Just look at this picture. You can smell it, can't you?
There's nothing quite like the smell of bacon. That salty, sizzly goodness, especially fried to a crispy dark brown in an iron skillet, is one of the best smells and flavors around. Maybe it's my pioneer Indiana roots, iron skillets used to cook salt pork over an open fire in the hearth of a log cabin, the abundance of pork, raised in Southwestern Indiana, packed and shipped to far away ports, like New Orleans...
Yep, I have an affinity for bacon, especially thick cut, meaty bacon. The fat has to be brown and crispy. If it's springy and chewy, I gag. I'll eat it cut to any thickness, but I prefer the thicker cuts.
The smell of it frying in the morning immediately takes me back in time.
My dad was a breakfast connoisseur, often getting up early to make it for himself or the fam. Bacon, spam, mush, eggs, potatoes and such were typically on the menu. If you don't know mush, you don't have Appalachian roots (I see ya Kentucky and Southern Indiana!). But the smell of bacon often reminds me of early childhood and dad on the weekends in the kitchen. Mom liked to sleep in.
My Uncle John would be the first adult up on trips to our Sullivan, Indiana, cabin. I'd be sleeping on the cool sheen of Grandma Doyle's old couch in the living room and on the other side of the bar, Uncle John would be banging around in the kitchen. I'd hear the iron skillet come out and soon the sound and smell of bacon! That would rouse me from sleep the quickest. The smell of bacon reminds me of those cool, musty mornings in that old cabin, Dad and Uncle Al asleep on old Army cots on the screened porch, kids sprawled about the floor in sleeping bags, the smell of the smoldering fire pit wafting through the open windows. There was dampness from the swampy land Grandpa Doyle purchased for the family cabin, a low spot on Greenbriar Lake, a spring-fed strip mine pit, abandoned in the late 40's/early 50's.
There were countless mornings at my house, cooking breakfast for my girls, bacon first into the skillet before scrambling eggs or making muffins, toast or biscuits. Thanks to my Dad, I've always been a fan of breakfast. First thing when I get up, the coffee is brewing and I'm getting food out of the fridge. My girls would often wake to that glorious smell. It signifies some of the simplest, yet happiest memories for me of fatherhood. And when we'd go to the family cabin, I'd be the one up early banging around the kitchen, looking for that old skillet. My girls would be asleep on inflatable mattresses just long enough for their short bodies, built-in Disney Princess sleeping bags on top. The couch long gone, along with the interior walls, my ex and I would have just slept through the night on an inflatable mattress of our own. A day of fishing, swimming, exploring and rowing would usually begin with the smell of bacon and that smoldering firepit just outside the cabin. Sometimes, I'd even regnite the coals and cook out there over the open flame.
That brings me full circle to my pioneer roots.
Our cabin, built by Dad's father, was about two counties north of where Mom's family, my pioneer ancestors from the East Coast, settled circa 1811. In those days, rough hewn logs from recently felled trees were notched and placed, like Lincoln Logs, into a rectangular shelter, fireplace at one end for heat and for cooking. I can imagine my 5th great uncles banging around with the iron skillet and setting some salted pork or smoked bacon in to start sizzling to perfection.
That smell, tops among all other food smells (garlic being a close second), is what takes me right back to my childhood, to the cabin, to fatherhood and makes me very happy. The payoff, the thick, crispy breakfast meat, is the end result every time. Paired with a couple of over-medium eggs and skillet potatoes, maybe an English muffin hot and buttered, is one of my favorite meals, so good I'd eat it three times a day!
I posted to Facebook on May 30 that I was about to celebrate one year since returning to my happy place--Fort Myers Beach, FL. It was May 30, 2023, that my brother and I loaded what I had left since leaving Evansville (and most of my things) and made a road trip south. We drove down Interstate 65 from the southside of Indianapolis (Wannamaker, to be exact) all the way to Panama City Beach, taking U.S. 231 out of Montgomery, AL, to the white sand shores of the Florida Panhandle. We landed at my sister, Heidi Jacob's, new place that evening.
Wasting no time on May 31, we travelled down I-10 and made a stop in Tallahassee. I spent many years in the Capital City, starting my adult life, going to college, gaining employment and beginning a family there (1986-2006; 2014-2020). My brother, 10 years my junior, spent some of his formative years, 1986-89, in a three-bedroom apartment. We drove through the old complex where we once lived, then toured campus and several areas of town, before re-starting our journey to SWFL.
It was after dark the night of the 31st last May, that he and I pulled onto a dark and desolate barrier island still marked by devastation. There was an uneasy, eerie feeling as we drove under the crosswalk at Margaritaville and south down Estero Blvd. The place looked like a ghost town, the shells of buildings and piles of debris everywhere. Not many street lights were in operation at the north end, so we drove slowly down that dark, desolate road. Making the turn at Connecticut St and into the Beach Baptist property, it still felt very surreal. Knocking on Pastor Shawn's door at 9:30 at night, a surprise visitor with a brother he'd never even met, was equally as surreal.
He embraced me like a brother (which he has been since 2011) and instructed me where to store my things and that "work begins at 9:00," under the tent. I learned the next day that the church had just erected the tent and had moved most of what was stored under the damaged church building into it. My job began promptly at 8:30 June 1st, helping Jerry Warren and a few volunteers that morning move pallets, break down boxes and get the place organized. They were reopening their food pantry and disaster resource center and setting up a temporary worship center under the tent. I helped there through the summer heat and made lasting friendships.
At the end of our workday, I ventured over to the beach for the second or third time since my arrival the night before. I couldn't believe I had awakened that day on MY BEACH!!! I headed over from the tent, sweaty, a trucker cap hiding my wet, disheveled hair, and made a video for my daughters to let them know I was safe and sound.
My beard, as you can see in the above video, was epic! I kept that for several months until a female friend told me how badly it aged me. Good thing I shaved it, too, as my girlfriend doesn't care for it...AT. ALL! (And honestly, I was starting to look like Captain Caveman, LOL!)
Fast forward almost four months and we were preparing for the first anniversary of Ian on September 28, 2023. I'd met Jenn Turbeville while volunteering at the church. We sat down in July for our first extended conversation, which turned into an FMB Islander interview, about the commemoration to be held that day, and became REVIVE THE VIBE.
So I should back up a bit...
I was serving under the big, hot tent in early July when the thought occurred to me that, other than Beach Talk Radio, no one was really covering island news. I had once worked for the Island Sand Paper, an FMB-specific weekly, a decade ago. I decided I would start telling the island's stories once again, so I started the online paper, the FMB Islander.
Back to September 28th, and the festivities were underway at Bayside Park and in the last two blocks of Old San Carlos Blvd. in the island's "downtown district." I'm enjoying a beverage as I walk through a lively crowd at Wahoo Willie's. I get pulled over to a bayside-facing table by an old friend, a dear friend from Indiana who's lived down here in the Iona area for decades! She informed me, when I asked about my ex, that she was available after getting out of a 10-year marriage.
Hold the phone. Come again??
That planted the seed that months later took root and grew into a beautiful new relationship. But in the meantime, I reconnected with several old friends, including my partner in crime (and beach misfit and fatherhood) Christopher Alward. We became reacquainted while he was recovering from a leg amputation just below his knee. Around Thanksgiving 2023, he lost his other leg and I spent some time at Gulf Coast Medical Center with him. He kept me abreast of the ex's whereabouts as they'd kept up a decades-long friendship through social media and occasional interaction. She'd helped him and his neighbors out in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Ian.
Alward took me in when I needed a place to stay and he needed companionship and someone to help out with his dog, cooking, cleaning, shopping, etc. While I was living in his off-island apartment, I reached out by text to the only number I had for Lynn Ann Farber, the woman I'd left on Mango St, FMB, February 13, 2014. It was months before she'd respond that the old Fort Wayne, IN, area code number was still her cell number.
I was dealing with health issues at the time and our paths had crossed so many times, including the hospital in late January. She'd dropped a patient to the ER where I was staying to await my pacemaker surgery Jan. 25, 2024. She contemplated coming to find me and check on my condition. She was worried about me, but I was completely unaware. I had thought I might run into her there. From her profile picture on Facebook, I'd known that she'd been working in EMS as an emergency medical technician for Lee County.
It wasn't two weeks late that she finally reached out for conversation, first by text from that old number I still had in my phone. Apparently, that wasn't all I'd saved for her. There was still unresolved business and a lot of love left in my heart from all those years ago (nearly a DECADE TO THE DAY!). It was February 10th when our text conversation at 4:45 p.m. turned into hours of phone conversation and a desire to reconnect. Two days later, she was at the apartment with Alward and I sharing drinks, memories and laughs. It felt like the decade between the three of us had magically vanished in mere hours. She wasn't even IN our apartment before the laughter over some shenanigans had begun.
Lynn and Alward shenanigans at Danny's Saloon in March
I met her in the parking lot and she was rummaging through her work gear in the SUV. Within minutes, I was doubled over laughing with her as I donned her jumpsuit, helmet and EMS gear, including blue latex gloves. The only thing that wouldn't fit me (or make it into that apartment) were her work boots. They were too small for my size 12.5 feet. The connection was instantaneous. The minute we locked eyes, it was over for the both of us.
Not long after, I was living with her back on the island, which I had missed for MONTHS by that point! Our love affair restarted, we boasted that we were rewriting the end of our story. We still are.
To recap, I returned to this beach the night of May 31, 2023. The next morning, I wasted no time grafting myself back into my first beach family, the Cristsers and their Beach Baptist family. I met my newest sister, DebyRoxane, that first morning and my brother, Jerry Warren, June 1st. He started bossing me around immediately and we joked about his OCD way of doing things and his "Illinois engineering" degree. LMAO!
In the first week, I reconnected with my musical brother, Craig Nelms, who had me volunteering at the church's food pantry (Choice Market) way back in 2011. So many new friends were made under that tent in the first two months I was here. I even joined Nelms' band "Simply-Fi" in August and played through some serious health concerns until mid-January. It was a blast! I didn't even own a set of drums anymore, but we worked out a solution.
Fred Johnson, the band's guitarist through December, became another musical brother and we remain in contact to this very day. In fact, he tagged me yesterday in a comment on FB. So many others, like Ollie Curan, Howie Hoffman, Turtle Rick, Jenn (who I mentioned above) and "Aunt" Pat, island icons, became instant friends. I found a home on the island among them, moving into a party house behind the Catholic Church until I moved in with Chris Alward, circa Thanksgiving Weekend.
So many great memories have been made this last year and three weeks on the beach, at places like Rude Shrimp, Wahoo Willie's, Danny's Saloon, The Whale, Times Square...
My work writing and reporting for the FMB Islander has introduced me to so many more friends than I would have otherwise met. Going to the Tiki Bar at the Lighthouse for NFL Sundays introduced me to more Hoosiers (and Colts fans) than I even knew existed on this island! I also met lots of Packers, Vikings, Bears and Browns fans, too! This island is made up mostly of Midwesterners! I've even made connections to my Indianapolis high school (our football coach's sister lives mid-island).
It has been a joy to relocate back to this seven-mile stretch of paradise. If I ever leave here, it'll either be for a tiny houseboat in Key West or by body bag. Period.
There are many reasons why people might hurt those they love, includingintentional and unintentional actions.Some reasons might include:
Emotional baggage: This could include guilt, self-loathing, or shame.
Fear: This could be a fear of intimacy, losing someone, or being unmasked.
Control: This could be a desire to assert control or independence.
Boundaries: This could be testing relationship boundaries.
Expectations: This could be expecting a lot from the other person.
Overreaction: This could be overreacting to a perceived slight.
Self-destructive behavior: This could include lying, cheating, or betraying.
Responsibility: This could be the responsibility that comes with being in love, where words and actions can have a big impact on someone else. (From Google AI)
"Once you've triggered them, they are going to resort to the same pattern behavior and speak from their trauma, not from their truth." ~Me
It's a sad fact of life that we shit all over the people closest to us. We take for granted the people in our lives, especially our families, because they've always been there for us. As close as you can possibly get to unconditional love in this life is with those in your inner circle. And because they typically won't leave you, they suffer your insufferability. They put up with all your shit.
I've been getting shit on a lot lately.
And I hate being taken for granted. I'm a nice guy and a good person, so it happens WAY too often. But it only hurts to your core when it's done by those you love most in this world.
In recent weeks, I've had reason to call out some pretty bad behaviors in those closest to me. Pattern behaviors by some, just outright bad behavior by others. And each time, it was turned around on me and I ended up getting viscously attacked.
The attacks seemed particularly viscous because of their nature, the reason and the target.
I didn't do anything to bring on the attacks. Like I said, I was merely making observations and pointing out particularly bad behaviors, acts of self-sabotage and such.
It takes a real man to own up to his own shortcomings. I've done that since my early 30's. I've been pretty transparent about my issues, my human faults and bad behaviors. I've tried to practice humility, like all the spiritual gurus have taught from Confucius through Jesus and Mohammed. I've blogged about it here DOZENS of times. It's central to my evolving faith and personality. So why can't I expect that same self-awareness from those I love most??
It seems to escape them, despite them all being intelligent, reasonably mature individuals.
But instead of owning their bad behaviors, they felt it necessary to project and deflect by lashing out at me and attacking my character. I'm sorry, what? My character didn't suddenly change because you perceive that I'm attacking you! The good person that you know me to be didn't suddenly become evil incarnate just because you don't like what I said. How about taking a LOOK IN THE MIRROR and see if what I pointed out is true. They KNEW that it was and that's why it bothered them so bad.
I get it. People don't like to be called on their shit. It's embarassing, humbling, uncomfortable, inconvenient...and can seem like an attack, especially to those who can't take one ounce of criticism. Often those who've suffered CPTSD brought on by childhood trauma can't take any criticism AT ALL! It's ALWAYS perceived as an attack.
But I didn't wake up one day and just decide to go on the offensive and start attacking those that I love. Why would I do that? I'm not a self-sabotager. I'm self aware. I'm the same person that all of those closest to me learned to love and admire. My behavior isn't at issue.
Still, I call out the behavior, not in a mean, vindictive or judgmental way, just as a conscious observer of those whom I care about most. Do I want them to live their lives in denial, repeating the same dangerous patterns or repeating the same false narrative so many times that they actually believe it? HELL TO THE NO!!!
If I love you, I'm not going to sit idly by and watch you spiral out of control, crash to the ground and burn to death! That's not what loving individuals who care about you DO!
But in the moment, after being called out, they can't be expected to behave rationally or deal with your criticism like a mature adult. Once you've triggered them, they are going to resort to the same pattern behavior and speak from their trauma, not from their truth. (QUOTE THAT!)
I've experienced this many times. I let things go until they become untenable, then I choose to bring receipts to the conversation where I sit them down and say, "Hey, enough. This is harmful behavior. It's hurting both of us. And that's not okay."
Then my character gets assassinated?
I'm sorry, in what universe is that acceptable?
Why am *I* now on the defensive? Did I put a gun to your head and say "mistreat me?" Did I do the bad behavior that I'm calling out? Is it my pattern being observed and corrected? NOPE! I did nothing but try to love you and bring some awareness to your behavior, as difficult as it was for me to do so after years of observation.
I'll be bluntly honest here. I was triggered most recently by my own daughters. The bad behavior I called out was snubbing me on Father's Day. Instead of an "I'm sorry" or "I forgot, my bad," I got a litany of excuses as to why I DON'T DESERVE to be honored and how I NEVER EARNED the title nor the respect.
EXCUSE ME?
I didn't choose you, adopt you and raise you?
If that really wasn't me all those years, in all those photos and on the adoption paperwork. WHO THE FUCK WAS IT??!?!?!
And so they chose not only to disrespect me on the one day of the year devoted to fatherhood, they viscously came at me with a distorted version of reality and a bunch of unfounded, personal attacks...attacks on my character.
I was devastated yesterday by their words. It cut me TO THE ABSOLUTE CORE of my being! And I did nothing wrong. I merely pointed out that I'd been dissed and hurt by their actions.
I'm not allowed to have a voice? Or feelings about it?
I sure let them have a voice. All day, I put up with their verbal abuse and baseless allegations, none so serious that I couldn't post here, but I'm not trying to air the details of our "dirty laundry." It's just typical, I'm an adult now and I know everything nonsense that we've all experienced. Our parents were the devil, mistreated us daily and are the source of EVERYTHING that is wrong in our lives. (Cry me a river, kids! I have the t-shirt.)
But, seriously, of all the people in their inner circle, who loved them, I was the LEAST toxic or harmful to them. I didn't shit all over them. But they sure did me!
I've been their punching bag for a number of years. They know that I can take it. I'm still going to absorb the blows and love them to my core...as I always have.
They had a great dad in me.
I always loved them, told them so, showed them with my actions and even expressed how lucky I felt to have "won the Dad lottery." If they heard that last part once, they heard it HUNDREDS OF TIMES!
And not only do I have receipts for this, I have a long fucking line of witnesses who know me personally, who saw the devoted, loving father I have always been to my two daughters.
THAT'S why this hurt so bad. It was unfounded, uncalled for and untrue. I know the person I am. I know the person THEY HELPED me to become. Being a dad is the single most important thing I've done in my life that's taught me the most valuable lessons about life and who I really am. I've always felt that way about being their Dad. Best. Decision. Ever!
But they don't get to speak my truth for me. They don't get to now, after 20 and 23 years of loving them to my core, rewrite history. I was NOT NOR EVER CLAIMED TO BE a perfect person or father. I am a flawed human being. But I did a HELLUVALOT better than my dad and his dad before him. And as time went by, I became an even better dad and version of myself. ASK. ANYONE! As I said, I have a LONG LINE of witnesses who can testify.
As to the others in my inner circle who have hurt me recently, just know it speaks volumes about YOUR CHARACTER not mine. So proceed with your character assissination of me if it makes you feel better. I won't stand for it, though. I KNOW WHO "I AM." It is a reflection of your human flaws and not my own. As I said, I've owned my shit. Now own yours. I'm not going to keep pointing it out.
And in conclusion, if anyone reading this would like to see real change in their life and experience some different results:.
DO. SOMETHING. DIFFERENT.
Repeating the same pattern behavior and expecting different results is a long-held urban dictionary definition of INSANITY. Doing the same shit, expecting different results. How does that work in any recipe. Going to put bananas in this bread, follow the recipe to a "T," but expect Pineapple Cake instead of Banana Bread. With or without walnuts, that IS NUTS! You get out what you put in. "Same shit, different day" routines don't make different results EVER. Period. You cut a dress from the same pattern and 100% of the time, you get the same result. That floral print sundress isn't going to become a Versace-wannabe ball gown. Do something different. Don't follow your pattern.
He replied: “Watch out that you are not deceived. For many will come in my name, claiming, ‘I am he,’ and, ‘The time is near.’ Do not follow them. Luke 21:8 (red letters)
But I am afraid that just as Eve was deceived by the serpent’s cunning, your minds may somehow be led astray from your sincere and pure devotion to Christ. 2 Cor. 11:3 (a follow-up to 1 Cor. 6:9 which warns that “wrongdoers” will never inherit God’s kingdom)
Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. Gal. 6:7
Revelation gives multiple warnings to the faithful not to be deceived by “the beast,” the devil” or others. Too many American Christians have not heeded the warnings, have not discerned or rightly judged the fruit. DJT’s fruit has borne consequences. He is reaping EXACTLY that which he’s sown. DO NOT BE DECEIVED. But church people are not always the brightest bulbs in the bunch or the sharpest tools in the shed, which makes them easy marks for sleazy, slimy business men (snake oil salesmen) like DJT…or the antichrist.
Look at the MAGA(t) minions. These “master race” bigots run around in their “Trump is my savior” T-shirts, draped in Trump flags, stumped by softball questions given by local reporters, that befuddled look in their eyes. They could no more clarify their position on GOP talking points than the man on the moon. They simply regurgitate talking points from the propaganda machine, Fox News, Q’anon message boards or talk in the church fellowship hall. Ignorant and uninformed sheeple who drink the orange koolaid and wouldn’t care if their cult leader were serving time for murder on death row. It wouldn’t disqualify him. They’d rally behind him, send him their money and buy his Bibles.
It’s nuts. And they would have you believe that they are “the silent majority” about to sweep the polls in November. If that WERE the case, why hasn’t DJT ever won in a landslide? Why has he never even garnered a majority of the popular vote??? WHY, pray tell, did he need to manufacture votes or otherwise interfere in the electoral process?
THE TRUTH IS…
The GOP is splintered.
Republicans do NOT speak with one voice. There are plenty of NEVER TRUMPers inside their party. Look at The Lincoln Project who has made it their sole aim to KEEP HIM FROM OFFICE! More recently, Republicans For The Rule of Law also do not support DJT. Their latest video, “Goodbye, and Good Riddance,” shows his face with #ConvictTrump over the top. The website of Republican Accountability bears the headline, “We’re reminding Americans that we still need accountability for January 6th.”
MAGA(t)s do NOT represent the whole of the party, though listening to the leaders on Capitol Hill you’d never know it. Those dirtbags are so addicted to power and so desperately want to hold onto it, they see no other way than to cast their lot with the minions. GOOD LUCK WITH THAT!
Don’t fall for their smoke-and-mirrors, snake oil sales pitch, Fox (Faux) News talking points. They are killing the Grand Ol’ Party, the Party of Lincoln.
I haven't posted much political content this year. I've been more focused on my health and reconnecting with an old flame. But with the recent conviction of Donald J. Trump and all the fanfare on social media, I felt the need to say something on this blog.
I was walking home from the grocery store on my island and ran across a work pickup with this window cling on the back of the cab. "Impeach Biden," is a ludicrous slogan (and pipe dream) meant to disparage the current president, the one who won the 2020 vote legally and fairly. He's NOT the one who interfered with the election! The other doofus is. He's not the one under investigation for criminality inside and outside the White House. There aren't even any TRUMPED up charges against him upon which to base an impeachment trial. That's what makes this window cling ridiculous. It is pointless and holds no merit.
IT IS IRONIC, THOUGH...
Ironic in the fact that the FORMER president actually underwent TWO impeachment hearings in the halls of Congress. Not once, but twice. No trumped up charges, only allegations supported by eyewitnesses and mountains of evidence. In my eyes, the douchebag WAS impeached.
He was also charged in a civil suit of sexual assault. He was convicted of paying off porn star Stormy Daniels after an illicit affair with her while current wife, Melania Trump, was pregnant with his child. Michael Cohen, who handled the hush money payoff, testified under oath that when he asked the former president if he was worried about the wife finding out, the orange buffoon's response was that he wouldn't be on the market long. His own wife, like every woman (or person), in the raging narcissist's life is 100% expendable. Once they aren't providing his "narc supply" (the goal of every narcissist to get their ego needs met), they are of no use to him. He just didn't want Ms. Daniels selling her story to a publisher, the press or the highest bidder. It would look bad for him.
NOT WITH HIS FOLLOWERS...
Nope, the slimy, curmudgeonly MAGA(t) masses who lap up his drivel and love every assault, sexual or otherwise, didn't think it looked bad at all. Cheat on your wife. Pay off the porn star. Laugh it off with your typical locker room vernacular. They just love their felons! I mean, their Christian Nationalist/Fascist Dictators! They'll continue to buy his Bibles, his hats, his lies and financially back his campaign for re-election this year. MORONS!
The 34 felony convictions did not bother them one iota, many of them Bible-believing Christians. The assault on our Constitution, the assault of women (multiple), the locker room talk, the illegal business dealings (his CEO is a convicted felon, too), the attempted coup to stop the peaceful transition of power and his inability to quote even ONE SCRIPTURE from the Bibles he's selling all points them to the logical conclusion that he's a moral guy, a Christ-like person.
UMMMMM...
Excuse me while I puke! Didn't Jesus take a bullwhip and kick people out of the Temple, turning over tables and tongue-lashing the "bible salesmen" of his day? Peculiar. Aren't there New Testament Scriptures, and I'm thinking primarily in that last book, about the anti-Christ and how easily he dupes Christians and the ignorant, heathen masses in the "end times?"
Stupid memes like this have been circulating on social media to compare what Trump is going through (the justice system) to Jesus Christ (persecution as a leftist rabbi)
Yeah, the orange one doesn't favor Damien from The Omen films at all.
On the contrary, his duped minions have taken to social media in the weeks since his conviction ON 34 FELONY COUNTS to compare their evil cult leader to Jesus Christ, Himself!!! NO LIE! If I've seen the comparisons once on Facebook, alone, I've seen them a gazillion times! Excuse me, the stomach bile is in my throat again.
That, in itself, is blasphemy. Do these dolts even OPEN their Bibles??? I haven't opened one in years and I can see it plain as the nose on my face!
I've seen this one posted over and over to Facebook. I see it in my news feed and I immediately SNOOZE the person, at the very least.
You don't ADD TO or TAKEAWAY from the "inerrant word of god," so the fundamental faithful say. Yet, here's this known snake oil salesman adding the U.S. Constitution and Declaration of Independence to the Holy Book. I mean, it makes perfect sense, since Christianity started on these shores all those years ago. Oh, wait, no that was the Middle East in about 80-120 A.D.
Christianity started as a Messianic sect of Judaism in the first century. The Bible was codified by the CATHOLIC CHURCH in the fourth century by a council of bishops (SHHHH! Most American Christians don't even know this and think the Catholics are heretics and demon worshippers!).
We are NOT a Christian nation, so Marjorie Taylor Knitwit can sit down with her nationalist dreams and STFU! Many of our founding forefathers were DEISTS, not necessarily Christian. They didn't set up our republic as any one religion. Pretty sure they mandated the separation of church and state, meaning religion has no seat at the table and governments can't interfere with religious practices. The two are to remain separate, but don't tell that the mega-church-pastoring, 501(c)3-protected billionaires who preach politics every week!
Religion is the opiate of the masses, it's been said.
History is bound to repeat itself.
We don't need to return America to her 1930's self. That's where the MAGA(t) morons get their moronic slogan--from 1930's Nazi propaganda when Hitler and the KKK were still popular among WASP-y Americans. They were duped back then, during the worst depression in history, that we were a great nation. Women, black citizens and those in the gay community didn't find it so great. History is written and rewritten by the rich, white elites in power, the same ones who've ALWAYS held the power. And if we don't learn from it--if we don't even know where the MAGA slogan came from--then we are doomed, as the prophets foretold.
Just quit with the Jesus comparisons, already! And quit shoving your narrow-minded, mega church mentality down all our throats. I could out-quote the Bible to most of you, ignorant hypocrites, buying Trump Bibles and backing the convicted rapist and felon! Jesus would label you a "brood of vipers."
I just think your ignorant, opiate-addicted, easily duped FOOLS!
There is no choice, in my mind, but to rebut and rebuke fascism in any and all forms, and support the guy who's been about our republic his whole life, dedicated his life to it, in fact. He's old. He's a career politician. SO F-IN WHAT??? You want four years of that convict and lunatic with the wispy, orange combover and spray tan???
My parents grew up in the age of television, but those early TVs were black-and-white consoles and they portrayed WHITES ONLY doing very middle to upper class things. I even grew up watching reruns of the famous series from their generation, like Leave It To Beaver, My Three Sons and Father Knows Best. Those shows were produced by old, white dudes, the ones who ran Hollywood. The networks hired censors to ensure that messages stayed away from anything slightly controversial. It was white bread, milk toast, whitewashed PROPAGANDA! It was McCarthyism, red scare, homophobic, xenophobic, every phobic you can name. It was all “Jeepers, Wally!” and “Aw, knock it off, Beave!”
Then America experienced a cultural revolution. Shows like Love American Style, reflected the changing social mores. Family shows, like The Brady Bunch, showed a happy, blended family run by two divorcees. It was a far cry from June and Ward Cleaver. TVs were now in full color and in multiples in American households. We were about to become the MTV generation.
I would have never thought of The Brady’s as groundbreaking, but as I thought about it last night in bed, it really kind of was. In the 1970’s, we hadn’t seen single-parent families represented, nor blended families and certainly no same-sex couples.
Fast forward to the generation starting their families now. They grew up with Modern Families, where a gay male couple get married and adopt an Asian daughter. Long gone are the network censors, yet the Hollywood moguls are still mostly old and white. The diversity represented on cable, Internet and streaming series is GALAXIES from Leave It To Beaver!
Heck, I grew up wondering where the people of color were in television and movies. But save for another blog post on racial diversity. Social mores held so dear in the 1950s and 60s have long since been shattered. And those antiquated early series that were no more than corporate-sponsored propaganda are relics of that bygone era. Good riddance. Not everyone in America is rich and lily white.
But it’s those faux stereotypes that push otherwise well-meaning older folks to pine for the good ol’ days. What was so good about them? Ask an African American person who might have grown up in that bygone era, the child of poor share croppers. They were never represented on those black-and-white consoles.
What people of my parents’ generation don’t realize is that they were spoonfed propaganda for so long that they bought into it. Many of them grew up with blinders on. Many still CHOOSE to wear them. They don’t think gay male couples existed back then and wanted to live out in the open as now?
It’s ridiculous! There were middle class African American families living in American cities, too. But where were they represented in popular culture? It was whitewashed, McCarthy-like propaganda. And because old people WISHED it was really like Leave It To Beaver, they long to return America back to the 1950s.
I haven't written at all here about my recent health journey. It began last fall as I noticed breathing issues and lightheadness, plus heart palpatations at age 55 and a few weeks. I wrote it off as both age and stress. But in early November I was pet sitting in Fort Myers near FSW (the college) and riding my bike to the Publix Supermarket across from there on Summerlin. It was a casual ride of maybe half a mile. A sudden attack of lightheadedness as a result of shortness of breath made me stop in my tracks. Standing there straddling my bike, I was worried I might faint and hit my head on the sidewalk or concrete utility “pole” next to me.
That surprised, startled and scared the BEJESUS outta me! None of the previous symptoms had been that severe or sudden. I gathered myself and rode onto get groceries. It took 3 or 4 more episodes, the final one nearly sent me onto Gladiolus off my bike, a shooting pain up my left temple, to get me to the ER.
The photo above left is dated November 7, 2023, at Gulf Coast Medical Center. My good friend, brother and bandmate, Craig, prodded me for two days to go get checked out before driving my stubborn ass to the Ft. Myers hospital. He sat with me all day in the ER until I was assigned a room, through a litany of scans and tests, including an ultrasound of my legs.
The diagnosis was two deep vein thrombin (DVTs) in my legs, one with little chance of movement, and a small pulmonary embolism in my left lung. Two of them could have dislodged and sent me to an early grave. I was glad to have gone and gotten checked out. I really appreciated my brother (not by blood) for helping me out and laughing with me all day Nov. 7th. I was prescribed blood thinners and released.
It was unbelievable the way I made it back to Fort Myers Beach in May 2023. I woke up in my favorite place on Earth June 1st last year.
The first time any doubts arose about moving back here came a few months in, maybe 2.5. It was on a hot, summer night, AC barely able to cope, my mind doing too much thinking, that I began to question my future here. I put on a Reiki video and the one leading the YouTube meditation and Reiki session said, “Trust the process.” It was as if she was speaking right into my soul in that moment.
So I let go of worry and doubt and decided to TRUST the Universe. It had gotten me back here after a couple of really tough years.
It was the end of September when I learned, during Revive The Vibe, a one-year Hurricane Ian commemorative event, that my ex-girlfriend from 10 years ago was again single. A couple months later, I learned through another mutual friend that she was living on the beach…the beach we fell in love with.
I blogged in the first two months of our life together in Bonita Springs that I felt like I’d been given Three Chances at Life. It was 2013 and Lynn Farber had caught me completely by surprise and swept me off my feet. But when our relationship stalled and I moved away from our Mango Street rental on FMB, I had no hope of ever seeing her or speaking to her again. She refused to see me in April 2014 when I came back to the beach for my things. And once back on our seven mile stretch of beach last year, she made it her mission to avoid me.
That all changed three weeks ago.
And when the Universe gave us a second chance at love and reconnection, we jumped in with our entire person! “Trust the process,” I was told last summer. I did. I also followed my gut instinct and waited for her to reach out. That first text came three weeks ago, yesterday.
We are both incredibly lucky and grateful to be handed this priceless gift. We don’t take it lightly. We have both committed to giving this relationship our all! I am ALL IN, as is she.
I have my person back!
Many people never find their person. Even fewer get more than one chance to make it work. We squandered our first chance. We’ve learned and grown. We have decided to trust again and make this leap together. Where the Universe takes us is anybody’s guess. I remain open to possibility, all options on the table, no holding anything back this time.
I knew so little about the Cult of Scientology before this show aired on A&E. I was riveted. Already a fan of Leah Remini from her time on "King of Queens" with Kevin James, I became a fan of this docu-series exposing the abuses of this destructive cult. It was enlightening and frightening at the same time.
Fast forward a few years, and about the time that I really start digging into YouTube, making it my primary form of entertainment (ditching cable almost exclusively), the Danny Masterson case heats up and he's about to go on trial. I watched everything Tony Ortega put out. Then I found Aaron Smith-Levin's popular channel, called "Growing Up in Scientology."
It quickly became, and still is, one of my favorite channels on YouTube. ASL is quite entertaining and opinionated. He speaks his mind and often gives the caveat, "But what do I know? I grew up in a cult!" LOL! The first bit of drama about the Masterson case arose when he attacked Tony Ortega for profiting off the stories of ex-Scientologists, many of them victims of childhood trauma and abuse (of all kinds). They do not like each other.
ASL was a board member, and co-founder, of The Aftermath Foundation, which became a household name thanks to Remini's docu-series. They do great work advocating for victims of Scientology and helping them break free of it's seductive hold. Those within the community of ex-Scientology were labeled as "suppressive persons" by the cult (COS). They proudly wear the label and even call their YouTuber community, SPTV, for Suppressive Persons Television, complete with a retro, MTV-esque, logo.
During the Masterson trial, ASL found himself entangled in a romantic fling with a California woman who alleged abuse. He gave his side of the story on his channel months after the fact. He counters her claim and alleges she was the abuser, not him. This caused a great rift within the SPTV community.
"DRAMA!"
And next we know, the board of The Aftermath Foundation is demanding ASL's resignation, the charge led by Mike Rinder, who everyone knows from Remini's show on A&E. Rinder, a once ranking member of COS, who is now speaking out on their mob-like practices from his own personal experience, co-hosted the show. He was apparently not a fan of ASL nor his over-the-top persona and YouTube channel. Rinder gave the foundation board an ultimatum, either "he goes or I go," speaking about ASL.
The SPTV camp began to splinter, catching Remini in the middle. Rinder and the Headley's (Claire is foundation president) in one camp, ASL and his associates in the other. ASL has publicly criticized Rinder, the Headley's and the foundation, which he co-founded. He has also stated his intent to start a new, rival foundation.
What began as a noble crusade to help victims, many of them suffering PTSD from child sexual abuse inside the cult, is now a made-for-YouTube soap opera. It's sad, really.
At the heart of it is oversized egos.
Well, now, Rinder has criticized one of those victims who appeared on "Scientology and the Aftermath." He's come under fire from the ASL camp in SPTV land. He's once again showing his arrogance and complete disregard for the community. It has splintered the group beyond recognition or any hope of reconciliation.
They dropped the ball, lost sight of their primary mission. What was once a shared mission of helping abuse victims and combatting the years of gaslighting by COS, has now devolved into a daytime drama online.
Shame on you people!
Lose the egos, get back on track and quit making all these HOUR-PLUS, self-serving, clickbait videos. It's become tiresome...exhausting really!
I had someone close to me last year tell me they are jealous of my "gypsy lifestyle." I found that characterization quite interesting and not all that far off. But here's the thing...it seems to denote a carefree lifestyle. I'm neither carefree or careless. Quite the contrary, I care TOO MUCH at times.
More recently, a newfound friend and confidante told me that I am effected by other people's energies and so I must be careful. I am careful, especially in avoiding negative energy from others. If it gets too much, I simply walk away.
But her words were true and impactful. Because I care so much (not saying I'm a total empath, but I certainly don't lack empathy), I do tend to absorb people's energy. I want to get down in the dirt with them and feel the sensation of the damp Earth. Embracing someone with the same dirt as you under their fingernails is much more impactful than someone filled with sympathy or pity. Really understanding what another is going through is monumental in fostering and maintaining strong connections.
I might live like a gypsy, but I really do care...not so much what other people think, but what they are going through in their own lives. Being empathetic and absorbing that energy is like helping to carry a heavy load. But you do that for a few close friends and the weight can become too much, unbearable even. You've heard the expression, "Carrying the weight of the world." Well, I believe that's where it came from...an empath who cared too much, absorbed too much and didn't know when to set healthy boundaries.
I said that I'll walk away from someone vibrating on a lower frequency. I don't want to absorb their negative energy. So I have learned to set boundaries. Still, I find myself taking on too much and forgetting about self-care, at times.
My new friend who seems to get me on a cellular level warned me about doing this recently. She is a great friend who I greatly admire and respect.
If you don't surround yourself with people of similar energies and frequency as you, you'll succumb to the level of the company you keep. The weight of their negativity, or just the circumstance they find themselves in, can bring you down. Be healthy. Set boundaries and stick to them.
I think I'll keep my gypsy lifestyle a bit longer. It's not as carefree as it seems, but it suits me.
John Varner (1792 - 1870) was born in the Commonwealth of Virginia the same year that the western wilderness known as Kentucky was admitted to statehood. The young Varner (a German surname, not sure of the timeline of immigration) became acquainted with that wilderness south of the Ohio River and joined the Kentucky Militia, serving during the War of 1812, and continuing his service as private for a period of five years.
In April 1813, he married Rebecca McCarty, a Pennsylvania native born in 1795. They lived in Harrison County, Kentucky, at the time, in the central part of the Bluegrass State, between Lexington and Cincinnati.
The following year, due west some 230 miles, upon the banks of the Wabash River, the Rappite community, known as Harmony, was springing to life. Founded by George Rapp in 1814, the river town would become home to a utopian society and renamed New Harmony in 1825. It was during this rapid period of growth, 1814-25, just as Indiana was becoming a state, populated along it's southernmost rivers, that my Mills family moved there from nearby Gibson County.
John Mills (1809-1897), my fourth great uncle, was intrigued by the growth of the town and it's new owner Robert Dale Owen. He married my aunt, Elizabeth L Varner (1814-1894), in Posey County, 22 Mar 1831, and they became involved in the community theater. Elizabeth was the eldest daughter of John Varner, of Virginia. He'd relocated to Harmony (Posey County, IN) sometime in the 1820's during the town's boom. The Varners and Mills obviously became well acquainted by this time and both families appear on the 1830 U.S. Census there.
Uncle John Mills was a member of the Thespian Society (1839) and active in politics. Later, he became a government surveyor and worked to survey lands across the Wabash River in Southern Illinois. My Mills became pioneers of White County, IL, and are written about in the county history. The Varners also moved to Illinois, settling in Saline County, some 50-plus miles southeast of New Harmony. That's where John Varner died in 1870. His wife, Rebecca, died three years later in Eldorado, same county. There is no record of their burial.
Elizabeth (Varner) Mills also had two siblings who married into my Mills and Hussey family (my Gibson County pioneer ancestors). Her younger sister, Sarah Ann Varner (1821-1908), born in New Harmony, married John's younger brother, my 4G Uncle Samuel Corson "SC" Mills (1812-1887) in Posey County, 10 Sep 1837. Sam and Sarah also moved to White County, IL, in the 1840's. The 1850 U.S. Census shows Sam was a Grayville innkeeper. From there, they settled in Menard County, IL, further north.
Elizabeth and Sarah had a younger sister, Mary Sneed Varner (1823-1904), also born in New Harmony, and she married George Buell Hussey (1819-1843) in 1840. George is my first cousin and his mother was a Mills (John and Samuel's sister, Aphia, in fact). His uncles probably influenced his move to Posey County from Gibson and introduced him to the Varner family. But unfortunately, he died three years into his marriage before the families moved to Illinois. His widow did move and remarried in White County in 1847.
Interestingly, John and Rebecca Varner had a son in New Harmony in 1827. They named him Robert Dale Varner (1827-1913). He didn't marry into my family, but I found his name interesting. Robert Dale Owen had purchased New Harmony from the Rappites two years earlier.
So my family was very connected to the Varner family, from the moment they arrived in [New] Harmony around 1820. John Varner started out as a shoemaker, according to his Kentucky Militia record, but soon went into farming, an occupation he held in Indiana and Illinois.
My Uncle Samuel "SC" Mills, remained connected in business to my 4G Grandfather, Dustin Mills, his brother in Gibson County, IN. They developed a chain pump for wells, which they sold in Port Gibson when the Wabash and Erie Canal was in operation. Both men were carpenters, by trade, and farmers.
My Mills arrived in Gibson County from Kennebec County, Maine, circa 1811. The Husseys arrived a short while later from the same area of Maine, coming by way of Ohio, where George B. Hussey was born. The Mills were pioneers in Southern Indiana and Illinois.
They know how the French Revolution started, right?
Are they scared, yet?
Back at the beginning of the 19th century, it was the "Second Estate" who held all of France's wealth, well them and the Church (i.e. "The First Estate"). They represented TWO PERCENT of the nation's population. In 21st century America, the wealth holders are an even more elite ONE PERCENT. They know what happened to France's Two Percenters, right?
So have they learned nothing from history? You can only stand on the necks of the other 99% for so long before a grumble becomes a revolt becomes a revolution that totally topples your government. I feel we are on the verge.
Ever since the George Floyd riots and the BLM movement came on like a storm, we've seen a shift in the national consciousness. It stands to reason. My daughter's generation is one of the most liberal we've seen since the civil unrest of the 1960's. Millennials are about to take over at the ballot box. And they don't like the choices they are being given--a convicted felon/wannabe dictator or a mostly dead old money Democrat/career politician/baby sniffer. There is no winner in that two-ticket scenario. I'd rather vote for a rotting carcass.
The one-percenters have done their damndest to hold onto power. But rich, old white dudes, I've got news for you. The clock's ticking and you're not getting any younger. Shoot yourself up with collagen, dye your hair, hell, cryogenically freeze yourself and blast your frozen self into space, your time is up. The revolution is coming for you!
I've been preaching this to my daughters since they were in middle and high school. "Get involved and TAKE BACK YOUR GOVERNMENT!"
They want to see a government that works for them and regular people and stops treating corporations like they are the weary and poor. Sidenote: Why do we call it socialism only when it benefits real, breathing human beings??? STOP CORPORATE WELLFARE AND BANK BAILOUTS!!!
Start listening to the populous or they'll be forced to demand your attention at guillotine point. How fond are you of your heads?
Are you even listening one percenters?
Those who don't learn from history...and we've been going down this Revolutionary Road for some time now. If January 6, 2021, taught us nothing else, we are ripe for another 1776 moment. Instead of fighting a monarchy and parliment an ocean away, it'll be our very own government on these shores...on the very steps of our Capitol. Sad that it has come to that, but do you see another way out? (NOTE: I don't condone the Jan 6 attacks in ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM. It's not the politicians who are to blame anyway, it's their corporate backers. Go after them!)
The one percenters aren't going to let go of the levers of power, not until we pry them from their cold, dead fingers. Yet the vast majority of you will sit there, all cozy, in your whitewashed suburban paradise with two cars tucked safely in your garages, thinking nothing can be done to fix Washington DC.
Well, Trump certainly wasn't the answer. He didn't drain one centimeter of the swamp. Nor is the mostly dead Commander-in-Chief. WE NEED NEW BLOOD! And if you think AOC is "out there," wait until you see what's coming!
Millennials are hardcore leftists, by and large. They could give a shit about your blue blood or your institutions. AND I'M HERE FOR IT!
Housing prices are astronomical, as are groceries, fuel and other staples of our Western civilization. You can't keep expecting hard-working people to hold three jobs while trying to raise children and maintain a home. It's just not sustainable. And why should it even be that way? So rich, white, old men can keep lugging their 350-pound frames into their Wall Street brokerages, smoking thousand dollar stogies and laughing at the rat race we continually run for their amusement?
We're tired of running on the hamster wheel. It's time to get off.
We've let them control the narrative for too long. And look what they've done with it! Divided us, that's what. They've painted us into left and right boxes, playing on our fears to keep us separated, when there's a whole lot more that unites us. Our hatred of the one percent, for example. But like sheep...
I know it’s a funny word choice at my age, but feeling orphaned after losing your parents is real. And as we approach the 8-year mark since Mom’s passing (tomorrow), I’ve been more reflective. I’ve made several posts on social media to memorialize her.
Since losing Dad two years and two months ago, almost, I’ve had that feeling of being an orphan, parentless. And though I’m well equipped at 55 to face life without them, it still sucks. I can’t send Dad an e-mail or post to his Facebook funny memes, favorite songs, or pick up the phone to tell him I’m thinking about and thankful for him. Nor my Mom, though she loathed social media. She’d pick up the phone once a quarter and catch-up for an hour or so, if she hadn’t heard from me.
I miss their presence in my life even if it wasn’t immediate. Just knowing they were a phone cal, an e-mail or a Facebook post away gave me great comfort. Now that they are gone, there is a noticeable void in my life.
And forget my family! That unit disintegrated the moment my Mom was gone. We knew right away she had been the glue holding us together. Grief and sibling rivalry took over. It’s been a slow decline ever since. I still have two siblings I don’t associate with, especially since Dad’s passing in October 2021.
It was bad enough losing them, but losing our sense of family? That’s made it doubly rough.
My parents were young lovers who first met during middle school. They didn’t attend the same school, but lived just blocks from each other in the Tower Heights neighborhood of Princeton, Indiana. Dad says he first noticed my Mom while delivering the newspaper. He was smitten.
They were just 20 years old in the photo above, standing in the snow outside my grandparent’s house, holding a young Christopher. I was blessed to have young, hip parents who were cool to hang around. All my childhood and high school friends liked them. I like to say we grew up together, my parents and I.
We didn’t always remain close. My leaving the church around 2005 was difficult for them to accept. My divorce seven years later was even more so and drove a wedge, particularly between my mother and I. But her cancer diagnosis in 2014 changed all that. Just months after my failed attempt during Spring Break in Panama City Beach to bridge the gap, my mother called me with the news. We cried together, then came together that summer. I’ll never forget our conversation on her back porch in Noblesville, IN, when we finally reached understanding.
This time of year—October and November—is especially hard these days. As I mentioned, tomorrow marks eight years since Mom left us. It doesn’t get all that much easier. I just find writing, whether in my journal, this blog or on social media, therapeutic, so thank you for obliging me. Becoming an orphan, even at 53, sucks. It’s difficult to come to terms with. Your parents are monumental in shaping your self image. Once they are gone, you do a lot of evaluating, at least I have. I came away thankful for the gifts they bestowed and the character they helped to shape in me. I know they are/were proud of me, their oldest child. I can take some comfort in that.
"We don’t heal in isolation, but in community.”– S. Kelley Harrell
“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.” – Herman Melville
In my journal this morning, I shared a moment of gratitude for the connections I’ve made on Fort Myers Beach. So many of my friends and neighbors are friendly, kind-hearted folks from the Midwest. I was journaling just how blessed I am to live here.
I acknowledged Goodness & Mercy for bringing me in contact with so many good people. I really love the people on this island. It fills me with a sense of connection to this place, one that I’ve felt for more than a decade.
COMMUNITY
I am blessed to be a part of this island community. I feel a sense of community here that I haven’t felt in over two years.
I understand the importance of it. I am a pack animal. Since childhood, I’ve always been very social. I guess you could say I “came by it honestly.” My mother, God rest her soul, was voted “class flirt” in her 1967 high school yearbook. 😄 Everyone of my high school teachers told my mother, “Chris is always talking in class. If he’d just apply himself…” But that was the best part of attending a small, Catholic high school with kids I’d known for years…some since the first grade!…was being social and honing some basic and crucial life skills. I didn’t realize it as a teen, but I was building community. And a few of those connections have lasted a LIFETIME!
Feeling connected to “your pack” helps provide a sense of belonging. I realize that now that I’m older. I appreciate and cherish those connections. It helps to waylay loneliness and the feeling of isolation.
In the Information Age in which we live, it’s easy to rely on social media for those connections, but it can create a false sense of community. I try to see platforms like Facebook and Instagram as vehicles to maintain those connections and create new ones. I have more of an appreciation for that having been off the latter for almost a year before rejoining in July. It’s so nice when those virtual connections get flesh and bone when I finally meet a new FB friend in person! And since moving back to the island, you wouldn’t believe how many new friends have come up to me excitedly, “I follow you on Facebook!” It always makes me happy. A new member added to my pack.
MY BOULDER COMMUNITY
Meet Nicole Speer, Boulder Town Council progressive now running for mayor. She is part of my pack out there. We met while volunteering to feed and clothe the city’s homeless. My pack included MOSTLY unhoused people, as I was one of them.
I made good use of my time out there in 2020-21 advocating for the unhoused while living with them and volunteering to assist them get a leg up. They WERE my community, a tight-knit family.
I volunteered weekly with Feet Forward, Inc., founded and operated by my friend Jennifer Livovich. Her organization fed me in the park several times, then I began helping her team setup, befriending many of them and earning her trust. In a matter of weeks, I was at her place helping to organize and load supplies for the weekly community meals. It’s where I made many friends, like entrepreneur and Feet Forward board member Graham, and volunteers and community activists, like Nicole.
I met her when she was considering a run for City Council and became a member of her campaign team, helping with social media content. She got elected the month after my father’s passing forced me to leave Boulder for good. And now look at her! I am so proud, as she is a beautiful person inside and out!
But I realized with this morning’s moment of gratitude just how much I MISSED THAT feeling of community.
I left Boulder, buried my Dad and bounced between the Indianapolis area and Evansville for months at a time, 19 of them in all. At the end of May, I landed back on Fort Myers Beach…MY BEACH! This island has felt like home to me since I first landed here the summer of 2011. And not a day goes by that I don’t ride my bike up and down this seven-mile paradise and get waved to, honked or hollered at by a member of my community.
It feels good to be connected again…to have a pack. That’s all.
