking with my feet in the sand. Smiling at all of the people; Latin, Asian, People of Color and Anglos. We were of different cultures. We were all mixto, and no problemo.
But not far down the road in Jacksonville, there is protest and riots, in the streets. They are working towards compromise, but I can’t help but feel, that the white people want the black people back in their cage.
I am a wild thing.
I live on this Island, that is over run. It is being inhabited by greed. The greedy ~
greed·y| ˈɡrēdē | adjective (greedier, greediest) having or showing an intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth or power: greedy thieves who plundered a defense contractor. • having an excessive desire or appetite for food. ~
Everyone wants their slice, but the pie is only so big.
So, the Island has become pie in the sky.
I sit on my porch and enjoy the breeze, momentarily, unhindered by the stench of the mill. I enjoy nature and I wait on it’s Mother.
We are born, to soon learn, that we are going to die.
I really don’t know about other people’s inner lives. Communication has a way of drifting. It’s ethereal. And yet, it’s can be heavy, as a tombstone. An albatross. A spirit of unrelenting fear. Or, it can be as equally uplifting as a hot air balloon. Raising you above, to elevate you, and present a wide angle view. A unique and exhilarating vista.
I have experienced both.
I am a part of humanity. I accept it. I surrender. I give in.
This was not my first and probably won’t be my last. My husband, myself, and a friend, walked out, when one of the commissioners touted his insights on the situation. He was more than I could bear.
The lights bounced off his bald head, as he sniveled and whined his opinions. His mannerisms were authoritative and condescending. His name is Chapman. His words were so disruptive to my inner universe that he transformed into a movie character. One that you know is going to have something bad happen to him, before the film ends. And when it does, the audience will feel grateful. It would be appropriate karma. Continue reading The Town Hall Meeting
Motor boat, motor boat, go so slow. Motor boat, motor boat, go so fast. Motor boat, motor boat, step on the gas.
Does anyone else remember this nursery rhyme. Once you said, run so fast, you would take off running. I look around at people and they seem to be running hard to go nowhere. I prefer to take it easy.
The waves are always going to be rolling in. You never know about people.
It’s a matter of value, and I know where I stand; straight in the middle and to the right of the red bass.
We played a lot of music together. I’ve been missing that music, for a long time.
I’ve not been writing long posts. Who has the time to read them? Who has the time to write them?
But Donny’s life is worthy of words. He should have been a star/was a star. Donny was like an old time, country music legend. The way he looked, the way he lived and the way he played his songs. Continue reading Donny’s Dead
Motor boat, motor boat, go so slow. Motor boat, motor boat, go so fast. Motor boat, motor boat, step on the gas.
Fish Eye Farm 