And so we move into month three of life in paradise.  The adjustment has been completely unique to anything I’ve ever experienced  but it continues in a much more favourable way than it began.  I love the fresh salty breezes on my skin, the spectacular burst of deep pink bougainvillea lining pathways and peaking out around palm trees, the refreshing dips in the sea and the flurry of activity all around the resort. I even love boats now!

I ferried, planed, boated and taxied over to Florida for a few days on my own to scour stores for summer-wear but was surprised that it was difficult to even find a pair of shorts.  I asked a clerk in Macy’s if she’d point me in the direction of bathing suits but she looked at me like I had two heads, exclaiming, “Oh swim suits won’t be out for a few more months.  This is still the winter!”  While the weather in Florida wasn’t as hot as on the island, it was still in the upper 70s!  I actually looked out of place in my white capris and flowered top!  Sweaters and jackets were prominent there!

My husband, three children, their spouses, and girlfriend and my new baby grandson arrived a few days later to a house we had rented for four days.  Although it was early February we were gathering to celebrate Christmas.  Every year my gang comes to  us early in the New Year for a late Christmas.  We have lovingly penned this arrangement, JC (January Christmas.)  It takes some organization to get them all together, especially with my son and his girlfriend living in Vancouver; they are the farthest away.   This year we tried to arrange it so everyone would come to the island but logistics made that impossible.  So we all settled on a later date in a place where it’s easy to rent a house:  Orlando.  And what a house we rented!

The place had seven bedrooms with ensuites, a movie room, a snooker room, a poker room, a pool, and an elevator within 6,500 square feet of living space.  We were all very excited at the idea of being able to spread out, but truth be told, the house was actually too big!  All we really need is a large round dining table and a cozy living room to huddle together for our non-stop days of food, drink, games and loads of laughter.  We actually wasted precious together time trying to locate everyone!  But we all had a fabulous time.

We returned to the island with my son and his girlfriend who stayed with us for another four days.  It was so exciting to bring them back to our neck of the ocean!    

He stopped his golf cart and held out a plastic cup.

A few weeks ago Steve and I felt like we’d totally screwed up our lives by making perhaps the biggest mistake of our lives by moving to an 8-mile long island, so far from everyone and from the civilization we were used to.  We were longing for our old life and all the trappings of house, cars, grocery stores and movie theatres.  I berated myself for the material craving but after living one way for fifty-seven years, it was hard to realize this topsy-turvy existence. Everyone thought we were living in paradise and there’s no disputing, this place is pretty.  But the overriding feeling was that we were stuck in this isolated land.  Trapped in paradise.

Steve’s job was overwhelming.  In fifty-two days he had not had one day off.  His phone rang constantly, emails overflowed and demands grew.  Logistics were insane. It was more than one person could handle and he knew that but was too exhausted to process much beyond the next minute or two. But what could we do?  He needed a job and the prospects of finding another position in hospitality were still slim.  We were only slated to be here for two years and we were counting it down already: one month down, twenty-three to go.

Neither of us are spring chickens though not yet old fogies.  But at this stage in our lives we’d imagined things would be a little bit easier, less demanding, with a little more time to pursue our quieter interests.  In this job, Steve was working like he did when he was in his twenties.  And I was washing dishes in a bathroom sink.  Something seemed very wrong with this picture.

Our bodies were tense, our spirits low.  We were in the rainy season here and when it rains here, it pours.  Mosquitoes were prolific; bites were too.  We really didn’t see how we could ever adapt.  But then suddenly it happened.  The Christmas winds arrived, taking with them the daily rain and the ravaging biting bugs. Rainbows decorated the sky against a backdrop of dazzling blue.  Steve started to see real progress at work.  He was in the process of hiring more staff.  He was getting rave reviews from his boss and guests were very complimentary. I started to enjoy a life without encumbrances. Fresh air filled our lungs; the sunshine lifted our spirits.  The waves were therapeutic; the birds were singing.  It totally reminded me of Allen Sherman’s ‘Camp Grenada’ song:

“Wait a minute, it stopped hailing, guys are swimming, guys are sailing, playing baseball, gee that’s better….mudder, fadder kindly disregard this letter.”

Life is not going to get tremendously easier but we’re trying to ride the waves, take it a day at a time and live it as yet another adventure along the road.  This stop is (a) Camp Grenada.    

I escaped from island life for ten days, returning to Ontario to visit family and friends.  Saying farewell to heat and humidexes that were both in the high eighties, I was relishing the idea of slipping on a cozy sweater, track pants and thick socks.  I was lucky to only have two boats and two planes on the trip home and both modes of transportation were relatively calm and stress-free.  I flew WestJet direct from San Juan, Puerto Rico.  There were television shows and movies available on the screen on the back of the seat and munchies to purchase, so I was nice and comfy.  

The doors of the airport in Toronto slid open and the cold, fresh air felt great.  I sucked it in, along with the exhaust fumes from cars waiting for passengers, found my rental car kiosk and within minutes was bopping down the highway to Christmas music blaring from the radio in my SUV.  It was late at night and I was hungry and Tim Horton signs beckoned.  I was home.

My daughter, her husband and my 3-month old grandson were waiting up for me after my hour-long drive to their place.  I stuffed some cheese and crackers in my mouth, sipped some wine and cuddled that baby; it was a great beginning to celebrating the Christmas season with my loves.

Before I could whistle the 10 Days of Christmas, I was driving back to the airport, sad from my goodbyes but happy with new memories. 

My first flight went well although a ten-month old baby sitting on her mother’s lap beside me, hit her head on my tray table and cried.  Eek.  I arrived in Miami with several hours to spare and took my time peering into shops and calmly waiting thirty-minutes to get  some Pizza Hut pizza.  I knew I had a very short time between my next flight from San Juan to Tortola.  I asked the airline clerk if I could get a closer seat on the flight and she moved me up a few rows.  I was  wedged between a large lady with long hair and a younger guy who kept making the sign of the cross, head, heart, shoulder to shoulder.  Eek.  I squeezed in and took a package of red licorice out of my purse and proceeded to munch away while the large lady flipped her hair all around like a stripper doing a pole dance. 

We landed in San Juan.  I walked with the throng of passengers towards the baggage claim, all the while watching the minutes tick by.  When I saw an airline lady, I asked about my next flight.  “Do not wait for your luggage!  Go at once to the ticket agent and then through security or you’ll be spending the night at the airport!”  Eek.  She pointed out my route, out the front door, past the post office, up the escalator, yada yada yada.

“You have to run fast!” said the next agent I encountered.  “The gate has closed!”

And so I ran, or rather walked very fast, down a very long hallway and then another and then another.  A frenzied gate agent asked if I was Virginia as I raced down the last hall.  I was escorted very quickly out onto the tarmac and into the plane.  I kept my gaze to the ground as I walked past seated passengers who must surely have been aggravated waiting for ‘one last person to arrive.’

We took off.  We bumped.  We swayed.  We dropped.  I took long, deep breaths.  I broke out in a cold sweat.  I focused on an ‘exit’ sign.  I fumbled for the vomit bag.  But, I made it and the pizza stayed down. 

It felt good to step onto land although my stomach still churned.  I was to enter the British Virgin Islands on a spousal work visa and had a FedEx envelope full of official papers.  But, there was apparently one paper I didn’t have and I was ushered off to wait in a stifling office until Steve could ‘rescue’ me.  My husband was located on the other side of the door and came in to set me free but the men in blue kept my passport until I produce the necessary documents.  (It's been three days and I am still without my passport.)

Then:  no luggage.  My case chock full of gadgets and gizmos and Christmas gifts was still in San Juan.  We filed a missing bag report and headed out into the night air.  A gust of wind almost upset my already teetering balance. 

“The boat is waiting,” our taxi driver told us.  I popped two Gravol and squeezed Steve’s hand, the same one I’d be white-knuckling shortly.

“It’s gonna be rock and roll tonight, “ said the captain of the small boat.  “The ocean is wild.”

I closed my eyes and cried without tears.  I am afraid of the ocean.

We started off slowly and I watched the harbor lights grow smaller.  There were just three of us on the boat and the captain gunned the motor.  For the next forty-five minutes we not only rock and rolled, we skid to the left and to the right.  Several times there was nothing but space between the boat and the sea.   We tipped, we bumped, we banged.  I can unequivocally say that I have never been so frightened in my entire life.

With one hand I had hold of the front of Steve’s shirt, with the other I clung to his trousers.  At one point I squeezed his hand so hard that his wedding band was indelibly ground into his finger.

I did not speak other than the intermittent  moaning of my husband’s name. Steve tried to reassure me that we’d be okay but at one particular airborne moment, Steve swore.  Loudly.  With him scared, my fear exacerbated.  I tried to focus on something other than the massive whitecaps swirling at the back of the boat.  I pictured my baby grandson’s face and his drooling smiles that have recently appeared.  That helped but also brought tears.  What if I never saw him again?  What if this was the end?  It couldn’t be!  I hadn’t had long enough here!  I had to see my children again, laugh with them, hug them, love them.  I moved into survival mode.

If I was thrown overboard or if the boat capsized what would happen to my body, other than the inevitable soaking.  Could I surface?  Would I surface?  I’m not a swimmer although I can get from one side of a small pool to another but this was a churning Atlantic ocean for God’s sake.  But if I was determined to live, and I was, could I save myself?  I really thought that was unlikely.

 The captain mentioned a few times that this or that channel was worse, but that it would settle down.  And after almost an hour, we reached the dock in one piece, physically anyway.  I wrapped my arms around myself on the walk back to our room, met our puppy Hopi at the screen door, picked him up and fell on the bed with him and cried. 

But we made it.

Daylight is fading.  The sound of the ocean’s ebb and flow, rhythmic and familiar now, forces its way into my tiny living room.  Birds offer up their final chirps of the day, more of a solo effort now than during their morning chorus.  Guests on bicycles, towels draped around their necks, roll on by, moving a bit swifter than usual as it is the time of day when the mosquitoes like to feast.  They are likely heading back to their villas to wash off salt water and sweat in their outdoor showers. The restaurant will slowly begin to fill as patrons clink glasses and chat about their days spent snorkeling, scuba diving, reading on the beach or hiking on the trails.  The food here is superb, the restaurant touted as one of the best in the Caribbean.  The views aren’t too shabby either.  From the open-air eatery moonlight bathes the marina and sailboats silhouette against ink-blue skies. 

We’ve been here sixteen days now.  Sixteen days of all kinds of wonder.  The beauty is outstanding but we’ve asked ourselves more than once if this is the best place for us.  The job is demanding; the learning curve twists and winds, sometimes in a good direction, sometimes not. We’ve been hotter than hot, chewed up by mosquitoes, caught in a monsoon-like downpour, been battered around on boats slamming against cascading waves.  We’ve been sunburned and scraped up and I’m wondering if I’ll ever have clean feet again!  But we’ve also been completely awed by a country of outstanding beauty, its waters sparkling and twinkling in the sun.  With the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the Caribbean Sea on the other side, we’ve climbed up high on the hills and looked down onto paradise.   We’ve made some great friends and wined and dined with amazingly interesting people.  We’ve laughed with joy and we’ve cried with frustration.  We’re adjusting, adapting, acclimating to a whole new world. It’s an adventure and adventure is defined as: ‘a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome.’ So for now, we’re riding the waves as they rise and fall…..  

Our time as vagabonds has ended quite abruptly.  My better half heard about a job opening and the same day was interviewed on Skype.  Three days later we flew to Michigan to meet the owner of a couple of properties and the team that works at them.  We were wined, dined and wooed but it didn’t take long to appreciate and respect what the owner has accomplished and created.  Michigan herself was glorious, brightening blue skies with the splendor of Autumn leaves, and fresh, crisp air, my favourite time of year.  It’s a part of the State that neither of us had seen, and we quickly fell in love.

Returning to Ontario we celebrated (Canadian) Thanksgiving.  For the first time in over ten years all of my children were together, my son and girlfriend arriving from British Columbia to meet their new nephew.  I don’t think I stopped smiling all weekend.  And then it was time to pack up again for another trip, this one to Virgin Gorda in the British Virgin Islands. 

The owner of the Michigan properties also runs a Relais and Chateaux resort in Virgin Gorda and is developing land a few miles from it as well.  I’d never been to the BVI, let alone to a tiny 8-mile long island.  We flew in the owner’s jet and as I peered out the window I saw water that was so many shades of blue and green that I doubt an artist could even create such colours on his palette.  A manager was needed to run the resort and oversee the hospitality side of the land development.  We spent six days at the resort and were sold on the job.  The offer came quickly, the work permit issued in record-breaking time, sorting and shipping items down south was hectic and swift.  It seemed within moments I was kissing my new grandson goodbye. I'd been privileged to share in the first two months of his life. Through tears I handed I handed him back to his mother, promisingomised to return the following month.

We arrived on Virgin Gorda two and a half days ago.  I feel like I’ve been plucked from one world and dropped into another warmer, more lush part of the planet.  We are staying on the resort until we get our bearings, (or possibly longer) as it’s much more convenient for Steve to be close to work.  Anywhere else on the isle requires a boat ride.  We will be island-folks for two years, returning after our stint to live and work in Michigan.  

And now, it’s time to explore!

I worried about seeing my daughter in labour. I don't think any parent wants to see their child in pain. There was already a bit of a complication:  baby was face-up and unless he or she flipped around, such a position might mean a longer and more painful labour.  I was scared for her.  At the age of 27 Lora’s my third, the baby of the family and the first of my children to have their own baby.   But she’s a strong kid, ever the optimist and a great problem-solver.  I had faith in her.

Lora finished work a few weeks before she was due and she and I spent several days together, eating sushi and ice cream, flipping through racks of baby clothes, laughing about everything possible and reveling in that mother-daughter bubble.  I was over-the-moon excited at the prospect of being a granny and also knew that what we had between us was soon to evolve.  

Her stepdad and I were staying at a nearby hotel and Lora and I were emailing each other in the evenings.  On the night of September 7th, I realized that it had been several hours since I’d heard from her but thought she and Matt might have gone to bed early.  I climbed into bed about 11:30, but as soon as my eyelids drooped, they flew open again.  I jumped out of bed.  “I think she’s in labour!” I called to Steve.  Turns out, she was.

It was a long night at the hospital before she was finally admitted and I headed over when she wanted me to, in the afternoon.  By the time I saw her she’d already been through a lot of pain but an epidural had made her a lot more comfortable.  She was joking, excited and ready to meet her baby.  Her older sister arrived at the hospital and we all had some time together.  Danielle had Lora giggling between contractions and I combed her hair and took off her makeup for her and gave her husband a bit of a break to grab a wee nap.  But the break for Lora didn’t last long. 

Painful pushing carried on for few hours.  Baby stayed face up and wouldn't  budge.  Danielle and I went in to see Lora just after the docs decided to do a caesarian.  Lora was calm but shaking, scared but excited.  Her body was stressed.  It broke my heart to see my little girl, who struggled herself to enter the world, being wheeled away.  What if something went wrong?

Danielle and I returned to the waiting room.   Our version of the modern family, parents and stepparents all became quiet.  For many hours we’d been sharing stories and jokes and snacking on vending machine goodies.  But now questions loomed:  Would Lora be okay?  Would the baby? 

I paced in the hallway.  Every nerve in my body was tight.  We were told the surgery would take about 45 minutes.  An hour passed.  Another hour passed.  I choked back tears.  All I could think of was Lora.  She’d had trouble keeping her iron up when she was pregnant and had been told she might need a blood transfusion.  Was she losing blood?  I wanted to be with her but knew this wasn’t possible.  Her husband was with her.  That’s who she needed right now. 

I was cold; I was hot.  We knew which door Matt would come out of to give us the news.  Danielle thought she heard something.  We pressed our ears to the door.  Nothing.  But then, the door opened and there was Matt in his OR gear.  “It’s a boy!”

I asked if Lora was okay.  She was.  The baby had been stuck in her pelvis; there was no way he could have been delivered but by C-section.  “Kieran Thomas Daly!” Matt proudly announced.

I wanted to see her.  I had to see her.  But the nurse said it wasn’t time.  And so we waited. 

Another hour passed.  All I needed to do was lay eyes on my girl, touch her, make sure she was okay.  And finally we were let in. Lora was propped up slightly on a bed.  Her feet stuck out from the blankets, as if she was hot.  She didn’t have much left in her but she was smiling.  She wasn’t able to hold her new son unassisted but I saw a look in her eyes id never seen before.  She was a mommy. I stroked her cheek and her needled hand just before she drifted off into a drugged sleep. 

The next day I went back to the hospital.  When I walked into the room Lora was lying in bed with a tiny baby cuddled up against her skin.  Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail; her skin was pale.  She looked so young.  And she looked so happy. 

Since returning from our cross-country trip, life has been chaotic, exhilarating, disappointing and exciting but (almost) always, fun.

While we were on our month-long odyssey we were told by our real estate agent that our house had sold and the buyers wanted in by mid-June.  While this meant a whirlwind of packing before my daughter’s June 18th wedding, we knew that we should comply as house sales are something of an oddity in our town and we needed to sell.   As soon as we returned home we started to pack furiously; tape was flying and wrapping was scrunching.  Within a week and a half we had almost the whole house packed up.  We investigated renting a furnished apartment in Milwaukee and putting our house contents into storage until Steve found a job and we relocated from this area.  And then one day we got a call from our agent:  the house sale had fallen through.

Needing to clear rooms of the piles of boxes, we put as many as we could into storage and decided to live bare bones for a while.  Steve had had a couple of phone interviews and a video interview for jobs, one on the west coast and one southeast of us and we were crossing our fingers.  (I was rooting for the west coast!) 

This past weekend my daughter was married in Toronto, under blue skies, sunshine and to the sounds of birds singing.   Steve played keyboards during the ceremony and the bride and groom signed the register to a rendition of “Bushel and a Peck”, that cutesy song from Guys and Dolls.  My girl and her husband walked back down the carpet with smiles so honest that tears flowed freely…mine at least!  The evening was a blur of friends and family, dancing, eating, and speeches, both hilarious and heart rendering, under a moonlit sky.  It was the most fabulous day! The newlyweds jetted off for Paris, Berlin and London and last I heard there were many sidewalk cafes, fabulous food, wine and music filling their days.

We started our drive back to Wisconsin the day after the wedding and along the way Steve got a call from the west coast job; he was being passed over for the position.  But he also had a call from the other job; he is one of two final candidates. 

For now we continue to live in limbo and in our half-naked house.  It’s been pouring rain for the past four days and shows no signs of letting up for at least another few, but it’s inevitable that the fog will eventually lift, the sun will shine and life will move forward, and so will we.   For now, it’s a waiting game.

Saturday, May 21st was the last day of our western trek but far from the end of our journey. For thirty days we'd been good little vagabonds, living out of our car and in hotels and cottages, wandering from town to town, over mountains, along rivers, by lakes, traipsing through vineyards, and dipping our toes into the Pacific Ocean.  We'd been affected by a landslide, avalanche, snowstorms and brilliant, warm sunshine days.  I'd become adept at making yummy lunches in the car, spotting the few and far-between 'Starbucks' signs (their morning oatmeal is delish!), getting Steve to stop arguing with the GPS woman, and viewing the world through bug-covered windshields.  And one important thing I learned:  never head out on a road trip without at least one chip clip; there were many times when I missed that handy plastic device, but that's almost enough fodder for another blog!  I realize this list of mine does not signify a single, huge (or even tiny) accomplishment but Steve and I really had no problems at all being together 24/7 in the confines of a motor vehicle and without the comforts of home that one might think would be missed. 

Life on the road, or anywhere away from family and friends, is so much easier these days, as so many other things are.  Gone are the days when letters and even phone calls were the only means of communication.  When I was younger we'd line up on Christmas Day to talk on the phone to our relatives overseas, quickly spewing our hellos during the ten seconds each person was allotted to talk, with telephone costs being astronomical.  Nowadays of course we have instant connections through email, instant messaging, texting and those masters of communications, Facebook and Twitter.  We had an iphone with us on the trip, which provided almost constant email connections to everyone, except in the mountainous regions where coverage was non-existent.  And almost all of the places where we laid our hats each evening had wifi connections, enabling us to pull out our laptops and blog. 

This trip of ours was made possible by the fact that Steve was laid off from his job in March and had the time to take extended weeks away.  While he has been searching for a new position through social media, such as LinkedIn, he's also following the more traditional route of recruiters and peer contacts.  There have been a few leads and it seems that the world of hospitality is beginning to fall back on its feet again, but at press time, there are no firm job offers.  We'd love to continue wandering and would like to get out to the east coast, but Steve does have some consulting work to complete, so we'll see how the next few months go.  Perhaps we will be back on the road again.

I gathered a lot of knowledge on our trip, mostly geologically speaking.  I think if every kid was able to travel through a country, they'd gain a lot more knowledge than sitting at a desk in school.  So many times I related places I saw to the tidbits of information I received in school, years (and years) ago.  If as a kid I'd seen a desert or a mountain range, or a geyser spewing up from the earth I would have 'got it', understood it, marveled at it and wanted to know more.  While I realize not every parent or child has the luxury of travel, kids do need to be out of doors more, their hands in the earth, their faces to the sun and their minds open to the wonders of the world.  There is so much to see, everyday!

Our travels on the last day, from South Dakota, through Minnesota and back to our home in Wisconsin, took us about ten hours.  Mountains flattened, hills appeared and farms galore became the norm.  We finally saw that tourist spot in our state, Wisconsin Dells, and chuckled at the tacky, but fun-looking world of water slides, family hotels and restaurants, the famous Wisconsin Ducks, a 'boat' for roads and water, amusement parks and casinos and did feel a pang of guilt for not taking our guests, especially the many kids, to the Dells for some old-fashioned fun.  It is a two and a half-hour drive from our place though...way too far!  ;)

Now we are home and in the process of unpacking and then packing up again, this time the whole house; we are scheduled to move at the end of June.  Not sure where we are going yet so gotta hang onto that vagabond spirit for a bit longer! 

 

The hotel where we'd stayed the night of the snowstorm was one of only a few of our accommodations on this trip that wasn't the best, not quite the kind where you feel you can't take your shoes off, but close.  But I'd had two bottles of beer and played a few games of Angry Birds and those were enough to send me off to dreamland.

The next day dawned rainy and it was just one more sleep until we were back in our own beds.  We still had a lot of driving to do but wanted to take in a few more wineries and as many of the little towns as we could.  Our first stop was Hill City, South Dakota and the sun peeked out.

A western town, it was bigger than some, (one we drove through actually posted, and boasted, a population of 10!), with around a thousand residents and in close proximity to some major tourist attractions.  We took a stroll down the main drag, which looked like a western movie set.  Nestled in the Black Hills of South Dakota, the Beatles' song, Rocky Raccoon, rolled through my head like a CD on a loop.  "Now somewhere in the black mountain hills of Dakota there lives a young boy named, Rocky Raccoon...."  We didn't run into anyone who remembered Rocky but we did have a chat with a few locals.  And then we rolled on. 

In the back of our minds we'd been wondering whether to pop into Mt. Rushmore to see the presidents' faces carved in the mountainside but when we came upon the turn it was one way to Mt Rushmore, another to Crazy Horse.  We chose the latter.

When we stopped to pay at the gate, a Native American man greeted us, inquiring as to our dog's name.  Steve smiled and told him, "Hopi".  The man laughed and said to Hopi, "I sure hope you aren't embarrassed by your name!"  (Hopi is named after the Indian tribe in Arizona).

I have been interested in the Native American culture for as long as I can remember; I love their connection with nature and their fervent respect for the land.  Crazy Horse was a Lakota Indian who, in the late 1800s stood up against land occupation by the government, though eventually he surrendered. While giving himself up, he was fatally wounded by a military guard.   A memorial, a mountain monument in the likeness of Crazy Horse, was begun in 1948 as the collaboration between a white man and a Lakota Chief.  When completed it will be the world's largest sculpture.  To date the face of Crazy Horse is complete and work has begun on carving the rest of him sitting on his horse.  A private foundation is funding the project, accepting no government aid.   It is far from completion and has been the subject of controversy from many groups, including some Native Americans who believe the carving is desecrating sacred lands. 

The history of the memorial was very interesting as were the native crafts displayed and for sale and also I enjoyed learning a bit more about the Lakota way of life.  We headed on.

Our destination was Sioux Falls, SD and we'd reserved a Homewood Suites room for our last night on the road.  We'd research a couple of SD wineries and dropped in at Prairie Berry Winery, a family run business who seemed to have a lot of fun with the wines they made, both fruit ones and grape wines.

Our hotel suite proved to be a great one and we were even able to order wonderful steaks and veggies for delivery to our room, which we washed down with a bottle of Montana wine! 

Saturday, the 22nd will be our last day on the road.  The whole trip has gone by so very fast!