I like to think I’m basically financially responsible. Don’t get me wrong, I love shopping and spending money, but it’s not something I do very often anymore for a number of reasons. Our house is small. There’s no room for something new unless I replace it for something old that’s already there. I’m partial to my old things. The older I get, the less ‘stuff’ I want. We don’t have a lot of money to waste-period. Don’t need new stuff, I need my house deep cleaned, windows washed and gift cards.

Over the years I’ve had my downfalls. Started several different collections of cups and saucers, depression glass, Precious Moments, Lennox and lost interest after a few years. Or went clothes shopping and bought a darling top or jeans. The second time I put it on, I realized it made my butt look as wide as a 1936 Chevy. How could I not notice that in the dressing room at the store? (Or better yet, do something about that fat ass?) Dunno. The top/pants/coat/shoes/collection-whatever went to Goodwill and I never felt much guilt about those donations or the loss of moolah.

Most of my mistakes/blunders/bad ideas have been put on the back burner for the last few years. Hope that comes from wisdom during the aging process but I have my doubts. I think it just hit me that I need significantly less in my life. Clutter makes me twitchy.

Which makes for a much less stressful life. Except for bananas. It’s been over 45 years and there has been no change in my banana habits. Am I obsessed with bananas? Am I addicted to bananas? No and no. It would be a stretch to say I eat a dozen bananas-a year. (The few times a year I do indulge in a banana fix, the banana’s got to be perfect. It must be canary yellow, completely free from the colors green and brown and have absolutely no spots or bruises. Gross) But since I learned to bake after a couple of years of marriage, bananas have literally ruled my life like a 3-month-old with colic. I buy them every week or so because it’s a fruit the Hubs eats. He’ll slice one up and plop it on top of Rice Krispies (gag) or just peel and eat one-a-day.

My banana issues begin when Hubs starts lagging behind on his banana-a-day-routine. I’ll be in the living room, reading a book and suddenly catch a whiff of an over ripe banana drifting from the kitchen. (For being a former smoker, my sense of smell is surprisingly keen and accurate). My next trip around the corner confirms my accurate surgically repaired proboscis. Yup, he’s only eaten a couple bananas and the remaining 3 now have as many age spots as my left hand.

I’ve delved into this mysterious conundrum over the years and it just ends up hurting my head so I’ve accepted this small cross I have to bear for the rest of my natural life. I’m simply incapable of throwing over ripe bananas away. Limp salad greens, lunch meat (also sometimes green haha), dry bread, leftovers, soon to be outdated milk, old buns, cake mixes, freezer burnt chicken easily find their way to the trash bag on a weekly basis. Why in the world can I not throw out brown bananas? It’s mere pennies, and I’ve admitted to tossing out much more valuable items without any qualms. I must be missing a gene or something.

This Neese peculiarity reared its ugly head again this week, which presented a whole new set of problems. We’re snowbirding for 2 months and the kitchen in the condo is seriously lacking-well everything. I thought I came prepared. Brought along baking soda and powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, chili powder, Les’ seasoning salt, disposable bakeware, even some of my favorite (highly sought after) recipes. But this barren kitchen resembles living out on the prairie in the late 1800’s and only getting to Walmart twice a year.

On the table yesterday rested 3 sad, mostly brown bananas. Nuts. Scratch that, I didn’t bring any nutmeats with me and haven’t bought any since we arrived. (There were 3 ways to go here, big decision. Banana bread, banana bars or simply THROW THEM AWAY. As if I’m capable of that bizarre notion). I did have flour, sugar, brown sugar, eggs and butter on hand. There were a couple of aluminum loaf pans and I bought a small glass mixing bowl (which is square and makes quite a racket when trying to cream the butter, sugars and eggs. No mixer here either). No vanilla, no Pam spray for the pans (I dipped a paper towel in canola oil) or raw sugar which I use to top the batter in the pans before baking. But these damn bananas were singing their sorry song and I’m a hopeless, helpless puddle of mush (kind of resembling my nemesis before it’s spooned into the mix). My biggest deterrent was not finding measuring spoons. I usually eyeball salt in the palm of my hand but this recipe calls for baking soda and powder, both which need to be kind of precise. Had to wing it with a regular teaspoon.

Soon the condo was filled with the smell of baking banana bread. Nice, comforting, homey. This place is a rental and I wonder how long it’s been since such a wonderful smell permeated throughout? We’re not your typical weekly rental vacation folks. First, because we’re here for 2 months, so for now, this is our home away from home. Although we’re lacking many amenities we have at the homestead, for the most part we’re making due with what’s here. I cook almost every day, so I guess the natural progression would call for me to bake something at some point. Not surprised it was with my faithful, curvy, elongated, brown companions, around weekly for decades, the over ripe banana…

For several years I was Parish Visitor for an older congregation. My work (a calling really) included visiting a large portion of our congregation who were no longer able to attend church services regularly, but not specifically confined to those folks. I also saw a number of people who were just getting up in age-and slowing down.

One of the ‘senior’ dinners at church. Charlie and Barb are pictured…

One of my favorite couples had lost half of their duet. It had been a long, painful dementia trip. The winter following his death, Sally came to me with an unusual request. She and Paul owned a lovely place in Destin, Florida. The condo had been their second home for many years and Sally realized that part of her life was now over. This would be the first time she and Paul would not be traveling to the condo together to spend the winter. But Sally wasn’t quite ready to end her yearly migration south (like her kids were). She wanted one more trip to the condo before she put it on the market.

Her children were adamant that she not drive down to Florida by herself. She was over 80 and had never driven there by herself. To appease them, Sally asked me to drive her to Destin, stay for a few days then fly back to Grand Rapids. I’ve loved driving since I stole, borrowed really my first car for a joyride when I was 14. Might be a small exaggeration but mostly true. (http://dvb517.blogspot.com/2014/07/petty-crimes-misdemeanors.html). Sally would be busy for the next 2 months, deciding what to keep, sell, give to her kids or donate. Plus say goodbye to several dear friends she and Paul made over the years. The plan was that I would fly down to Florida in late February, stay a few days (free in her exquisite condo), then drive us back to Michigan. Since Sally had the van, she would be able to bring back any personal, special items she didn’t want included in the sale. Dang, I couldn’t say yes fast enough.

My mistake was in not doing any research about Destin and the surrounding area. I’d been to Fort Meyer’s Beach a couple of times and assumed Florida is Florida. But Ft. Meyer’s is WAY south of Destin, which lies in this skinny panhandle (which shouldn’t even belong to the state).

Hubs dropped me at Sally’s before dawn broke on New Year’s Day since we were driving her van. I hadn’t packed much in the way of clothes BECAUSE I WAS GOING TO FLORIDA IN JANUARY. Five glorious days with warm weather and sunshine. (Surprise, surprise) Drove to Nashville, which was rainy and cold where we spent the night. By early afternoon on the 2nd we were about an hour away from Destin. Sally wanted to drive this last little leg after we filled up with gas near the Alabama/Florida state line (she claimed gas was always a few cents cheaper in Alabama).

We hauled everything out of the van into the condo. Don’t remember exactly what floor she was on, maybe 5 or 6. It had a lovely view of the Gulf, complete with Dolphins sluicing through the water. Sally found a can of soup so we didn’t have to go grocery shopping until the next day. I brought along a couple bags of glazed popcorn I’d made before we left which was our dessert. By 4:45 it was dark. I texted the Hubs saying we were safe and sound, went to bed early, excited about my mini vacation.

It gets lights earlier in the panhandle (central time zone). I got up early and dressed for my walk. Figured if I stayed on the street in front of the condo I couldn’t get lost. Walked past a huge state park, some beautiful homes, glancing over and checking out a shopping center across the busy highway/street. And froze my ass off. It was 30 degrees with some wind and drizzle. If it hadn’t been for the palm trees, I would’ve swore I was walking in Michigan. Brrr. Got back to the condo with chattering teeth, wet clothes and an instant hatred for Destin.

Showered, dressed in the warmest clothes I had and felt somewhat better about life (though not Destin). Sally and I trotted off to a Publix grocery store to pick up some staples. One of the things she bought was a loaf of bread from their bakery. Cranberry Walnut. Delicious. (After I got back to Michigan I tried 5 different bread recipes trying to duplicate that bread and never did succeed). Stayed in the condo for the rest of the day because it was rainy, windy and cold, but Sally was easy to talk to and we yakked for hours. (Without her cheerful demeanor I might have gotten bitter).

The next day’s forecast called for temperatures in the mid-50’s with periods of sunshine in the afternoon. Great, I can start my tan I thought, digging out my swimming suit and finding my way down to the pool. Soon I realized, “periods of sunshine” came in 3 minute increments-and there were 2 of them that afternoon. My goose bumps were bigger than my boobs. “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.” (She’s gone cause she froze to death).

Sally insisted we have lunch at one of her favorite restaurants in Destin called McGuire’s. Plank flooring resembling the inside of a barn maybe, leading to different sections of an Irish saloon. The ceilings and walls were covered with stapled dollars bills, swaying to breeze of busy waitresses. One of their signature dishes-wait for it-Senate Bean Soup, at the cost of 18 cents a cup. Sally and I supped at McGuire’s both times I stayed with her. (That’s 2 Reuben’s, fries and 2 cups of Senate bean soup for me. I am nothing if not consistent).

So last week, this Alabama snowbirding couple decided to head to Destin for the day (trying to erase the bad taste I’ve held for that city, 8 years running). Again the trip researcher did not do her homework. We left at 10 thinking we would be at McGuire’s by noon. Well it was a lot further than we thought and most of it 2 lane, going 55. We were famished by the time we walked in at 1:30, but the place hadn’t changed. Hubs got the daily special, a chicken dinner and I ordered ‘my usual.’ We stapled a dollar bill on the wall by our booth to commemorate the day.

Fumbled our way through town trying to find the condo (I must be the only person on earth not smitten with Destin). The town seems to have doubled in size. Hectic traffic, shopping centers every few blocks. The only way I stumbled my way to the condo was the Bealls store (nice department store) across the road. Shopped at Bealls for old times sake, then it was late afternoon and we still had a 2-1/2 hour trip back. There has been some serious hurricane damage to a long bridge (the bridges are all long down here in the south) by Pensacola so we had to use a different route, north out of our way, but at least our way (west) was moving. The folks going east were backed up about 10 miles and only going about that fast. I think most were commuters and I felt bad for them but ecstatic all that traffic wasn’t on our side.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Destin. My perspective was just off, like this morning in Gulf Shores. It was 62 by 9 am with 10 mph wind. (The windchill in Michigan was 14 at the same time-perspective). There were people walking by our condo in winter coats, hoods, long pants. I dressed in capris, short sleeves, slapped on my shades, headphones, grabbed my walking stick and zoomed out the door singing:

We come on to Sloop John B, my grandfather and me,

Around Nassau town we did roam. Drinking all night, got into a fight,

Well, I feel so broke up, I (don’t) wanna go home…

So I ventured out this week, (minus the Hubs), my faithful sidekick for the first time. My destination was the Tanger Outlet Mall, just a few miles north. Here it is mid-January and I’m shopping at an outdoor mall, wearing no coat! I totally got this southern weather. It hasn’t been perfect. A few days struggled to hit 50, but most days have been sunny and ideal for this gal who detests snow but is not fond of high heat or humidity either. Never said I wasn’t fussy about my weather (or my purses, as you’ll note).

I perused the stores listed on the internet, thinking I could hit a half dozen before my remaining original knee started protesting. (The thought has crossed my mind it’s becoming clear something’s amiss with that limb, which literally makes me weak-kneed). Say what you will about knee replacement but it took me almost a year to recover. The pain however is gone, but I dread the thought of having that procedure done again, and hope something (minor) is wrong with my leg.

Tooling along on highway 59, my gaze shifts to the right. As I live and breathe, there sits a Krispy Kreme bakery/store. My very favorite. Their donuts are like eating sugared air. Five miles from where I’m hanging my hat for 60 days. Well there’s 10 snowbirding pounds I hadn’t counted on, but concessions will have to be made. I sailed right on by like a dumbass. That won’t happen again, I assure you. I will remain one strong woman, allowing myself one original glazed every time I’m in the general vicinity. Like Alabama. Did you get the part about Krispy Kreme being within walking distance from our condo? A mere hop, skip and a jump. This is some serious motivation. I could easily walk 5 miles with that little carrot dangling in front of this lame old nag.

Problem number 1. We’ve been here 2 weeks and I’ve finished my third book in the Mickey Haller (The Lincoln Lawyer. If anyone is interested I have 4 of them I’d happily give away) series. I only brought 5 books with me, so that’s not gonna cut it for 2 months. I stopped at a large bookstore because my friend Jeff suggested the Eve Duncan series and I thought I’d look for the first couple books but they didn’t have any. I could order some from Thriftbooks but not sure if I want them mailed here. I have yet to see a mailbox in town-period. I’ve been carrying a stamped card around for a week and haven’t spotted a mail box to toss it in. I guess Trump really did steal them. Maybe I’ll try and find a used bookstore in town. BTW, all city vehicles in Gulf Shores have this printed on the doors of their trucks: “Small town, big beach.” Accurate.

I finally stumble across the mall which is huge and very spread out. Knowing I can’t walk the length of it, I pick out a couple of stores that are close together and park nearby. First up is Corning Revere. Last night I wanted to make baked beans to go with our barbecued ribs and discovered there is not a casserole dish in the place. Oy vey. I’m wary of the handles of the pots in the kitchen, unsure if they were oven safe so I used a FRY PAN which had a metal handle. The store window is advertising 75% off everything, not a good sign. The store is 75% empty and going out of business, but I did find a couple of cheap, oven proof glass bowls that I won’t mind leaving when we head home.

Next up was Kors (Michael), Kate (Spade) and Coach, hoping one would have a new handbag for this fussy purse lady. The older I get, the more particular I get about my handbags. Don’t like stiff or structured, don’t want smooth leather, won’t buy a bag with 2 handles (am I the only woman who hates it when one strap falls off my frickin shoulder every other minute)? And I don’t want anything boxy. I like slouchy, like me, a hobo shaped bag, which appears to be quite unpopular of late. Not one purse in 3 stores cried, “take me home.”

There’s another bookstore advertised so I hopped in the Jeep (5 years ago I would have walked the complete length of the mall and not given it a thought. Now I look around and think, Geez, I don’t want to walk that way, there’s 6 steps. I really hate that. Getting old, not for sissies, and oftentimes I feel like a big sissie. I did not spot the bookstore but found a place called, The Fudgery. Well that looks interesting (especially since I zipped by Krispy Kreme). I walked in, all casual but I’m immediately drawn like a moth to a flame to the fudge section. I think they serve ice cream too, but my eyes only saw fudge. The glass display cabinet, home to a dozen or more varieties of fudge is now sporting a small drop of drool. I snap my mouth closed. Two clerks (bored out of their gords) slowly meander behind the counter. The clerk in charge starts by asking if she can be of help to me? Let’s just call her, BOC for boisterous, outgoing clerk.

Me: “these fudge chunks don’t look very big. Are they a quarter pound?”

BOC: “no, they’re 8 ounces, $8.99 each.”

Me: “ok, I’ll take one of the plain chocolate here with walnuts.”

BOC: “no, that’s our chocolate fudge with pecans.”

Me: “hmmm alright, how about the Rocky Road then? Does that have walnuts?”

BOC: “again, no. The Rocky Road is loaded with pecans. Welcome to the south.”

Me: “point taken and duly noted. I’ll have the chocolate with pecans please.”

I have just been given a stern lesson in the hoity-toity importance/priority of pecans in the south. I was raised on walnuts, (nutmeats, that’s what Mom called them) using them in candies and baking, except Pecan Tassies, pecan pie or frosting to top a German chocolate cake. Even with German chocolate cake, if it’s for family, I’ll use walnuts. If I’m bringing it somewhere or giving it as a gift, I use pecans.

If I had my trusty Club Aluminum Dutch oven here, my 45 year-old fudge beating spoon, my gas stove and using my great grandma Effie Berghuis’s 6 ingredient recipe, I could/would have schooled those two clerks on how a real batch of fudge should look and taste. My fudge is so much better. Way better. Way. With walnuts. Without. Or perhaps pecans…

Why don’t we take off all alone? Take a trip somewhere far, far away?

We’ll be together-all alone again, like we used to in the early days.

It’ll be just like starting over. Starting over. John Lennon-paraphrased

Here I thought our ‘downsized’ house was small. No, the condo rental is small. Twenty steps from the front door to the balcony sliders. That’s the farthest I can walk without taking a sharp left at some point inside. (5 doors, all on the left side) It’s a hoot! Loud colors on the walls, positive, inspirational beachy signs hung throughout, including the shower curtains. We knew this coming in so I’m not surprised. But I didn’t think it would remind me so much of the early days of our marriage.

The condo is very nice and there’s really no comparison to our early years but for size. Three flat screens, 2 bathrooms, 2 bedrooms, dishwasher. We have a great view of the Gulf of Mexico across the road. How many get to enjoy that for 2 months? But it’s the little things that remind me of being young marrieds all over again. It’s about the size of the house we rented in 1970 when we brought home Shannon, our firstborn. The only bedroom was filled to capacity with a queen sized bed and one of 2 dressers, the other dresser claimed a spot of the living room (as did Shannon’s crib).

We arrived here just over a week ago, around 6 pm so it was pitch dark. We unpacked, put away the frozen food, hung up a few duds and collapsed in bed. Woke up to warm temperatures, blinding sunshine and huge waves rolling in from the Gulf. I skipped walking every morning for 3 travel days so that was my first goal. Get back into my walking habit (and not get lost). To my delight, a blacktop walking path runs East/west off of the busy road in front of us. I walked (what I felt was 3,000 steps, playlist wise), checked my pedometer (pretty darn close), marked in my head how far I’d come and turned around.

Made a list of staples needed and suppers I was hungry for, showered and we headed for the grocery store (in 8 days I’ve been to the store 3 times. Hubs has accompanied me ALL THREE TIMES!) Until this trip he hadn’t been to the store with me 3 times in the last 5 years! Brought home $185. worth of food, leaving out a whole chicken (soup) and 2 pounds of lean ground beef (spaghetti).

When perusing for this place, I meticulously went through all the amenities, noting pots, pans, dinnerware, appliances sheets, towels etc. Reality set in when I had to decide NOT to make soup the first night. Normally I’d cook the whole chicken (sorry super healthy folks, it’s the skin and bones that gives chicken broth it’s good flavor. Well that and I’m a darn good soup maker). I bent down to the cupboard, home to the extensive pot and pan collection. And laughed. The largest pan fit in the palm of my hand. Ok, a slight exaggeration but it wasn’t very big.

So I had Hubs cut the legs and thighs off the chicken. No, not so the rest of the chicken would fit in the pan, that would still be a stretch. (I gave Jovi a play set of real pots and pans for Christmas last year. They honestly rival the size of the pans the condo has). I decided for the duration of this snowbird trip I had to rethink my quantities cooking. Normally when I make soup, I keep some in the fridge for leftovers, freeze a quart and give Ari and Jovi a quart. Too much soup for this place. So I made fried chicken with the legs and thighs the first night, thinking I’d only be able to make about 2-3 quarts of soup total in that little stinking pot.

Who wants to spend a fortune on a pot I’m gonna use for a few weeks? Went to Walmart looking for an inexpensive solution. Hubs (now my constant grocery sidekick) comes around the corner of the aisle with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, holding a pot. “It’s 8 quarts, stainless steel and only $6.97.” (Honestly, I swear my heavy duty Reynolds aluminum foil is thicker). And it was shaped kinda different too, about 10 inches in circumference and about 4 feet tall, guaranteeing a new arm burn every time I stirred something, but it would suffice. Once the clerk scanned the pot, she carefully placed it in a plastic bag, which dented the side. It’s fine, everything’s fine.

Another new cooking experience awaits. Using one of those glass top, surface stoves, which took 37 minutes to reach a boiling point for my now leg less, thigh less but big breasted chix. (I had reached the boiling point so much sooner). You need to stand around, checking every few minutes until you can turn the burner down to simmer, remove the floaty stuff, then cover and let it cook while you chop up the veggies.

My point is the kitchen made me feel like the Hubs and I were starting out again. No tongs in the drawer to grab the fried chicken, tiny salt and pepper shakers that belong in a picnic basket, bowls the size you use for toddler snacks, cups that render your coffee tepid in 3 minutes flat. The kitchen in the condo is a vacation kitchen. Not one supplied with the necessary tools, cookware, or spices needed by someone who cooks often. That’s not why people stay here. They’re not here to cook suppers every night. They’re here for a vacation from their everyday mundane life and want try out different restaurants, taking a break from their normal routine.

However, we’re here a bit longer and there’s nothing less appealing (to me) than going to a different restaurant every night. Ugh. So some adjustments are needed. We have company coming and I offered to make a cake (we’re going out for supper as a birthday celebration). The dilemma? There is a cake pan (yay, a 9 x 13, not layer pans which is prettier) but no mixer. I think I can beat the cake mix into submission by hand, but the Twinkie frosting requires several minutes of more than I can do by hand. I either have to buy a hand held mixer or convince her that German chocolate cake and frosting (made on the stove) will be as tasty as Red velvet with Twinkie frosting. Funny, the things you get used to and take for granted until they’re not at your disposal for a few weeks.

Still, all in all, I’m enjoying our time here immensely-if only I had my kitchen…

It’s safe to say 2020 was a year like no other. For everyone. In many ways not much changed for Hubs and I, the stay-at-homers. Still every time I went to the store, grocery carts were being sanitized, blue tape “x-marks-the-spot” on how far apart you should stand from the next person in the checkout lane and masks were worn by the masses, reminding me just how different life had become in a few short months. Any place of business that wasn’t forced/ordered closed I avoided anyway. I’m deaf, putting me at a definite disadvantage, trying to understand anyone wearing a mask. We didn’t do our part to help the piss poor economy by ordering take out more frequently than normal, which is almost nil.

But much of life around us changed dramatically. We had not seen riots and looting like this summer for decades. It was troubling and unnerving, probably because of our age. The political atmosphere was highly charged throughout the country and everyone was worried about their future. The future of our loved ones. So while not much had changed in my own little cocoon, life was really different, and will never be the same. Ever. Which put me in a funk.

I was filled with this urgency (no, I didn’t have to pee) which is not something I experience often or fully understood. I guess it goes to the fight or flight in all of us when faced with dire circumstances. Do I stay and duke it out or simply leave to fight (and live) another day? I’m sarcastic as hell but really a chicken shit avoiding confrontation at all costs. I got no fight left in me. Ready to call it a day and move on. I needed to get away for awhile. Weird, coming from the gal who’s been solidly anchored to her home. Forever.

The idea of going away during a pandemic was daunting. Who does that? Yet, at the time it seemed perfectly logical. Hubs and I might as well be isolated far away (in much better weather, near water in its original liquid form) than what Michigan has to offer during the winter, so the search was on. Where to go, where to go? South of course, but not too far from home. A thousand miles ought to do it. Easy enough to pick out the worse 2 months of the year (we had a choice from 5 and that’s during a good Michigan winter).

I’m not a fast decision maker but after a couple weeks of perusing the internet, we found a location/place in our price range and made the reservation. Gulp. I thought my funk would disappear after our plans were solidified, but my uneasiness remained with me for the long haul. I guess I don’t give up anything with ease.

Another unusual decision I made was about Christmas. Just. Not. Feeling. It. No tree, no stockings, no cards. Minimal baking. Which did nothing to lighten my mood but at least there were no frantic days of taking the decorations down and packing them away before we left. Looking back, I now realize how much I missed seeing my ornaments. And admiring how amazing our 13 Christmas stockings look hanging up. I hope this inspires me to decorate this year.

Which brings me to Jeff and Pat. Didn’t know what a big part of this impromptu trip they would be. Jeff, I’ve known my whole life. A kid from my home town. He’s a punk (a year younger than me) and his brother Randy was one of my best friends during high school. Jeff generously offered us sanctuary on the way to our destination. If Pat (whom I had never met) had misgivings about having complete strangers in her house overnight, it did not show when she graciously gave me an elbow bump upon arrival.

What did I do to deserve this? Absolutely nothing. (I’m sure God had His hand in it). He knew I was having a tough time. A wave of peace enveloped me as soon as I walked into their beautiful home on New Year’s Eve. With a slight southern drawl Pat quipped, “I thought you might enjoy my Christmas decorations, so I left them up.” Every square inch of their house was decorated. Tastefully.

Her tree was stunning. Oodles of red and silver (like small branch inserts) with coordinated ornaments on a 9 footer. Mesmerizing. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. A fresh Christmas bouquet topped a runner in the kitchen. Festive garland with Longaberger baskets topped the cupboards (I don’t know what that space above the kitchen cupboards is specifically called). Fluffy red and white pillows piled high on the sofa. Gnomes nested on the floor beside me, watching my every move.

As we hauled in enough bags to give the impression we were staying until 2022, 20 whimsical snowmen greeted us in the guest room. They made me feel all warm and fuzzy. Although I hate snow, I have a fondness for all snowmen. No dallying, it was time to eat. I thought Pat was serving hors d’oeuvres when I sat down at the dining room table. Of course the table was festooned with Christmas dinnerware, placemats, runners and centerpiece. Duh. Jeff patiently explained the logic of 8 different plates topping the charger. Steaks, fried potatoes, green beans, rolls, and salad/slaw and wine. Yup, just a few snackies, as Jovi would say.

Pat barely got a word in edgewise during the first 3 hours. It was the Rock Valley kids reliving their wild youth. Ok, we were gossiping too, but we had time. We were determined to see 2020 come to a close and usher in 2021 with renewed hope (and champagne). I was the only one who partook of a second glass, the party poopers.

New Year’s Day dawned warm and sunny in Mississippi. After a small breakfast of eggs, home fries, bacon, French toast and coffee, ala Jeff, (yeah, he’s a good cook) it was time to walk around the farm to meet and greet the horses. (Jeff and Pat both come from horse families, which they have nurtured in their kids and grands). Too soon it was time for the last leg of our journey. While we were anxious to see our new temporary home away from home, I wasn’t ready to leave. I hadn’t felt at peace for months and sadly realized just how good it felt again. Doubtful if Pat or Jeff knew what an impact they had on my somewhat glum well being, but their friendship was a powerful way to end one (miserable) year and boost me into the next. Their timing in my life was impeccable. No, old acquaintances (and new) should never be forgotten. I just don’t know how to repay their kindness. Heartfelt thanks you two…