Last Sail

It was blowing hard this afternoon. And freezing too. Fortunately, I was dressed for the wind and we took the boat out to Anclote Key, cruising back and forth enjoying scaring the crap out of each other as the boat keeled over. When we tried to skirt between the key and a sandbar, the boat scrapped bottom. That was a yucky sound. At first, I thought we hit a manatee.

Never got sick.

And another smooth landing.

So ends sailing in Florida.

The Tarpon Springs Writers Group

Here's the gang I have been hanging with throughout the year.
Vicki, Connie, Lloyd (Captain Jack), Bob, Laura, Pat, Alex, David, Suzanne, Elizabeth, Mike(Captain of Capt's Lady), Lee, Sonja, Abe and Sali.

For their input and critique, I owe them a lot.

More than Fur Balls

In preparation to vacate the condo, I’ve done as much pre-cleaning as possible. For example, since I don't anticipate using the oven or stove, I've cleaned that and it should stay clean. I shook out the bathroom rugs, ran them through the washer and hung them out to dry. That took two days.

I had a few errands to run in the morning. Before leaving I removed the trash from under the kitchen sink, but got distracted and accidentally left it in the kitchen. Inside the bag I had tossed a quarter of a sub sandwich with salami and hot peppers, a left over from last week’s sailing.

Meal time for the cats. After gorging on the meat, cheese, lettuce and other green things they vomited the undigested food all over the clean bathroom rugs.

Neither cat looked worse for the wear. Both patiently waited in the kitchen for their lunch all bright-eyed, sitting near their food bowls as innocent as angels. They watched me pick up little pieces of paper bag and sandwich wrappings scattered about the living room and clean up the soggy mess in the bathroom.

Lighter

In an effort to push myself away from the edge, I did some housekeeping this evening. That is, I went through my cell phone and erased old phone numbers. Some were pretty innocuous, reminders of events more than the people – Heith, the guy who fixed my fuel pump in North Carolina, or Carol, the lady who helped me clean a nasty apartment after I kicked out one of my tenants. Some numbers were old business contacts from my days with Design Management. Yes, how many years ago was that? A couple numbers I had acquired in Hawaii - previous landlords, real estate agents and the like. I even had numbers for two talk show hosts. Gone, all gone.

There were a few names with numbers I couldn’t recall. The other day I called Mary, asked if I could sleep on her couch if my job went beyond midnight since I had a 5 am assignment the following morning. Turns out I have no idea who I left that message with. The Mary I intended to call was listed under a single letter – L, an abbreviation for her roommate. Obviously, a bad filing system. Fortunately, I didn’t have to sleep on anyone’s couch. I erased the mystery Mary and then wiped out all the supervisors and team leaders with RGIS, the company I had been working for. Mary and Lori are still listed under L.

I erased old tenants and tenants’ mothers.

Some numbers belonged to people who I barely knew – the guy at the West Marine Store who thought I was cute and was at least twenty years younger, the broker in Honolulu who always seemed too busy, a high school classmate (we did dance up a storm six years ago, but that was it), etc… While none of the numbers belonged to any guys picked up in a bar, that’s the picture of the rest of the numbers I erased.

Yep, moving away from the edge. The phone isn’t any lighter for my effort, but I am. Now for my email…

Last Week

I was thinking about all the stuff I didn’t do while I was in Florida this past year. Things like go see the mermaids at Weeki Wachee Springs, the mouse in Orlando and the school teachers in Sarasota. With only seven days left in Tarpon Springs, I have run out of time, especially when I have to be in New Orleans on Friday.

My last inventory assignment is tonight. I got called in four hours early. I assume the job will be a bear, much like last Saturday night when I worked until 2 AM recounting racks long after the rookies left. (How you can have four stacks of jeans with eight pairs in each pile and not know that totals 32 is beyond me?) After four months I’m considered a seasoned pro in a profession with high turn over.

I’ve said good bye to my three writers groups, the staff at church and a few people at work. It’s like closing down the circus. Everyone enjoyed the show, glad you came to town, but life continues long after the bear with the tutu leaves town.

Why the heck am I leaving such a great place? Sure the weather has been a little too cold for me, but it ain’t New York. The past year was about learning to make a commitment and to quit living out of a box. After nearly three years of doing so, it was hard to sign my name on the dotted line and say, “Okay, I’ll live here for a year.” Guess I got beyond that when I bought a condo in Hawaii. But honestly, it still churns my stomach.

I imagined sequestering myself in the condo for a year, pounding the keys on my lap top as I created my novel. Pieces of the book fell into place, but I backtracked several times as I learned more from my writers groups. Ah, those writers groups. Unexpected treasures.

I ventured out and found support and friends at church, the health club, in the condos and work. I got connected...even found a couple of guys.

And there were the Terbushes. Bob and Angie. Chuck and Susan.

With friends, writing, writers groups, kayaking, sailing, running, roller blading, swimming, and that crazy part-time job who had time for mermaids, mice and school teachers?

I really should have seen the school teachers.

Odd Unity

This morning, a friend emailed that his father passed away on December 8. He lost his mother fifteen months earlier, just three days before my mom died. He shared his father’s eulogy which brought tears to my heart.

Since Mom died, two close friends have lost their mothers. Each time my heart tore open a little more, yet in a way, it healed a bit more too. There has been a closer identification with those who have experienced this loss. While I have known others to lose their mothers before I lost my own, I have only been able to acknowledge their loss, never capable of comprehending the emptiness.

Now I truly identify with the grief that seeps into the soul. It never leaves. It isn’t debilitating, but it can be a heavy load that keeps each future second in perspective.

In some odd way, I created my own private club, comprised of those who lost their mothers since I lost mine. Maybe I belong to the clubs of those who lost their mothers before me, gaining membership after I lost Mom.

Disturbance

Below the surface a dolphin is rounding up his dinner. This guy was huge. When he shot past the dock I was amazed at his size, speed, agility and power. I saw him come to the surface with a fish in his mouth!

Getting hit by one of these creatures would kill you.

Stand up Comedy

I’ve fantasized about doing a little stand up comedy routine, but I felt I could never write anything as sophisticated and laugh worthy as Rita Rudner who I admire. But last night at the East Lake Library I had them laughing for fifteen minutes as I delivered my self-publishing stores. I shared the stage with three other authors, all self-published at the monthly Author’s Showcase.

Of course, I plugged the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and in the end I sold two books and gave one away to Pat and Alex, a dear elderly couple from Peru who attend the Tarpon Springs Writers Group on Fridays. Several people commented that I should be making a circuit of women’s groups and engaging in other speaking events.

Most liked was the line about my niche target market, a market so small no large publisher would pick up my book. I estimated the target - defined as menopausal women who do crazy things such as sailing across the ocean in a boat with no bathroom - at no larger than forty-seven. Two were in the audience.

A few asked what happened to the captain. I got to smile.

Sailing Part II

There were a few white caps on the bay and occasionally enough breeze to cause me to ask the captain if he was scared. I was when I had the helm and the tiny boat keeled over enough to bring a bit of water onto the deck. If he had the helm, I wasn’t afraid. I just didn’t want to be the one to tip the boat over. Water temperatures are now 59 degrees. Too damn cold for an accident and I happened to carry my wallet in my hip pocket. Wouldn’t want my proof of car insurance to get soaked.

I brought the Capt’s lady in for the second time, negotiating the canal’s channel to the dock while Captain Mike tied down the sails and secured the cover. Before reaching the dock, I cut the motor and glided the boat in for a perfect landing missing the multi-thousand dollar speed boat moored along side. “Whatever you do, don’t hit that boat.” The captain warned. No worries.




Next scheduled trip, Friday, although it is suppose to be breezy it will only be 66 degrees.

Cha-ching!

I don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch, but the blessings are already rolling in. Client called today and asked for outplacement for fifty-five people in New Orleans. That should bring a cash infusion to the tune of nearly seven grand after taxes, expenses and tithe.

But the blessings are just beginning. For the past two years I have had a tear in my fabric of my soul that I couldn’t mend. The relationship ended badly. We were not meant for each other and abruptly ended our contact on some ugly terms. It has bugged the shit out of me for all these months. I’ve regretted it. I have forgiven him, but that was only half the equation. I needed to ask for his forgiveness. It wouldn't matter if he gave it. I just had to ask. I prayed for the opportunity, but had little faith I would ever have the chance.

Last Sunday, I asked God to get him out of my head. My friend Rob once told me you had to be careful for what you pray for. Out of the blue on Monday I sat staring at my email in box, afraid to open an email from him. Contained within, blessing number two. I asked. He forgave.

My heart filled to the brim with healing. I’m on the mend. And God works in amazing and unexplainable ways.

Woohoo.

Oh yeah, the two tenants who had not paid their rent, ponied up today. I was down to my last two hundred with thirteen days of the month left!

Guaranteed

Since I have volunteered to work days and nights and I have been doing both, I haven’t had much time for writing. If I’m not working, or traveling to or from the job sites, or sleeping on strangers’ couches (actually, they were angels) or spending the hours between jobs at a friend’s condo in St. Pete to avoid traveling 50 miles back and forth to work (which turned out to be just what I needed as we later went roller-blading and then he treated me to dinner), I’m tiding up those loose ends so I can depart Florida…buy cat food, get condo insurance, order a u-haul, clean the kitchen….

Last Sunday my church gave a 100% money back guarantee on your tithe. On a contract, sort of speak, you were to sign God’s Guarantee to give 10% of your income for a 90 day period and each time you receive your paycheck take out 10% for the Lord and give it to First Christian Church. If not blessed within those ninety days, or if it causes financial hardship, or if the decision was a mistake, the church will refund the money.

“Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this, says the Lord Almighty. "And see if I will not throw open the flood gates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it.” Malachi 3:10

There aren’t many times God says, “test me.” But here is one.

Recognizing God’s ownership and my stewardship, and wanting the blessings promised, I chose to accept God’s Guarantee challenge.

After all, I’m working for no good reason except to have some money for Europe in May. Since I don’t need it, I can give 10% and with a guarantee to have “so much blessings you won’t have room for it”…what the heck.

Will keep you posted. Meanwhile, I’m going to take a nap.

Blink, Blink

Toad blinked first. And not only once but twice. One year, eleven months and two days. Hasn't changed a bit. As arrogant, self-centered and anal as ever. With National Toad Day around the corner, the Toad will fit right in.

Oh, I so had to say that.

Too funny.

Sailing

Three weeks before I leave Florida I get asked to crew onboard Capt's Lady.

I told you a year that starts onboard a boat is going to be a good one!

Cold Snap

Ice in the bird feeders. Frost on the strawberries. Rumors of snow flurries in Daytona.
How cold does it get in Hawaii? Not this damn cold unless you are watching a sunrise on Haleakalau or a sunset on Mauna Kea. Either way, a quick descent in a matter of within the hour you can dip your toes in the warm ocean waters, look back up the mountains and marvel at the change in temperature. Here in Florida we look forward to the seventies by the weekend. It is a long wait.

Meanwhile, I should be working on my taxes. Instead, I’m packing a few boxes. Media mail. Destination. The Big Island. Every box reminds me of shipping stuff from Micronesia and Majuro and later from Hawaii back to the mainland. I should have never left. But then, I'd probably be waitressing at Java Lava coffee shop. Instead, I get to postpone that experience until later.

Dad gave me a calendar of America, a small supplement to Reader’s Digest. Each month splashed with beauty, but it wasn’t the steep forested slopes and brilliant blue waters of the six-mile wide Crater Lake formed by the fiery eruption and collapse of Mazama almost 70,000 years ago, nor the Tahquamenon Falls of Upper Michigan, nor the somber site of Burnside Bridge on the tranquil afternoon where once 23,000 Union and Confederate soldiers died in a twelve hour battle that grabbed my heart. I turned the pages and saw a sea of red poppies, a cascading water fall in West Virginia, the stubby coast of Maine’s shoreline, and golden rays of sunlight beneath thickening clouds of Mt. Katahdin.

Then my eyes landed on June. I felt what I saw. A valley of mist touched by a rainbow. It is Hawaii. And I feel to be there.

Finding Things

On my “ To Do” List I have many things… to do. This month will be busy between closing on the condo, organizing my move out of Florida andcleaning up my messes and various projects I’ve scatter about the country and in my mind. There isn’t a better time to get started than on a cold and blustery day, the third day of January 2008.

This morning, I expected to wrangle up my tax documents and other scraps of paper that say I made this and spent that on things I do for a living – writing and land lording. No consulting in 2007. Except there are a million other projects to distract my short attention even if these tasks are neatly lined up in order of priority on my computer screen.

I cleaned out the filing cabinet looking for gas and postage receipts. It is an art to throw away things once perceived of value or necessity – a flyer from the Adirondack Club, a membership application for the Tampa Sailing Club and several recipes, saved for whatever reason because the world knows I avoid cooking. I’m getting pretty good at tossing, because I have moved several times to less than permanent places in the last four years. Nevertheless, I accumulated my fair share of stuff during my stay in Tarpon Springs and I can ruthlessly discard.

While rooting around the cabinet I came across two things. The first, a photo of Mom and me. It was the last photo of us taken by Dad the morning I left on The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin Book Tour, about a month before she passed away. I have my arm around Mom. We are standing in the living room. I look like crap, she looks pretty good. The photo is not in focused and that makes the picture even more special.

If only I had known it was to be the last time I’d put my arm around my mother. The last time I’d see her standing, smiling, alive for the camera. It’s probably the last photo of Mom. Well, if I’d known, what would I have done? Hugged her again? Asked Dad to take another photo? Combed my hair? Not been so caviler about my departure?

Of course not. If I had known, I never would have left.

With the photo, I had tucked an article written by Larkin Warren. It is titled, “How to Grieve.” It appeared in AARP magazine, July and August 2007, page 55.

I don’t have permission to reprint it. I hope Mr. Warren and AARP don’t get huffy about sharing it. Obviously, it means a lot to me. After all, I ripped it out of the magazine and kept it and now when it's time to weed it out, … it makes the cut and I’m keeping it.

How to Grieve

“After the first death, there is no other,” wrote Dylan Thomas. That doesn’t mean the ones that come after won’t break your heart, but it’s the first that punches your soul’s passport. Welcome, fellow human, to a different country than the one you woke up to this morning. The air’s different here; so is the scenery. Your knees don’t work so well; in fact, you may want to fall to them.

For a precious little while you are allowed to be stunned into silence, or to shriek, or to talk—recounting stories of who he was, what she meant to you, and how it all came to an end. Tell those stories. Some people may try to enforce “The Rules”, to wit: Enough of This Drama Is Enough. Ignore them. Besides, if you treat yourself gently and take the time you need, someday soon you’ll hear the faint but steady voice of your own good sense. Play music you love, sit in the sunshine if you can find some, and if anyone offers you a hand, hold it. Let them feed the cat, too, because they want to be useful. If your good sense does not kick in on its own, help it along; scramble some eggs. It will feel strange at first. But if you pretend that scrambling eggs is normal, eventually it will become normal. Soon you can squeeze some orange juice, too.

For some of us the stay in this new country seems endless. But time passes, seasons change, and, truly, would those we grieve for want us to mope? Come with me, back into the world. We’ll return to this land someday, all too soon, but in the meantime the garden needs weeding, the bills need paying. Your other loved ones need you. And you, my sweet friend, you could use a shampoo.

I've noticed the days are getting longer too.

“Man Overboard”

Good things can be expected from a New Year when it begins with a boat outing. I accepted the invitation to join Chuck and family onboard the Two Terbs. The cold front wasn’t expected to arrive until later tonight so I said yes.

The trip was a pleasant cruise down the Anclote River in search of wildlife – osprey, dolphin and manatee. I opted not to sit in the bow. Been there, done that. It’s windy and can be wet. Turned out the back end of the boat wasn’t much calmer or drier. I lost my brand new Java Lava hat and I confess I was freezing after getting doused with sea water. Teeth were chattering as we began the cruise home.

Since I was wet and I thought it prudent to keep the captain onboard when we ran aground, I slipped over the side. Reminded me of those times I watched Micronesians do the same thing in the shallow water inside the reef around the island of Pohnpei. Except the water is warmer and clearer, and the footing is soft white sand instead of some mysterious spongy dark goop.

I dragged the boat back into deeper waters, thinking African Queen. Chuck revved up the motor and we headed for the deeper waters of the river, while I checked to make sure I wasn’t covered in leeches. By then the idiot light indicating low oil came on.

Ah, boating. It is always an adventure.

Hi Bob!!
Last Three Photos by Susan Terbush

12:22

Silence.

The barrage of fireworks from the condo complex across the canal has concluded. It began about 8:30. Phoenix took the commotion calmly. Diablo retired to under the bed after witnessing a red and white rocket explode overhead. Stunned for a moment and she then slunk off as smoke drifted down the waterway like a thick cloud on a New England sea coast.

2008. Yes, twenty seconds ago it was 2000.

Last Day

“The is nothing more important than today,” read the inscription on the bracelet advertised in the Sky Mall magazine. Most likely true, but if it was so darned important why was I sitting on the tarmac at the Albany airport, delayed just enough to miss the connecting flight in Newark. Waste of time. I tapped my fingers on the Continental in-flight magazine and sighed. The December issue, dog-eared.

Since this was my seventh Continental flight of the month I had thumbed through the same issue enough times to know the exact location of the Suduko and cross word puzzles, the three page spread of the world map and the advertisement for the ten day tour to Costa Rica for $995. I also had read Jules Older's advice on winter travel. The editor in chief for two ski magazines said, “If you miss your connecting flight and the service desk tells you the next confirmed flight to your destination is 48 hours away, don’t panic.” Say what? I’d kill someone if I had to spend two days waiting on a plane in the Newark Airport.

“Lord,” I prayed. “I’ll need a little help being Christ-like in this situation. Like when I manage to get off this plane and I have three minutes to connect and my gate is seven furlongs away.” (I used the horse racing term, because that was what I'd have to do - race.) Christ walked on water, I’d have to float through at time continuum of restricted space reserved for all those baggage handlers dressed in jump suits the same gray color as the Newark skyline.

I felt a writing frenzy coming on - a two day study of the comings and goings at the airport. Maybe a few choice photos of security things I shouldn’t take photos of and someone from TSA might kick me out of the place. The whole incident could end up on Fox News! The thought of this project calmed me down as long as I didn’t think about the fact that my camer and cell phone battery chargers were in my luggage that I’d never see again.

My mind wandered to New Year resolutions. I had already made one. When riding in the back seat of a vehicle I'd use the seat belt. I estimated I’d be in the back seat of a vehicle about sixteen times in 2008, mostly at Christmas in my sister’s Subaru.

By the time I started to get to the more serious resolutions (being more Christ-like), the jet engines flared up and we taxied down the runway. I studied the layout of the Newark Terminals in the back of the magizne. If luck was to be had, I might be able to make the connection.

We arrived nine minutes before departure. I passed two people on the jet way and came to a screeching halt at the gate’s desk where I confirmed my departing gate. No sense running through the airport like OJ, only to arrive at the wrong gate. Mathematically, my departing plane sat eleven gates away, down the corridor, two left turns away. I began to count down. 106, 104, 102…,and around the counter gate 70. Shit. 72...

What began as a brisk walk turned into a trot with hiking boots and weighted down with a small but heavy backpack. Second left just ahead, but a departure monitor sat on the corner. Collected underneath, a gaggle of travelers paid homage - heads up, mouths open, eyes squinting - to the long display. I dodged among them, but my shoulder clipped a bag. I should have said excuse me. Instead I asked for divine intervention. “Don’t let my carelessness ruin their day, Lord.” I quickly moved on.

Two kids were playing on the moving side walk, skipping along against the traffic flow. Don’t hit the kids. Don’t hit the kids became my mantra as I side stepped the annoyance. Head, loomed 90. Then 92. On the right, gate 95. I broke my trot on the last conveyor belt and glided to the gate, pleased that the jet way door was still opened.
“Name,” the agent asked.
Trying not to gasp, I told him my last name. Despite being in good shape, the anxiety of spending 48 hours in my least favorite airport elevated the heart rate to a pace equivalent of a sprinter who just ran the 100 yard dash.
“Any chance I could go to the ladies room first?” I asked.
“We are leaving now.”
"Any chance my bags are going to make this flight?"
“Oh sure,” he replied without so much as a flinch despite the bold-faced lie. I knew the luggage didn’t have a pray. As I walked down the jet way, a caught my breath and pretended to be that ever so important traveler. I whipped out my cell phone to call Bob. “Plane’s on time. I’ll see you in the terminal.”

Whoever was sitting in 29D was not a happy camper. As I causally walked to my seat and mistakenly thought he was in mine, I unfortunately encountered him. He corrected my error with a growl and couldn’t unglue his eyes from the little hinge on the back of the seat that held the tray table in place. I settled in, sitting ahead of him, thirsty and in need of a pit stop.

Upon reaching that undefined place in the air - somewhere after take off and well before the use of portable electronic devices and the captain reaching a comfortable cruising altitude - I gently reclined my seat. The Grump (a man with thick glasses and flat white hair with that haunting yellowish tinge)immediately whacked the back of my seat with enough force to jar my head forward. I smiled. Actually, chuckled a little and said outloud, “Thanks, God.” I got a sideways glance from my seat companion. Surprisingly, I slipped into a calm and waited for the captain to give the permission to move about the cabin.

Ding. The seat belt sign was turned off. To retreat to the bathroom, I raised the aisle arm rest to slip out of the seat. Most people don’t know these things retract. The Grump yelled, yes yelled, “You are crushing my knees in everyway possible.”

He obviously didn’t have my imagination. I saw a rock hammer slam, then cars collide, and an alligator chomp with its vice-like jaws. No, I had hardly crushed his knees in everyway possible. I turned and faced him. What on earth made him so crabby? He was on the same plane that made me so happy? In an equally loud voice, I said, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” A couple of old ladies' heads turned and that as the end of that.

For the rest of the flight I entertained myself lip-syncing the dialogue to the 1980's Family Ties Christmas show. I had seen it for the fifth time in three weeks.

My luggage missed the connection. I went to bed after I tacked a note on the front door and left a cooler under the porch light.


December 30, 2007

Hey Luggage Delivery Guy,

Thanks so much for my two bags. Please leave them under the stairway by my door.

In the cooler there is a Zero Vanilla Coke. I’ve been away - obviously. It’s the only thing in the refrigerator besides Soy Milk and I didn’t think you would enjoy that. Feel free to accept the refreshment. A little bit of caffeine may help you finish your night.

Be safe and have a great New Year!

Valerie Perez
376 Moorings Cove Drive

Author
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin

When I woke my bags sat under the stairs and the Coke was gone.

There was nothing more important than yesterday, but I get to have the same great experiences today.

Have a wonder-filled New Year and may you be as blessed as I am.

American Chop Suey

Chop Suey is a bland mixture of overcooked vegetables that includes onion, celery, bamboo shoots and thin noodles. It comes with some bland pale white sauce and barely sees soy sauce touch the dish. Yep, it is American but what urban legend is the truth about its origin? I personally like the story of an angered cook and the mispronunciation of “chopped sewage.”

Maybe because I’m from Saratoga Springs and the locals all know the story of the potato chip, invented by another angered cook. I think if I were to open a restaurant I’d name it “The Angry Cook.”

Other lore has the suey placating hungry miners and railroad workers. And then there is the theory that mothers know. Mix up some leftover surprise slop, give it an exotic name and kids will eat it.

But what I want to know is where does Chop Suey, a "Chinese" concoction, become American Chop Suey, a goolosh dish of macaroni, tomatoes and ground beef. Walk into small town New Hampshire diners and order Chop Suey and you’ll get a dish that resembles a bad Hamburger Helper dish, a shocking expectation if you were looking forward to a cabbage-noodle combo. From a small diner in New Hampshire how far does one have to drive to get the "Chinese" food?

I offer no recipes for either dish.

Christmas Day