Belleair Beach -- Friday

Day 6… already…

Time to Go

Well, the Gulf has gotten rougher since about Wednesday.  Not rough like waves breaking over people's heads, rough the way the Gulf gets:  the waves become more relentless, bringing tons of small shells to cover the shore, and creating drops just a short way into the surf.  I had nearly convinced myself that I would take one more swim in the beautiful waters, that had gotten so much warmer in a few days, and then I watched one much younger, fitter dude walk in a few feet only to crash down the unexpected drop.  Granted the drop is only a foot or two, but climbing out on millions of bits of shells was an experience I decided, sadly, to avoid.

Then the monsters showed up, three tweens who needed big doses of tranquilizers far more than they needed a vacation on the Gulf.  I figure if this is how bored and crazed they were on the first day here, probably good that I am leaving tomorrow.

And finally, the radio.  Could not have gone a week without someone deciding they needed to enjoy the Gulf with background bass.

So, time to go.  I will take with me one image, that of a fisherman, sitting in his chair and running every once in a while to cast his line.  I looked up to see that he had caught a fish, a good eight inches, sparkling in the sun.  He seemed to be poking it, I thought trying to get it to lie still so he could take the hook out, but didn't really seem to have a knack for it.  But he finally got the little guy to do whatever just as his lady friend got the camera lined up and ready.  And then he let the poor little thing go.  Hemingway scoffs.

I'm missing my cat, but not much else.  I dread the return to work, with all its fears rational and paranoid.  I think of all the dumb things I have to do when I get home, pay the bills, change the cat litter, do the laundry, the things that seem to take up way too much time.  But what would I do otherwise? 

Belleair Beach -- Thursday

Day 5

Things I Worry About

Wasting time

Being too busy

Being busy doing things that aren't important

Not being able to enjoy wasting time

So here I am at the beach, doing to myself what I always do on vacation.  I think I should be doing more.


I'm at the beach but I didn't swim today.  I made excuses about the water being rougher and it's cooler than it has been, and anyway for gods' sake I've gone for a swim every day I've been here.  And only a couple of people have been in the water; most just sit out in the sun.

I've been spending too much time in my room.  Even though I've gotten too much sun.  And I have a wonderful view, so do I really need to sit outside to enjoy it?

I've been having these weird panic attack feelings, no doubt exacerbated by the fact that I am drinking twice the amount of coffee than I have accustomed myself to.  I know enough that I can feel my little heart going pitty-pat.  I've learned that that means I need some exercise, so yesterday I went for a walk.  Today I wanted to read.  The panicky feeling was somewhat claustrophobic – imagine, feeling claustrophobic sitting out on the beach.

I worry about my people.  I have five people:  Stephan, Antoinette, Nikko, Jennie and Patricia.

Me and my peeps

I worry that they don't care about me.  I worry that Antoinette doesn't miss me, and she likes her new family more than me.  I worry that Nikko will never even notice I'm not in his life; then I worry he'll be unhappy and I won't know about it to help him.  I worry that I won't have Stephan around forever – I may not have him around much more once Nikko stops coming home.  He's older than me, but he's much healthier than I am, so I tell myself it's a crap shoot who's going to go first, so maybe I don't have to worry about losing him.

I worry about my sisters, who I have just recently found again, whose health isn't so great, and who are so far away.  Then I worry that we've been reconciled for a couple of years now, and I will probably do or say something to piss them off again soon.

I was listening to some silly but beautifully harmonized song by The Hopeful Gospel Quartet this morning, that was about going to heaven and being with your loved ones, and I said to myself, "Geez, then I'll have to be with the Peschaks."  They don't like me much either.  And I couldn't even begin to imagine my sisters getting along with the other people I'd have to be near to be near the ones I love.

Why don't religious fanatics ever think about things like that when they are telling us what we will find in heaven?

Speaking of which, one thing I think I am worrying about less is dying.  Only because I've always worried about it so much till now.  I decided that the last thing I want to do is spend whatever amount of time I have left worrying about dying – what a waste of time… and I've already talked about how I worry about wasting time.

Then there's money, always present in its absence.  I think I understand why some people never retire.  Once you retire you're just counting down the dollars, aren't you, to see what runs out first, you or your money.  And I have to say, looking at this problem from solidly in my 60's, I think running out of money is right up there with dying, as far as what's the worst thing that could happen.  Beaten out only by having to live in bad health.

And that leads to worrying about the kids dreading having to be responsible for me.  I don't even want them to dread having to call me.  I'd just as soon they didn't bother if they were going to dread it.  Euthanasia is definitely the way to go when it gets to the point of the kids fighting over whose turn it is to take mom, and not in a good way.

But the prize for why I have been a basket case this week goes to the Charleston County Public Library Director, head psychopath, Jim, ambitious control freak extraordinaire, and my immediate sychophant supervisor.  I think today the reason for the great difference in my mood this week, versus last year's spring vacation, is that last year when I returned lazy crazy Paul would be retired, and I really believed things would be better.  This year, we are so immersed in destroying the library that it has possessed me.

There is a very creepy scene in Terry Pratchett's amazing Small Gods in which the ship's captain begins to describe the special nature of the porpoise and then catches himself sounding like an infidel.  At which all-powerful Exquisitor Vorbis orders the captain to kill the porpoise, for lunch.

Creepy.  That's what my last job has become.  But it pays the mortgage.  Just.

Belleair Beach -- Wednesday

Belleair Beach – Day 4

Last night I gave in to temptation, but instead of watching commercial t.v., I tuned in to PBS, caught a few minutes of MacNeil or Lehrer, or whatever they now call it.  Heard the headline, "If you have a job that makes your body hurt…", thought, I'll have to stay for that, and then promptly forgot about it so I could go watch the sunset.

No, really.

But before that, I heard that at 8:00 they would be having a 60's music special.  Of course, this was because it was a pledge drive program.  Anyway, I have a remote with a mute button, and why not have a little oldies on a vacation that seems to be filled with ruminations and memories.

Okay, to start, it was hosted by Davey Jones and Peter Noone.  Yes, the very recently deceased Davey Jones.  So there was old, now deceased, Davey Jones swaying to "Cheer up sleepy Jeanne" i.e. "Daydream Believer".  That's just sad.

But Davey would have wanted me to get into the swing of things, so I did.

Paul Revere and the Raiders, old and still dressed funny.  I think their faux Paul Revere outfits cost a lot more than they did back when, and looked even less authentic, if that's possible.

Next were The Vogues, still singing beautifully – "Turn Around, Look at Me".  And I did.  They looked like a bunch of English faculty and one Mafioso.  But oh, they still sang sweetly.

Jefferson Starship really pissed me off.  Because the old guys looked authentic enough, but then there was this 23-year-old blond who was doing a Grace Slick impression.  Well, excuse me, but Grace Slick was the group.  And so they just dropped her name, I mean disappeared it, so this twinkie with the big voice could pretend to be Grace Slick.  I mean, you really couldn't say, "Sorry Grace Slick couldn't be here; she only works paying gigs, or she's in a nursing home or something."  For all I know (and I'm on vacation, with no WiFi and therefore no Wikipedia) she may no longer be with us.  Like Davey Jones.

At this point I noticed that a lot of the old guys look a lot like Robin Williams, who has looked old for quite some time.  But quite distinguished.

Then came one Byrd.  Well worn and singing quite nicely.  But the back up singers, the faux byrds if you will, were young black guys in grey suits, doing moves that led me to wonder if they had mistakenly dropped into the wrong portion of the program.  Turns out they were part of the generic back-up singers.  Low-budget PBS, also sad.

The next bit may have been the high point of authenticity:  The Kingsmen singing "Louie Louie".  Now these were all old guys, who probably did not look much younger when they were young guys.  Definitely looked like they lived the Louie Louie kind of lifestyle.  And maintained the old singing style – I do believe they were singing the dirty version, but, just as in the old days, who could tell???

And then, gods, I was transported into my romantically deranged teenaged mind, with Chad and Jeremy singing "Summer Song".  I sang along, and I may not have hit the notes true as they did, but I believe I sang with more feeling.  They gave the impression of a seminar in 60's folk music, slightly self-conscious but that's how you’re supposed to teach it.

Of course there were the performers I really could care less about, Percy Sledge, and then the "Philly Sound" groups – who in Rhode Island knew there was a Philly Sound?  Apparently that's what they are calling all that falsetto sound.  No offense, but I'll take "Up on the Roof".

Now I'm thinking this should have been the finale – Herman and the Real Hermits.  He let his hair grow long for the concert in an attempt to look cute, but he was still old Peter Noone.  But he did get the geezer audience going.  So you get to this crescendo, and even do an encore…

…but this is PBS, so it's not the end.  Another tedious break to beg for money, and then some other groups, so I'll just talk about the two that I gave a damn about:

Question Mark & the Mysterians, who only had one hit, albeit a great one.  I'm not sure if the lead singer was really Question Mark, but wasn't that the point?  And he definitely had the moves of an old guy who isn't ready to give it up yet.

The last one really ended the night on a note of confusion (What can I say, it's PBS.).  The song, I believe is actually "Kiss Her Goodbye" but if that were the case, nobody would ever have remembered it.  So over the years it became, I kid you not, and you old folk will know this, "Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good-bye".  And I am very proud of my generation for coming up with it.  The thing that could have used an equally catchy name,  was the group.  Steam?????  Nah (na na na… etcetera).  I was sure it was the Box Tops, but no, they did "The Letter", another one of my faves.  Steam?  Never heard of them, although I could sing their hit forever.

Anyway, it was great fun, and for awhile took me away from the sad feelings and the anxieties that keep threatening to erupt, although no books were thrown out on my watch all day.


And in the spirit of the oldies, here are some old guys at the beach:

Belleair Beach -- Tuesday

Day 3, I think…

What's Wrong?  Nothing, That's What!

A beautiful beach, calm and beautiful water, no barking dogs, no blaring t.v.'s or music.  The sweet woman who apparently is the only person running this place spent forever trying to figure out why she wasn't able to hook up the VCR before I suggested trying the other tape I'd brought and we realized the first tape was damaged.  Now I have TV, VCR and DVD player, and have pretty much decided I didn't miss them all that much while I didn't have them.

This is how nice it is here:

When I went out to the beach today, there were three beautiful but not completely whole shells that a thoughtful scavenger had left.  I picked them up and pondered my old beachcombing days on the Gulf with my babes, and then put them back down.

A short while later, two beefy ten-year-or-so old boys clambered past, and one said, "Look at this!" and they went over and picked them up.  Before I could even begin to grumble to myself about kids on the beach, the first one turned to me and said, "Excuse me, are these yours?"

Tiny Voices

So here I am at a small quiet spot (Resort? No I think not.) which is as much for families as any and still be peaceful.  And every now and then I hear a tiny little voice chattering happily.  And I recall the so-many vacations with my babes.  Antoinette, brimming with enthusiasm over, well, anything we were doing.  Nikko, less ebullient, but always interested in whatever was there.  The year we read about dribble castles

we went to Marco Island, where we were able to spend the week happily dribbling castle after castle, where we were told by regulars that this was the best year for shelling they had ever seen, and I believe it.

The following year at Sanibel was our first Florida vacation just the three of us, and up three flights seven-year-old Nikko lugged up the bags with his sister.  We walked into our unit and looked out on a breathtaking view, and the following night sat through a terrifying thunderstorm, munching on M&M's to calm us through the power outage.

Then there were two years at Sea Oats Beach Club in Fort Myers, an easier exchange to swap than either of the other two exclusive resort areas.  I can't recall the name of the resort, just the Tiki Hut, where we played bingo, and I learned that my son a) loved gambling and b) was lucky.  I still have the key holder that he won.

As Vonnegut would say, "And so it goes."

Errata

Not Tiki Hut – Chickie Hut

Errata II

Chickee Deck

Belleair Beach -- Sunday

Yesterday, Sunday, my first full day here, was idyllic.  Beautiful weather, a good book, actual swimming in the Gulf.  And a day with no books thrown out.

Michael Crichton's last book, Micro, did not disappoint.  The plot was silly, the characters two-dimensional.  I had always felt that what Crichton needed was a ghost writer.  It didn't help.  Richard Preston picked up the pieces after Crichton's death, but the book sounds as much like Crichton as any other.  On the other hand, once the ridiculous plot was developed and the absurd characters put in position, and the book became an adventure story, the twists and turns were great.  Perfect for vacation.  I will miss you, Mr. Crichton.

Today is for Terry Pratchett, from the ridiculous to the sublimely ridiculous, and Small Gods.

I'm swept away by its timeliness, its insanely clever philosophical tale of humanity and religious radicalism.

And today I was determined to be sad, one dead author and one who has been cruelly driven by his mortality.  And on the subject of books, I ended up spending far more time than I thought possible on the tragedy that is unfolding at Charleston County Public Library, with the egomaniacal director and the obsessive and controlling branch manager, one compelling the other to greater feats of destruction of the library's collection.

I found myself writing in my mind yet another letter, this time to the Post & Courier, in one version anonymously, in another, offering to share confidentially all that is transpiring under the surface of our glad-handing Vorbis.  I had thought I had a week to put the heart-breaking ugliness out of my mind, but this catastrophe has been eating me alive for over a year now, and if anything, is just hitting its stride.

So enough of that.  This is my week.  I need to get away from all that.

I am sitting at a table in front of a window overlooking the Gulf, on an almost cloudless day.  Sometime in late afternoon, the waves begin to chop, or actually, there begin to be waves.  In the morning and throughout the day, the waters are calm.  And clear.  In the water I can see fish swimming just a few feet from shore, and make out the tiny Gulf seashells.

I'm remembering the trips to Antigua and Florida with my babes, when they were babes.  This is a family resort, in the sense that parents play with their children in the water, and I have not yet heard a radio or a blaring television.  This morning there was an amazing sand sculpture that just a few feet from the shoreline was undisturbed by the tide.

Today I decided I would explore the area, scope out the restaurants I have been reading about and mapping for the past couple of months.   This little beach town (called a "city") that only boasts one breakfast restaurant that is pretty well hidden is really the perfect beach spot for a recluse like me.

Belleair Diary -- First Night

I believe that some crackerjack bed salesman went along the Gulf Coast of Florida some years back, and convinced all the timeshare groups that these beds were the best thing since space flight:

Yes, it looks like it's about four feet off the ground because it is.  First time I encountered a bed I needed a stepladder to climb onto was two years ago, in Destin, Florida:

My current mattress was probably slightly lower to the ground just by virtue of sagging.  So I was lucky there.  The pillows were hard, but not like one big cinderblock, more like a bag of smashed cinderblock.

Anyway, that plus a body whose parts were aching due to the drive and the fact that it just hadn't been working well lately contributed to many poorly executed attempts to toss and turn.

At some point I moved it out to the sofa, which was lower to the ground, softer and shorter.  Need I say more?

So, back to the bedroom.  For entertainment, I tried to picture all the old people (I'm not old, I just feel that way) trying to climb up into the bed over the years since that salesman made his killing.

And thankfully, eventually, the first night was over.

Belleair Diary -- En Route

En Route to Belleair Beach

A beautiful day to run away from home.

At the Georgia Welcome Center, where the only barking dogs had parked alongside my car while I was "resting" at the "rest" facilities, German tourists were feeding the squirrels and taking pictures of the scavenging birds.  As I was just finishing listening to In the Garden of Beasts, the sound of German scented English was a little eerie.

Nonetheless, I was making great time, tickled that my new Baby iPod was revved up and running beautifully.  (Just in case, I had an emergency pak of iPods:  my original Nano that only holds 1½ audiobooks on a good day, but still has music, my refurbished and quirky iPod Touch that holds volumes but skips chapters and has to be teased back to the next subsequent, and freezes, which is what prompted me to my extravagant Baby Nano purchase.  I also toted extra USB cords, and AUX cord, charger, and probably other emergency items I can't recall.  My iPods and accessories had their own overnight travel bag.)

I decided to follow Route 301, which turned out to be one of those roads that go from 65 mph to 35 mph every few miles, sometimes because there is a traffic light, sometimes because there happens to be a house.  I double checked Google Maps with Mapquest, and they both said, go for it, so I did.  Definitely in Florida redneck territory, where I decided I needed to stop for gas, and worried a little bit about the effect my bumper stickers might have on the populace.  On the other hand, Florida rednecks aren't rich either, so the price of gas wasn't much more than I had paid in Charleston.

But then as I drove out of the gas'n'go, I found that my beautiful new Baby Nano wasn't working.  Having finished with Hitler and Germany, I had been pleasantly embarked upon Roger Ebert's recollections of growing up in Urbana, Illinois.  That wasn't the problem, though, because I had cynically also left the book on iPod Touch, and would play the jump back and forth between chapters game if I had to.  The problem was that it was my Baby Nano, that I had just bought for this trip.

So I played with it while I waited for a train to pass, and then decided to lunch at Wendy's.  While dining on a luscious fish sandwich (Wendy's had apparently gone so upscale while I wasn't paying attention that they even tell you what kind of fish) and fries (with "sea salt"), I decided I would try a different USB, then the AUX, and if that didn't work, I'd bite the bullet and use the Touch.

But apparently, both I and Baby Nano just needed a rest, because after lunch it revved up just fine, and Roger and I resumed our trips to Memory Lane and Belleair Beach, respectively.

Arrival

It's been years since I've been on the Gulf Coast of Florida.  I have a picture of my son when we vacationed in St. Pete.  He was two,

now he's turning 21.

It was the winter we left Long Island at 10 at night because a horrible blizzard was working its way down the coast.  We beat the blizzard, too.  The snow started on the Jersey Turnpike and stayed with us through North Carolina, turning to rain in South Carolina, sealing our fate when I was deciding just how far south to move to get away from it all.  We heard horror stories about people whose flights were delayed due to the blizzard that week.  And there in St. Pete it was an unseasonably cold January, 40's at night, not much higher during the day.  We had a timeshare exchange across the street from the beach, where there were beautiful shells and even more beautiful sunsets, which we could see if we strained our necks looking out the door of our little timeshare.  I remember jumping into a pretty cold "heated" pool and then warming up in the Jacuzzi so I could sit outside and read for a bit before heading back to the room.

This year has been unseasonably warm, and I had very high hopes for my reunion with the Gulf.

And as I approached the coast, I remembered how wonderfully different the west coast of Florida is from the crazy east coast.  It's lower to the ground and greener.  The water and the foliage are greener.  It took my breath away.

I was forwarned that this Belleair Beach Club was not going to be fancy.

But I paid an extra $100 for a view of the Gulf, and a $95 cleaning charge, which since it was so outrageous I did not have any expectations of sparkling cleanliness.  I just added it all up to $745 for a week on the Gulf of Mexico.  Just to make the arithmetic clear, I pay $605 for maintenance on the timeshare I don't use because my children have abandoned me, and get $800 after realtor's fees for renting it out, so I believe I am still ahead of the game by $50, giving me a $600 week in Florida.

Turns out there was a problem with my original room, so I had been upgraded.  Not to appear ungrateful, but after having spent a day here, I can understand how something could have gone so wrong that they had to give me another room, but I can't imagine what I might have been upgraded from.

You see, this resort is apparently breathing its last, and there is a desperate move to turn it into condos…

…and since they are offering special Pre-renovation Pricing,

whatever equipment breaks down is just left to die, oh, and bring your own toilet paper and soap.

But my gods the view!

 

Mother of Invention

Imagine this.


A car full of stuff, not fun stuff, yard stuff, bought with a 10% off coupon, and budget-wise bought in bulk.


Picture 5'1", 60-ish, 190 pounds.  Don't laugh, used to be 232. Bad shoulders, bad knees, my aching back.


So I bring the wheelbarrow up to the back of the car.  I know this old wheelbarrow tilts and topples, so I cleverly place it leaning against the car.  Then I haul out ever so carefully the huge two-cubic-foot (which I'm told is 36 pounds in American) bag of potting soil, which is going to last me all year.  Dump it into the wheelbarrow, and when I try to move it, realize the tire is flat.


Screw it, the potting soil will wait.  I'll try the 40 pound container of chlorine granules.  Somehow I get it to the ground while missing my feet.  Then using all my limited knowledge of physics, swing it a foot at a time to the stairs.  Yes, up three stairs to the porch, and then into the house.  Across the house to the back, a foot at a time.


Success.


Back to the car, and the 50 pound bag of sand that I couldn't even lift into the shopping trolley the day before.  I know I once lifted children that weighed that much.  So I grab it around the belly (of the bag) and to my surprise, I've lifted it, and I'm walking with it.


My knees can barely make the stairs with just me, so I know better than to try lifting me and a dense bag of sand.  I gently drop it on the first stair, and then hardly even thinking, I devise a reverse slinky motion up each stair.

But in reverse....

And so I go back to the wheelbarrow and do the last big baby grab with the potting soil, and to the bottom stair, where I once again do the reverse slinky, and then lean it against the wall.

Stay tuned for the next episode, opening the easy-open container of chlorine granules, using only a screwdriver, a metal cutter thingy, and a few choice curses.

Parents' Weekend

I thought I'd probably get through this Junior Parents' Weekend pretty unremarkably, but the truth is, I am terribly sad.  My son's anger fades into the background as I imagine how much I would have enjoyed seeing him, and sharing some of his college life for the weekend.


I have not heard from him since January 6, when I dropped him off at the airport.  Nothing was said.  No harsh words, a brief hug.


The other sad but all too human part of this tragedy is that there is no family member that would understand, respect, or commiserate with what is happening here.  I have tried to explain why I need to let Nik have his space, and why I can't just continue to insert myself into his life.  Years of phone calls, cajoled or coerced, more often strained than enjoyed.


It was a shock to me last spring when I first saw the anger erupt, unexpectedly.  Not the kind of predictable anger that comes from disagreements or misunderstandings of varying sizes and import that are natural in a family.  But the kind of anger that erupts after an innocent comment or question, the kind of explosive and unpredictable anger that drove me away from his father, that I had not ever experienced from my son.


And in our subsequent short visits, the anger blossomed.  Vague issues about my parenting were hurled at me, my defenses as strained and strange as the accusations.  What are we arguing about?  I have no idea.  But it seems as though the new friendship between the sibs has been partly inspired by this common anger.


So when the subject of parents' weekend came up in January, and was met by ambivalence, and then cold comments about time constraints, I had to rethink my relationship with my son.  Could I continue to expect him to want me around, to want to have those weekly calls, and wasn't it wrong to expect him, at age 20, to continue to see me as the family, the home, he returns to?


I left the door open.  He chose not to approach.  I miss him, but I also remember the anger, that was too much like his father's, and know I can't deal with it rationally, because I can't address it, because I can't understand it.


Will he come home at the end of the school year for his short visit?  If I mention it to his father, as we plan for his twice-yearly visit, will he take advantage of the situation to instead make plans with his son away from me -- dueling parents, I call it, a duet I despise.


My sisters will be critical, my daughter judgmental as well.


So here I am, on Junior Parents' Weekend, a beautiful day in Charleston, letting a few tears fly, wishing we all didn't make it so damned difficult to love each other.