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.
This is my spot. It’s probably the last time I will get to stand here. To be on the beach enjoying the sunset. Here where I have fished for forty years. The island has been overrun by people who love the view, but are not beach people
I keep journals. Note books I use them to help me find peace and sort my life out. Thoughts on friends and finances.
I make changes in my life. However, I have the tendency to repeat. When writing things down, it becomes obvious.
The photo on the left is of my friend Connie. She was loved by many people. I had written about being with her when she passed, 2015. In the photo, we were at the funeral of Rachael Sutton. (She initiated Starting Point – you know it or you don’t.)
Connie passed with lung cancer.
As she was dying, she told me stories of her life. They were great stories. She didn’t want anyone to know. They were antics of her mother, Hazel. Poor Hazel.
I never knew Hazel, but I admired her in a way that Connie couldn’t. She wasn’t my mother.
I suppose it’s a matter of perspective. – Today, I was headed to Jacksonville on A1A. There are now, “don’t bother the birds” signs, on the best beach, for flounder fishing. Another spot gone.
If you’re new here to Amelia Island, you are surely calling it paradise. Jetting around in your new car, that you bought from your northern sale, profit. Good for you. You also complain about the slow cars. You’re on an island. Slow the fuck down, dumb ass.
The picture above is, of a building; a place where we use to get our tires fixed. It’s being demolished. Now you can go to Tire Kingdom and get ripped off. I took my truck to them and said, no thank you. They just weren’t qualified to touch my truck. I have to go to Yulee for good service. But there’s a long wait.
One mile up the road, across the street from Winn Dixie are hobo camps. They hide by the CSX tracks and shoot fentanyl. It’s a sad world out there. But they too have discovered paradise. The word is out!
Everybody wants what they want. From high rise condos that are apt to collapse over time, to lost souls deteriorating amongst brown, fallen palm fronds. I just want to fish, and be in unpolluted ocean water. Sales and marketing didn’t bring me here. Neither did the whispers of the Jacksonville junkies.
I’m the kind of person, that runs ahead of the crowd. My good fortune has been my love of nature and dislike of pretentious bullies.
So, I will rely on my years of patience and perseverance.
I was browsing my now old and almost defunct web page, documenting surfing in Fernandina Beach, FL, and Avellanas, Costa Rica and a few other spots, as well.
As long ago, as it was, that I took this photo, I remember it. As I do every shot, that I take and keep.
The day started out like any other. I checked my Facebook. Running Fat Chef, had an interesting post. She usually does. I have followed her, for a while. She’s a runner and athlete, not skinny. She is powerful and outspoken. I relate to a lot of her posts, about comments from people, concerning her body. I use to experience similar critiques, in my running days.
She mentioned the term “crabs in a barrel”; which I know as “crabs in a bucket”. When I first learned this term, I was in college. It was showed to us on a film. When you place, crabs in a bucket, if one tries to climb out, all of the other crabs will try to pull them back down.
The message I got from this is, don’t let them get you. Pull yourself up and over.
I earned a B.F.A.. My paintings were out of the box. When I graduated, my piece in the senior show, stole the limelight. People were angry. It was controversial, and if I do say so, it was good. I had to work hard to not let people sway me. The same as when I worked as a plumber, in the 70’s. I was told constantly, “Why don’t you get a job, in an office?” I got my master’s license and then became uninterested. I’ve always surfed. Women did not surf. I was berated as a youngster, for this endeavor. Seems strange now, but that’s the way it was, in the sixties. I left the country. (getting the hell away from people) Zero help from friends and family. I asked my mother if she would get my mail. She promptly told me, if I wanted my mail, to stay home. I went to Costa Rica, not realizing, the world was going to be, on my heels. It goes on and on.
Anyway, I know how people want you to be like them. Often it’s, with a job, in debt, out of shape, etc.
So, when Running Fat Chef, mentioned “crabs in a barrel”, and she said she thought it was a disgusting term, I asked her why.
Whoa!!! Did I ever step into a pile of shit.
I was told to mind my p’s and q’s. And that white women should be silent and listen. My internal response was WTF. I was told by another woman, on this thread, that I was being an ass. WHAT?
It was just a question. And I was being assaulted, by an angry mob of white women. I was viewed as being antagonistic to the Chef. Who is way to cool to ever behave like these whiney women. They see me one way, I see them another. Who the hell are they to critique my question. They were doing the same thing to me that the Chef talks about people doing to her. I told that woman to mind her own business. Nothing like a good, misunderstood barrage of crap, on the internet.
Of course, the Running Fat Chef, explained her perspective, and I PM’d her my thanks, and commented on some other posts. Like the one where she is in a pink sports bra and she gets asked, “Where is your shirt?” —– some people —
Anyway, the woman that gave me this joystick beat down, is as white as the glaze on a Dunkin Donut’s donut. She’s from New Mexico, and she’s a mental health counselor. Her goal in life is to spread joy.
I guess part of that is through policing Running Fat Chef’s page.
She said she thought I was a fragile individual. If she only knew.
I am as shattered as Tiffany glass, tossed from the edge of an empty septic tank.
If you believe that, you will believe anything.
I said good-bye to Running Fat Chef.
It’s the same as my beloved neighborhood. All these whiteys are ruining my day.
I thought it was time I let y’all know that I am black.
Thank God the truth has come out.
The truth will set you free, but first it will make you very nervous.
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
Fernandina Beach’s illuminous Krytal. Everything here, on the island is bright and shiny, with the exception of air and water.
In an actual sociology class (I consider my life to be a class), I had an assignment to sit in on three court cases. There was no mandatory crime, just court.
Every year on our island, we have a festival celebrating shrimp. Our town, Fernandina Beach, Florida, is the birthplace of the industry, in the United States.
I remember the first shrimp boat race that I went to. It’s many years in the past, but I vividly recall the sun on the water, and the people on the dock. We were spectators to a highly, unusual event. Shrimp boats, decorated with colorful flags were “racing” towards us, on the intercostal waterway.
Every one always cheered for the Dixie Queen. It was the pride of the local fleet. Continue reading The Fearless Fish
Fish Eye Farm 