If it’s Tuesday, it might be raining

We are on day 143 of 15 days to slow the spread.

It’s Tuesday morning and Tropical Storm Isaias is raining down on the Atlantic coast. I think the steady downpour started at our house around dinner time last night when we all looked at the drenched cat and said “we told you didn’t want to go out.”

Nature called around 5:00 this morning. I’d still be in bed, but apparently, she left a message for both dogs who were desperate to go out in the rain. After that it was obvious that I’d be the only one in the household not able to go back to sleep.

So, I’ve been reading, writing, finishing an art project and listening to the news.

The rain is supposed to stop around noon at which point the freshly nourished grass will be desperate for a haircut.

These are all somewhat trivial things, but after 47 years in lock down, even the trivial takes on a certain level of importance.

Long term readers, and if you aren’t you should be, will recall that I’ve been endeavoring to write a least a thousand words a day for…almost five years now.

That’s a little depressing because the initial title of this project, based on my retirement plans, was “How I Wrote My Ass Out of Hell.”

I haven’t retired yet. Thanks to the virus, that’s going to be delayed a little longer. But I’ve become somewhat content with the situation. The day job, with all of its annoyances, is a good, solid job, and I do it well.

I’ve moved into sort of a groove with theater and performance, and I’ve got more realistic writing plans.

I guess what I’m saying is that writing the thousand words a day has been cheaper, and perhaps more effective, than therapy.

On a side note, if I die unexpectedly, please delete all my files and clear my cache.

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Honestly, Mr. FBI, it was research.

I digress.

Some five years before I started the daily project, I shifted my view from saying “I want to be a writer” to “I am a writer.”

And, I am. Sometimes a good one.

The writing journey, however, has been interesting. It’s become more about the writing than about the income.

Darn it.

I mean, I’m still trying to figure out how to make the writing, and the art, and the theater pay enough to allow for the early retirement.

I’m not there yet.

I’ll be there before I reach my “full retirement age” which, according to the Social Security Administration is a little more than four years.

In the meantime, the storm, the virus, and the news are all giving me plenty of things to write about.

I think I’ll go back to bed.

Photo by Inge Maria on Unsplash


Recaffeinated Mondays: Stormy Weather

We are on day 142 of 15 days to slow the spread.

We were supposed to be not watching the 2020 Olympics right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’d watch the opening and closing ceremonies, and some of the events. Some.

But, not this year.

Instead, those of us on the lower right coast have been watching the approach of the storm who cannot be named or at least pronounced. As I’m writing this, Isaias is a Tropical Storm heading for the Carolinas.

True story, I’ve not been up long enough to check the latest reports and the impacts on Coastal Florida.

In a small storm of my own and for undisclosed reasons, I did not make it to the gym this morning. Then, I got unexpectedly called into an online work meeting.

I’m looking out the window and the sun is mostly shining. The calm before the storm.

I made a comment about the storm name on Facebook the other day and a friend, a transplant from further

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north, was telling us how storms are named.

Bless her heart.

I mean, I know she meant well and was trying to be helpful, but those of us who have lived most of our lives along the southern Atlantic (and Gulf) coast know all about birthin’ and namin’ hurricanes. And babies.

We all have our own hurricane stories.

Hurricane Isabel in 2003 came right over our house. A tornado ripped through our neighborhood and one neighbor lost 17 trees. Our house was spared damage, but we were without power for ten days. We eventually got someone to care for the dog and headed west to stay with family. And take showers.

A year later we were enjoying our annual trip to the Outer Banks when Hurricane Alex arrived. We survived and bought the t-shirts.

I have more stories, but the most memorable hurricane for me remains Katrina. Not because of impact or damage here, I barely remember if there was any. I went on two post-Katrina reconstruction trips to New Orleans. The first trip I took was in 2008, some three years after the storm. The devastation was still heart-breaking. I went back in 2010, there was still work to do.

Hurricanes suck.

We have plans to head to the Outer Banks in a little less than three weeks. We’re hoping for calm, quiet seas. With COVID-19 we’re planning to stay pretty close to the rental house. I’m good with that. All I need, and I do mean need, is a week with my backside planted firmly in a beach chair.

I have a stack of books that I’m taking, but honestly if all I do is stare at the surf and let the salt air blow out the cobwebs on my brain. I’m good.

Jim Cantore is not invited.

Photo by NASA on Unsplash