A Dream Coming to Life

 REGRETLYSS >>> GRAYLA RANE

Meet Alyssa, Ben and their Wolf Dog

Alyssa Bean is a content creator whose original YouTube channel, Regretlyss, I have followed for years as a subscriber. When I joined her audience, she was a van lifer at the beginning of that whole craze. I was just looking into alternative lifestyles at that time. Van lifing in a renovated bus, nearly the size of a tiny home appealed to me until I saw the cost of renovated/converted vans and of the reno itself.

That said, she was probably the second such channel I followed after finding Nikki Delventhal, a former NY Giants cheerleader who had taken up living in her car and traveling the country. It wasn’t lost on me that these women were beautiful, especially Alyssa. I have eyes. But honestly that is not what drew me to their content. It was actually the lifestyle.

The photo above is merely a screen capture of an old video where boyfriend Ben had moved into her Colorado cottage and they had rescued a dog that is half wolf. Her longtime shaggy companion, Rio, another rescue is still in the picture, just not this photograph/screengrab. Like Rio, I followed her journey into finding herself, buying the cottage, her first home and settling in with the love of her life, best friend Ben. That would be the beginning of the end of Regretlyss as a brand.

HER YOUTUBE CHANNELS

OLD	NEW
REGRETLYSS	GRAYLA RANE

She and Ben decided to sell the cottage and take the dogs on the road as vanlifers after rehabbing a new bus. I follow her on Instagram, too, which is where, in her reels, she announced the transition to her new brand Grayla Rane. I am only halfway through the first video on her/their new channel, so I am not yet certain where the name comes from nor its meaning. Stay tuned.

The first thing that drew me into her story — vlogged and catalogued on Regretlyss — is her vulnerability. Like me, she follows Brene Brown who is world renowned for her study of that subject (starting with shame and self worth). To her credit, Alyssa was pretty raw and open with her self image and her struggle to love who she was. She lived in survival mode for many years, trying on different versions of herself to find that perfect fit. I can totally relate to that.

And, as I said, I was considering how I would live my golden years, now that I am unencumbered, uncluttered and house free. Seeing her face the challenges she did vanlifing on the road, mostly, gave me some hope and some comfort. But watching the transition, not just to homelife and back on the road in a van, but also from one version of herself to another (and channel to channel) has reminded me of my wanderlust.

As I sat on a seawall watching the orangey sunrise over the Florida Straits, I thought about the adventure that brought me here to the southern edge of the continent. It’s been nearly three months since I moved to Key West. This morning, on my bike ride under the stars, I felt that tingling again. It reminded me what I felt like those first few days on the island. I was filled with wonder, excitement and the readiness to explore.

I think these last three weeks, with my bike down and my back really hurting, my wanderlust had dulled. But the early a.m. bike ride, a glorious sunrise and a reminder from Alyssa got me back on the right track. I don’t want to lose that feeling of adventure just because “I arrived,” especially not now when I just landed a great job and I can feel this dream coming to life!

And like her, I don’t want to get complacent or forget who I am. This #IslandLife is a dream coming true and I want to relish it. This pain in my body and the grind of being in survival mode IS TEMPORARY. I’ve checked two hurdles off my list, the last one being housing stability…one day that means a houseboat! I’m ready for this adventure to continue.

Belonging & Special Places

I belong to a very large family with loads of cousins on both sides. My first birthday was celebrated in my maternal great-grandfather’s farm house. I learned to swim in an old strip mine lake from a wooden dock hung over a 50-ft-plus dropoff by my paternal grandfather.

These places—the Dunning Farmhouse and the Doyle Cabin—are home to cherished childhood memories, but their mystique was due to the people I loved who congregated there.

THE DUNNING FARM

Mom’s family held an annual reunion at the farmhouse that regularly drew 100 or more family members from across the country. It was held at her maternal grandfather’s home the first weekend of October near his birthday.

I don’t know how long the 40-acre farm belonged to the family, but Grandpa Dunning raised his nine kids in that white farmhouse on Wheeling Road NW of “Frisco” (Gibson County, IN).

The long sloping front yard had a pair of large (oak?) trees up near the porch that served as goalposts for the large football game every year. And every year, it morphed into a contest of male strength to see who could throw the football farthest into the cornfield across the road.

The men threw horseshoes and told tall tales while the women served up some of the best home cooked meals in Indiana. Oh my, Grandma’s blackberry cobbler…🤤🤤🤤

In later years, long after Grandpa Dunning was gone (died aged 92 in August 1977), my Uncle David began the tradition of taking the kids on a hayride up through Wheeling, past the covered bridge, and up to Union just across the Pike County line. There he’d treat “the youngins” to ice cream at the country store before the slow tractor ride back.

There was always a bonfire and weiner roast the night before the big reunion. The first weekend in October was always a date I looked forward to and a hallmark of my childhood.

THE DOYLE CABIN

Dad's family gathers at the cabin every 4th of July, drawing his five siblings from across the US, and the two to four generations that followed them. My Grandpa Doyle built that log cabin from old utility poles, using a block-and-tackle system. It featured a corrugated tin roof that could lull you to sleep on rainy afternoons.

He built it in the 1950’s on land he won in a lottery at the utility company he worked for in Sullivan. It sat on a large, upside down Y-shaped lake that formed in a Sherwood Templeton coal mine named Robin Hood. Fed by fresh spring water and partially surrounded by shale gob piles, it was a hidden gem between Sullivan and Shakamak State Park, an area known for its shallow-depth coal deposits. We dubbed the deep lake Greenbriar.

It was a scary body of water to me as a boy, but plenty of peer pressure had me diving in by the time I was 10. By my teen years, the cousins would race several lots over to a dock with a corroded, and none too springy diving board, and make the Olympic-sized swim back to our dock. We’d run this circuit like a biathlon until we were spent.

My favorite memories were made around the firepit, roasting marshmallows that rarely made it to s’mores, singing silly songs and telling ghost stories. We killed many burgers, dogs and chicken at the bbq pit. And at night, many cousins would lay on the dock in a circle, heads on an innertube, stargazing at the Milky Way.

Plenty of bluegill were pulled out of that lake right off our dock with nothing more than stale bread. A few times we had a bountiful bucketful enough for a fish fry. In later years, when my girls were little, we’d drive into Linton for their County Fair and 4th Fireworks display.

These are the most treasured memories of my Indiana childhood. Having such a large, loving family gave me a strong sense of belonging. Those places and those people are the reason.

Goodness and Mercy Pursues Me

ALL DAYS!!! One of my first posts about this was made in Boulder, February 2021. I am still being pursued. In this post from July of that year, I compare the two to hounds from heaven.

I was reminded yesterday at church that Goodness and Mercy are a constant presence, and they are INDEED in pursuit of me!!!

After Justin Ryan shared his new song, “Goodness,” Pastor Gina got up and shared that part of Psalm 23 that talks about the pair and their pursuit. She said the word translated “follow” in most Bibles is more precisely “pursue” in the original Hebrew. I KNEW IT!!!

I sat there at MCC yesterday, tears in my eyes, thanking the Universe for the reminder.

The lesson here is:

BE A GOOD PERSON

DO UNTO OTHERS

GOODNESS AND MERCY

There is a Hindu concept called Karma. I believe that the goodness I put out there comes right back to me! There’s another twist to that called the Law of Attraction, meaning those who vibrate on a higher frequency will attract like wavelengths—goodness to goodness, as deep calls to deep. There are eternal, universal truths and I believe this to be one of them.

Thank you Justin and Pastor Gina for the verification.

My Author’s Blog, Book and Substack

 

A couple days ago, I told you about my food drive campaign, FILL MY WAGON. Well, that’s not all I’ve been up to…

I have officially launched my Author’s Blog and Substack in advance off my first, soon-to-be-published offering. DIVORCING XIANITY is available for presale at just $8.99.

You need to follow either link above to secure your advance copy. It will ship during the holidays.

Whenever I update my other blog, I’ll try to update this one with links and previews. This blog will still capture my life and interests in random posts, but most of my writing will exist at Christopher Doyle In Prose.

Thank you for your support!! 

FILL MY WAGON CAMPAIGN

I have embarked on a solo mission to help keep two food pantries stocked near me in Key West. This grassroots campaign is simple, fill my wagon with canned and non-perishable food items and I will deliver them to either Poinciana Little Pantry or Tuga Shelves, the pantry for students of The College of the Florida Keys.

Once I secure a collapsible wagon, my plan is to post-up once a week at a different location in New Town or Stock Island. I will announce my location every week inviting locals to use me as a drop-off point for their donations.

It will just be me, my bike Earl and a wagon, unless anyone wants to join me for a few hours in the morning. The months of Oct-Dec mark the beginning of season and if the community gets behind this solo effort, I plan to approach community partners and the schools to grow this effort. When that happens, I will form a 501(c)3 non-profit and make Fill My Wagon a community-wide, tax exempt charity.

I am making this announcement ahead of the first week’s food drive. I already have a commitment from SOS Foundation to help market this campaign. Follow my Facebook page or one of the Key West locals pages for announcements.

 

Unintended Consequences: A 9/11 Inspired Collection of Short Stories (Fictional) Series, Part I, Story 3

PART I: THE GOOD
STORY 3

Anthony Fuzoli, Sr., attempts to distract himself by people watching in Terminal B of John F. Kennedy Airport. He realized he’d been tapping his watch impatiently as flight after flight was delayed that Tuesday morning. It was a bright, unseasonably warm September day in New York City and he was flying to Indianapolis to make final preparations for Junior’s wedding.

As he eyed a young couple struggling with their baby stroller, the young father shaking the contraption to try and fold it for stowing reminded Tony of his son. The young man, who looked like he might still be in high school, had a thick wave of dark hair shaking as he struggled to fold the stroller. His wife, holding their baby, touched his arm to calm him. Tony wondered if they might be travelling to introduce their young one to his or her parents. He imagined what his own grandson, Anthony III, might look like one day. Would he have the signature Fuzoli wave to his thick black mane?

He was shaken from his daydream when the departures board suddenly lit up red with every flight showing cancelled or delayed. He wondered what was going on until an announcement was made overhead. Looking at his watch and noting the time, 9:51 a.m. People were confused and bustling about the terminal now, many heading for food courts to see if they could catch the news. It wasn’t a few minutes later, a woman turned her laptop towards Tony to show images of the towers falling. He quickly dialed Junior’s 317-area-code number.

Exasperated and astonished, Anthony Jr, answered with, “Can you believe this? Three days before my wedding? My hometown is under attack?” They discussed how his father would even make it to Indy in time for Friday’s wedding, let alone the rehearsal dinner, for which he’d shelled out a lot of cash.

His son had met his person senior year at Indiana University. Rebecca Anthis grew up in rural Decker, in the Southwest corner of the state, known for it’s rich agriculture, especially its melons. The name Anthis was Dutch and her pioneer ancestors had cultivated the Cypress Swamps just above the White River at the turn of the 19th century. When Junior had learned of her heritage and that the Anthises had found Knox County, Indiana, with other Dutch families from the Genesee Valley of New York, like the Deckers, Kuykendalls and Jacobuses, he’d felt a deepening of their connection. She wasn’t just some “hayseed from the sticks,” the way New Yorkers tended to think of Hoosiers.

Her father had built a small empire on growing some of the best-tasting watermelons and cantaloupes from that part of the state. He’d taken to Anthony right away because the two of them were pranksters and had a sharp, sarcastic wit. Anthony was studying law and had big aspirations. Bud Anthis knew that this kid meant business and would take good care of his precious Becky Sue. She hated the nickname and only went by Rebecca these days.

Bud called immediately after Mr. Fuzoli to see if there was anything he could do. He even offered to cover the expense of the rehearsal dinner planned at St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, the best known restaurant in downtown Indianapolis. Rebecca told her father that it would all work out and not to worry about it. He’d already done so much to make sure her Friday evening wedding, September 14th, would be magical.

Junior was distracted the rest of the day, receiving one phone call after another from friends and family back home. His cousin worked in the South Tower and had run errands that morning instead of showing up for work. That decision, which seemed irresponsible to him at the time, had saved his life. Anthony knew a couple of others, including a high school classmate who served NYFD, Fire House Twelve, that narrowly escaped the second collapsed tower.

Rebecca had worked diligently even as she carried a full load of senior-level coursework to plan her fairy tale wedding. An Indianapolis cousin had recommended Tabernacle Church on the near northside. Now she feared everything might be placed on hold. It seemed the world was crashing around her. Tony noticed his future bride’s nerves frazzling and suggested they go out for drinks and a nice meal.

His father phoned while they were dining at The Slippery Noodle that night to say he’d made it to North Jersey where he was renting the next to last car on the lot. It had been such a surreal day with overloaded trains heading out of the city, some passengers were ghostly white covered in toxic dust blank, distance in their eyes. He assured his son and future daughter-in-law that he would be there early Thursday.

On the long drive, Senior wondered again what Indiana’s largest city held over their hometown. He’d always envisioned Junior becoming a junior partner at his Brooklyn firm. He loved Rebecca dearly but wondered what spell or potion she’d used to enchant his lovesick son. At that moment, his son texted for a progress update. He spoke into his phone, voice-to-text, that he was entering the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. The news on the radio was grim. A reporter relaying details from a remote area of Pennsylvania which he’d traveled near hours ago. United Flight 93, had been hijacked, the reporter said evenly, passengers rallying cry of “Let’s roll.” minutes before rushing the cockpit.

The wedding was everything Rebecca had dreamed. The happy couple settled into a neighborhood with 100’s of young families in the suburb of Fishers. They were expecting, but not Anthony III, a baby girl they would name America. The senior Fuzoli was not disappointed. He loved the name choice and began calling her America, The Beautiful. He was thankful for his cross-country drive that showed him just how beautiful it was, even the flyover states like Ohio and Indiana.

Unintended Consequences: A 9/11 Inspired Collection of Short Stories (Fictional) Series, Part I, Story 2

 PART I: THE GOOD 
Story 2

Hal Griffith, a once happily married man, sits in the shoe store his father began in 1970, now the proud owner, but worried about the decline in business and in his marriage. Gloria sits in their modest home in the Asylum Hill neighborhood, completely unaware of her husband’s plans to leave her.

It’s a beautiful, unseasonably warm and cloud-free day in Hartford, Connecticut, but Hal barely notices the sun streaming in through storefront windows in this musty, century-old building. His father’s health had been in decline when he handed over the keys almost 20 years earlier, but Main Street was hardly the bustling shopping district it had once been in it’s heyday and this morning it was more pronounced.

Little did Hal know that people were gathered around televisions in nearby cafes and the big box electronics store around the corner. They were glued to coverage out of New York City of the attacks on the buildings at One World Trade Center. And little did Gloria know back home that the world-renown address was Hal’s destination that evening. He’d simply told her he had business to conduct in Manhattan “for a few days.” She thought it was so unlike him to be so vague about his affairs. Of course, he’d been shut off and keeping a lot of things from her in recent months. She’d begged him to go on a summer vacation, but he always complained of their financial struggles tied to the declining store traffic.

That evening, he was to take the three-hour train ride from Hartford Union Station to Manhattan’s Financial District. From there, he’d arranged transportation to Marriott World Trade Center Hotel, where his mistress, Angela Prater had already checked in and was anxiously awaiting his arrival. As he was daydreaming about their clandestine adventure–two nights in lower Manhattan, followed by an escape to Spain–he was unaware that within minutes the South Tower was about to fall trapping Angela inside the hotel.

He was mulling over the letter he’d intended to leave at the store for Gloria. This hadn’t been an impulse decision, like the night he’d began his flirtation with Angela online. It had been building for years. He’d simply lost interest in his marriage and started visiting internet chat rooms in hopes of finding and making connection. His conversation with his mistress progressed from flirting online to late night phone conversations in his workshop. She’d been divorced for two years and worked in the Big Apple, but lived in the outskirts of New Jersey. He’d built up this fantasy of their future life together, starting with this trip to Spain. She was certainly up for the adventure. Angela had no idea that her check-in day at the Marriott would be her last.

By 10:30, when the North Tower reigned down over the hotel, breaking it in two, Hal was watching it unfold on live television from his cramped office. He looked on in horror as his destination was turned to rubble in an instant. He wondered if there’s any chance Angela could have survived it.

When she couldn’t be reached by cell phone, as there was no service anywhere in the city, he grew more anxious as the minutes turned to hours. The president had been briefed and was aboard Air Force One the last time he tried her by phone.

That evening, as the grim reality sank in and he sulked home, he carried with him the ill-fated letter he’d written to his wife. It explained everything. All the silence when she suspected he was depressed and detached would be explained to Gloria’s shock and horror. As he drove up the tree-lined hills of his neighborhood, past the Asylum Avenue Baptist Church where they were married two decades ago, the pit in his stomach began to heave. He thought he might have to pull to the curb and wretch stomach bile, since he had not eaten lunch.

Gloria, to her honor, took the news as well as could be expected. Not that it came as a complete surprise to her, the greatest shock was that he was taking time off work to travel internationally. She had to suspend reality like watching a movie to hear that the man who’d hardly left Hartford was going to board a jet to Barcelona the following day. She actually felt a pang of sorrow for the mistress who’d lost her life that day in the most unexpected way. Muslim extremists had actually flown two jets into the World Trade Center, toppling them onto the hotel that was to be her husband’s rendezvous point and escape. She just held her face in her hands for close to an hour before getting up from the table to draw a bath. Ted left her alone with her tears and scented candles. They went to bed that night without speaking a word.

It would take several years and loads of counseling and monthly dating for him to regain the trust of his first love. He’d begun to feel quite foolish in the aftermath of his failed escape attempt. He was deeply moved by her grace and mercy towards him, and even her sympathy for Angela. By the end of the decade, they would return to the Baptist church to renew their vows. (For the next story in this series CLICK HEREor follow the link from Facebook).