Homecoming

There's a promise in the journeys of the mind
You begin to believe that there are miracles you will find
And that someday you'll remember who you are
The seed within a bright and shining star_____  John Denver,  Wandering Soul

The Evil Little Man (ELM)   and I (with Floppy Dog and the four parrots) logged a few miles on the RV before first light that autumn morning.  When dawn arrived, it  looked like any ordinary sunrise on any ordinary day.  But it was the first time in 48 years I had seen the sunrise over  the  Texas town where I was born.   Memories I didn’t know I possessed erupted from a place inside me I didn’t know existed.   A seldom-known sense of comfort and peace settled on me like the red Texas dust after a sand storm. I thought that I could smell bluebonnets and honeysuckle, though they had ceased to bloom months before. 

It was all hauntingly familiar, but it was not “ home.”

We moved on, heading further south.   The PLAN was to plunk down in Galveston, and from there explore the Gulf—New Orleans, Mobile, and on to Orlando.

So much for The PLAN.

I’d never even heard of this obscure little coastal town in which we found ourselves on that Sunday afternoon last October.   I never planned to be here.  I didn’t even know where “here” was.  I did know that  the Indian summer sun had sent the thermometer soaring to 108.  The RV’s air conditioner was overworked and under achieved.  We’d blown out a tire on the boat trailer.    Our  parrots were screaming, the floppy dog was whining. ELM and I were hungry, frustrated and just plain tired. 

So when we rounded the bend and viewed the white beaches, frothy waves, proud old shrimp boats and shore birds of all descriptions, it seemed like a good place to take a break.  We found a lovely oak-shaded resort with its own marina and restaurant on the bay.  By the time we had slipped the boat and finished dinner, I was enthralled with the view.  But when we walked out on the dock and the wild dolphins came right into our boat slip, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

The following morning we took the boat for a sail.  We had the entire 81 square-mile bay to ourselves.  The wind was steady and the sea was gentle.  There were butterflies in the middle of the bay.  The dolphins were all around us.  I felt as though we’d discovered a secret paradise.  

In the succeeding days, the bay has been quick to show us a few of her tricks—fog, gales, rain storms, sunsets and rainbows; and just as quick to share her bounty of fish and seafood  caught with our own hands.  The wild dolphins know our boat now and they always come to greet us.  We’ve made friends of seabirds and sailors, natives and winter Texans.  ELM claims  that this is the place he should have been born. I thought the novelty of the area would wear off and we’d soon be on the road again.   

Six months later, I still find myself waking before sunrise each morning, looking forward to the day and wondering what new gifts await us here in our version of Paradise. Where will we sail?  What will we see?  What will we discover?  Will there be shrimp or crab or oysters or a new viariety of fish?

 The people are friendly and fun.  The birds and wildlife never cease to entertain.  I find joy in every sunrise and serenity in every sunset.   Each day I become more comfortable, more at peace.  Each day is a gift of new friends, new experiences and always a surprise.   Will there be torrents and thunder storms, or rainbows and butterflies?   

I didn’t know what was missing.  All these years I’ve suspected that I was on the wrong path, going the wrong direction, but not knowing where to turn.   I felt out of phase and disconnected, as though Body, Mind and Spirit were somehow   misaligned.   But “sometimes on the way to your dream, you get lost and find a better one.” (. ..River @ Drifting Through Life)

 Against my “better” judgment, I can  feel myself putting down roots.  It’s risky business, getting attached to people and places and things.  Yet, it appears that this old stray dog has, at long last, found a porch to call her own.

So this is what ” home” feels like. 

Goodbye, California

I was fortunate enough to spend most of my adult life in the wine country of Northern California.  Although the cost of living prevented me from ever putting down roots, I came to love the area nonetheless.  The valley of patchwork vineyards nestled at the feet of blue mountains, decked with their whipped cream fog.    In the air, the pungent moods of the tidal river mingled with perfumes of new wine and roasting coffee beans.  It was close to the ocean and the bays.  And always, the valley’s  climate was second only to that of Camelot. 

              Over the years, the river was fenced off and made almost entirely inaccessible to the public.  Tall new buildings obscured the mountains.  My valley was so congested with tourists it was no longer the place I loved.  I felt like a tourist there myself. 

Still, it was beautiful-- achingly beautiful.   
Still, it was not my “home.”

It was, admittedly, difficult leaving the place where I’d spent the past 26 years of my life.  Leaving kids, grandkids and friends was harder still.  We decided to just drift for awhile.  We hiked in Yosemite and camped in Oregon’s Siskiyou Forrest.   We fished  the Rogue, the Smith and the Eel.  We sailed and sailed some more:  the San Juaquin Delta, and the bays of Suisun, San Pablo, Tomales, San Francisco  and Monterey.  (I’ll be inflicting more of those photos, together with the tales of gales and fish not caught upon you in some later posts.)

  It was late  July when we parted with California.  We loaded the RV with four squawking parrots, a floppy dog, a geriatric hairball of a cat and one pink-haired granddaughter (on loan for two weeks), and set out in search of our new life.  With sailboat in tow, we visited the Grand Canyon, and on to Carlsbad Caverns and Roswell’s alien museum. 

  Mid August found us in Kansas with my mother-in-law.  (At ninety-three, Mom still has her health and her intellect.  She can see and hear better than I do, and I’m not sure I could best her in a 50 yard dash.)  We planned to make our home in the little town of Caldwell.  We found huge lakes--24 of them—all too shallow to sail.  No mountains, no water, and the temperature  even in late September was 108. There was no cell phone service, and only two tv channels. There was no internet.  But then there were only 2 computers in town--ours and the one at the "library."  The nearest McDonalds (which I thought was mandatory even in every third-world village) was 35 miles away.  For sporting events, we bet on the nightly thunderstorm—how high the winds would be and the size of the hail stones. Seriously.   Every night.  

                Then suddenly, it was CCCCOLD!  That did it.  While my country-girl soul yearned for a simpler life, away from the crowds and the traffic,  folks in TinyTown are still marvelling at the miracle of indoor toilets.  The concept of being snowed in there for the winter  was vastly motivational.

                We headed south and didn’t stop until we hit the Gulf of Mexico.  Welcome to Texas, Y'all!

Living the Dream 1

 

Long before I retired my fondest wish was to hang a sign on the office door which said: 

GONE FISHING—BACK IN TWENTY YEARS.

The day finally came.  We poured $300 worth of gas into the tank of our newly-purchased-but-slightly-used RV.  We loaded up our four parrots, the dog, the little boat, all the fishing tackle we could carry and our cameras.  We  headed for  the Rogue River in Oregon, with visions of landing  legendary  bass and salmon, of breathtaking scenic landscapes and wildlife photos to make National Geographic take notice.

Imagine the Freedom!   No clocks to punch. No clients to appease. No deadlines to meet.  I was on my way to fishing/photography heaven.  We were truly On The Road [Again] , complete with Willie Nelson on the CD. 

We  made it a total of 99 miles before the RV through a generator belt.   ARGH!@#%!   By that time it was 4 pm on a Friday.  I knew that we had a better shot at winning the lottery than locating an RV mechanic that late on a Friday. 

So there we were.  We spent our first night as RV travelers overlooking the scenic vista of Walmart’s parking lot, observing the local “wildlife” foraging for an evening meal at Applebees.  I caught a can of Starkist  in the cupboard and then spent some quality time teaching the parrots a few new words.

The next morning we found a mechanic  who had us back on the road before noon.  By late evening we were properly camped RV-style, at Turtle Rock in Oregon, just outside of Gold Beach.  Sunday morning coffee on the beautiful beach at Turtle Rock, watching Melanie dog scamper in the sand and kick up her heels in the surf made the earlier inconvenience (not “the end of the world” after all) well worth the trouble.   And it was only the beginning…

 

                                   Gold Beach

                                            Turtle Rock

                                  Melanie’s morning

 

 

Travel easy, everyone and have a great weekend!

 

Love,

Bupu

Another New Beginning

Thanks to Mr. Ornery, who knocked on my door , so to speak, I decided to join all of you here.   I will miss the old Blogstream.  Its small-community atmosphere allowed me to forge friendships that I could not have found in the larger blog hosts.  Laughter, tears, healing, growing—it was all there. 

Happily, the community seems alive and well, friends finding friends.  Some have new names and everybody has a new look.  I’m really excited to get caught up on the new digs. 

  I thought of calling this blog Ebb Tide 2.  However, the closing of Blogstream comes at a time of major changes in my life.    The kids are grown.  My parents are both gone now (my father died a month ago).  I retired yesterday. It’s time for a new chapter in the Book of Bu.

 And it’s spring.  New life.  I walked beside the river early this morning, warm sun on my arms, wind in my face.  As if for the first time, I felt free.  I picked a stalk of wild mustard from its vast yellow blanket that stretches to the bay.  I thought of the mustard seed that often lies dormant for sixty years before it becomes a burst of color gracing the roadside, or the rock pile or the vineyard. 

There’s a substantial part of me that has been dormant, taking a back burner to family and livelihood.  Now it’s my time to germinate.  Who knows.  I might even bloom.

Love always,

 Bupu