Holly Beach (God Moments)

PREFACE

How did I arrive in this place?  This place sown of deep beauty and runaway joy but as with all of life coupled with twinges of trial and pain.  This place so distant and abstract yet enchantingly near and decidedly real.  This place that was fashioned by the dreams of a child and all too quickly displaced by the fond musings of age.  The question above resounds.  Was it by the hand of others?  Decisions of my own making?  The Divine Providence of our Creator?

Perhaps specific locations at different points in time hold the key and in fact, a venue comes to mind.  Our family always called it Holly Beach but the maps simply identify the spot as Holly.  A small community quietly resting on a relatively minor finger of the Salish Sea known as Hood Canal.  Then, drilling down, a tiny yellow cabin set in the shadows of mighty Douglas Fir which then take their place in obscurity under the watchful eye of the majestic Olympic Mountains.  Regardless any of that, the spoken word "Holly" invokes so much more than a simple place residing on a timeline.  Indeed, words like family, laughter, and togetherness flood into the conscious mind and these in turn awaken a renewed awareness of concepts such as gifts, blessings, and love.  Still, the question persists:  How did I arrive in this place?

So it came to pass that an old photo album was dusted off with the hopes that an answer could be rooted out.  Most of the pictures are worn and faded.  The oldest images obscured by the grains of pixelation within the many shades of black and white - actualities reminiscent the technology of the era.  Surprisingly, without exception, the memory of that split-second when any given photo was captured is lost.  But that is not to say that the photos are without worth.  Indeed, while any awareness of the instant of the shutter-click is absent, the photos summon unsuspected snippets from the past.  Recollections too long passed over.  Reflections lacking specific context but rich with state-of-mind consciousness.  Unlike the albums and the snapshots within, sorted and placed, the consequent contemplations are random and scattered.  These are their stories:

THE ROAD

rollercoaster like

curves blur past....here come the dips

"faster dad!  faster!"

Chevy's springs stretch to touch sky

stomachs turn over in glee

Before we ever got to the beach, there was always the car ride out from our home in Bremerton on a road hacked into the terrain and carved out of the forest.  Narrow with trees pressing in on the sides, the builders firmly believed in following the path of least resistance.  All too often, the "oohs and aahs" turned to "boos and blahs" as motion sickness reared its ugly head.

La Costa Plenta

Emigrants depart

sacrifice their levied toll

Immigrants they came 

generations near and far

each played a role in this place

It was the mid 50's and I was unaware at the time, but Dad's source of gainful employment was Title Insurance.  Somewhere in the course of business he learned of a deteriorating vacation resort consisting of some twelve cabins that were being sold off individually.  Each cabin and it's accompanying 50 feet of waterfront were being sold for the grand sum of $2000.00.   Mom and Dad went halves with Uncle Howard.  They swallowed hard and ponied up the $1000.00 apiece.

Their first work party painted the exterior of the cabin bright yellow and no sooner had the paint dried than a flat piece of cedar driftwood was hung on the rough wooden siding for all to see.  Carved into the piece of drift and painted black were the scripted letters La Costa Plenta..  

First generation Americans of Swedish descent on my Mother's side, second generation on my Father's, the three proud landowners of humble ancestry loved to point at their most modest abode and say "La Costa Plenta" in the deepest Swedish brogue they could muster.  Then they'd laugh.     

.  

MAIDEN FLIGHT

Dad holds fender firm

"just pedal.....go straight for now" 

wow!  I'm doing it!

ten.....twenty.....the yards fly past

Dad?....crash ensues, passion joined

For untold centuries our little corner of Holly existed as a saltwater marsh rather than a "beach".  But that all changed with the coming of that vacation resort vision.  Indeed, the low lying areas were filled in with logging debris along with large amounts of dirt, sand, and gravel in order to raise the ground level just above the highest tide.  Then the cabins were raised, leaving an open area roughly 100 feet wide and some 550 feet long between the cabins and the shoreline.  My "flight" covered some 200 feet of that uneven ground before realizing that Dad had quit running besides me some ways back.  A reassuring presence can work wonders and encourages perseverance.  Then, onward to character and ultimately hope (Romans 5:3-5). 

A few months later a shiny red Schwinn Electra bicycle was found on Christmas morning standing next to the tree.  No bike has ever logged more miles.

BEACH FIRES

Smoke herds in circles

moist wood at long last flames....then

marshmallows ignite

eyes sting, mosquitoes feast full

togetherness at dusk.....perfect

Darkness always arrived too early at Holly.  Tucked beneath two high peaks known as "The Brothers", the land to west of Holly descended quickly over the foothills and down to the opposite shore of Hood Canal.  As such, the angle of the setting rays never lent themselves to spectacular colors.  But the night did fall and so did the temperature even on the hottest of days.

Each day ended with a gathering of everyone who had endured the road.  Circling the fire ring just a few feet removed from the high tide line we came together as one.  Tired, yet contented, faces sporadically illuminated in the glimmer of firelight.

Most of the one-man stones circling the fire pit had been collected from an abandoned gravel pit a few miles back up the road.  They had been gathered and then transported in the trunk of our baby blue Chevy that Mom had christened Bluebird.   Stones laid.  Surely, each an Ebenezer (1 Samuel 7:12).  Each a testimony to the Grace of God.

  

THE SPRING

cloaked in mystery

crystal pure it bubbles forth

gurgles without sound

they come again and again

life disguised in waters form

One day, Dad and Uncle Howard announced that they were headed out to take a look at the communities water supply -  a few hundred yards back and just off the road.  Sure enough, not more than 20 feet from the road's edge we found the reservoir.  A concrete structure maybe 8 feet by 12 feet and about 4 feet deep.  Covered with a peaked corrugated metal roof, a tiny stream flowed in and over the top of the  back wall while the overflow spilled out the front curtain-like over a dam covered in brilliant green algae.  A 3 inch metal pipe exited the front at the bottom and headed downhill towards Holly Beach. 

Always the adventurer, Uncle Howard exhorted, "Let's go find the spring!".  Off we went, although I had no idea what we were looking for.  Just being with Dad and Uncle Howard was enough.  Following a little-used trail running parallel the stream we headed uphill but not far along the trail pretty much disappeared.  From there on, my leaders bushwhacked their way through thick underbrush and over fallen trees.

Then suddenly, there it was.  Out of nowhere, just bubbling up from the depths, crystal clear laying over a small bed of washed rocks.  

The day was hot and on the walk back down the road, I asked, "Where is the water coming from?".  

We stopped walking and Dad responded, "Well, we're not completely sure but do you see that snow up there on The Brothers?", now pointing with his right hand way across the canal and up.

I nodded but not really sure of where this was going.

Dad smiled and then continued, "The snow over there is melting and as the water runs down to the canal, some of it falls into cracks in the earth."  Now Dad made a swinging motion with his right hand in the form of a "U" in front of his body, right to left all the while saying, "Those cracks turn into caves and those caves run all the way under the canal over to us."  Here he made a pressing down gesture with his right hand and a lifting motion with his left.  "And the water pops up."

Even now, I doubt that I understand the science behind that hydrogeological discharge.  I certainly didn't then.  Regardless, some of life's lessons simply stick and those that speak to God's ingenuity leave a lasting mark.

THE OLD TIMER

gray stub, weathered brow

shrimping his trade and passion

giant kettle boils pink

stories bygone, bold and rare

but oh!  that harsh scent of brine

Dad loved the taste of shrimp so not surprisingly, he would habitually scan the waters to see if the shrimp boat, white and rickety, was coming in.  He'd wait a half hour or so, and then we would walk a short ways up the beach to the shrimp fisherman's house in hopes that he would have a few extra to sell.  From 100 yards out the stench of the shrimp boil permeated everything.  50 yards if the fisher had been skunked that day.

Phundt was his last name but his first name is elusive.  Alan?  Albert?  No matter.  

Mr. Phundt was a fisherman by trade, but a storyteller by heart.  He engrossed with myths of kraken-like creatures that he had hauled up from the deepness.  Then there was the tale of a  miraculous deliverance from falling debris.  Wreckage flung into the sky by a freak wind that toppled old growth conifers, some uprooted while others were snapped off like matchsticks.  My favorite was his account of a winter long past when he had walked across the canal, shore to shore and back (2 miles one way approximately), on a sheet of ice that had formed during a weeks long deep freeze.  His stories captivated this young mind.

One year, Dad's relish for shrimp proved too much for him, so he decided to buy a trap from Mr. Phundt and the prerequisite 300 feet of rope topped off with the buoy.  The trap was rectangular and about 3' x 3' x 1'.  Constructed of a heavy metal rebar frame and encased with a black creosote netting, two small concave mouths in the narrow screen walls allowed for the shrimp to enter, but few, if any, could figure their way out.  I'm not sure how much it weighed but it was difficult for me to lift.  

Of course, Dad and Uncle Howard went partners in the project.  Right from the start issues arose.  They had nothing to use for bait.  Hmmm....but a brief brainstorming session landed on dog food.  A tin was borrowed from the neighbors and soon holes were punched all over the can.  Next, setting the trap proved problematic as the first few attempts at finding bottom proved fruitless.  Much to their dismay, each failure required them taking turns at the hand-over-hand retrieval that left them both gasping for air.  However, they seemed quite pleased with themselves in that they hadn't lost their entire enterprise into the abyss.  Regardless those complications, after some jockeying of the boat, the trap was finally set.    

The next day we returned to find the buoy peacefully bobbing in place.  As Uncle Howard began the pull he exclaimed, "It's so heavy, we must have hundreds!"  Peering down from the gunnel, my heart was pounding.  I was tad bit fearful that we had latched on to one of those kraken things so I wore a mask of silence and a smile.  I was never sure if Dad and Uncle Howard had bought my act or not.  But there was no time to fret as a dark form began to emerge from the depths.  What?  As the sea water poured out the netting, one very shrimpy shrimp was found lodged in a corner of the trap along with one worse-for-wear can of dog food. 

Two subsequent attempts followed that outing.  The total bounty counted out at four puny shrimp.  The truth be told, the fourth placing of the trap came about unceremoniously in the shed behind the cabin and there it gathered dust for years thereafter - a testament to dreams unfulfilled and the talents of one gnarled old fisherman.

 

THE QUIET YEARS

solitude descends

still covers the wilderness

"hush, little one, hush" 

alone but never lonely

His Peace fills this troubled soul

  

My twenties were difficult times for me.  Self-consciousness and low self-esteem spiraled into self-doubt and a lack of confidence, culminating in self-loathing.  I was the definition of a "selfie" long before selfies were even a thing.  Fears in many forms consumed me.  All triggered by events not worth mentioning.  Only a few of you remain who knew me then and this account may come as a surprise.....maybe not.  A mask of silence and a smile were enlisted as my smokescreen of choice.  

Soon, physical ailments followed as something diagnosed as cluster headaches became a daily occurrence, often multiple times per day.  Further, a spine that for years had run freely was suddenly given to sporadic spasms and slippages resulting in a right hip insisting on residing in the space where the rib cage had already staked claim.  Yes, it hurt.

It was during these years that I frequented Holly Beach whenever I could in those hours when no one else was there.  

The mighty communal fires of years past were replaced by gentle flames to which I huddled close.  As the last ember flickered black, a stillness fell across the pitch-dark water that was hauntingly beautiful.

And then there was rain.  In the shadow of the the Olympic Rainforest, often the air became heavy with liquid.  Sometimes to the degree that made me wonder how any lung could extract oxygen from the damp.  Splonk.....Splonk.....Splonk.....  The cadence cried out with rest.  

Through it all there was a sense of God's presence and indeed, I know He was there.  In time, I came to understand that life is neither about myself nor my gain and certainly not about my glory.  Life and the meaning thereof, is simply about finding God through His Son and accepting my place in that relationship with Him.  In that connection comes incredible peace, love, and joy.  Indeed, hope wells up and a realization is established that all of us, even me, are His creation and that He loves us regardless of our flaws.

The afflictions of those years are distant memories now although I must confess that the selfies still come calling every once in awhile.  But that's OK now.  It is then I'm reminded:

God is good.  Say it with me.  God is good!  Amen.

SWEDISH DEATH CLEANING

palms up we hold them

trophies of a life well lived

blessings beyond dreams

temporary and fleeting

all held like a butterfly

Some odd 35 years moved through like a proverbial summer's rain.  Marriages.  Births.  Deaths.  All in their appointed times.  Even that old road became straight as seemingly every summer found a new section under construction. 

Through it all, that little spring never missed a beat - although somewhere along the line something called progress dictated that it be replaced by a well, pump, and tank system.  Likewise, my parents were constants.  Their values and their faith never wavered.  

Mom and Dad held their Swedish heritage dear and one tradition that they came to embrace later in life is something called dödsstädning - death cleaning in english.  The idea is to organize and eliminate many of life's material possessions as one grows older.  Not only does the process streamline one's life in the present but it also simplifies matters for heirs upon death.

To that end, Mom and Dad swallowed hard and sold their half of Holly Beach to Uncle Howard and his family.

EPILOGUE

Coming full circle, how did I arrive at this place?  The contemplations of Holly Beach presented above are really nothing more than snippets.  Singular data points amongst thousands of others experienced within a lifetime.  Be that as it may, an understanding has been shepherded forth.  An appreciation has been gained. 

The place of which I speak is not a physical location nor a moment in time.  No, this place is a state-of-mind dominated by the constructs of faith, hope, and love.  A mindset of joy established by countless relationships, continual lessons, and endless beauty - all orchestrated by a Great and Merciful God.  

But none of that should diminish any of this.

Undoubtedly, trials of many flavors have played their roles in the coming to this place as well.  Pain hurts.  Loss may be irrevocable.  Failure depresses.  More-so, it is during these periods that our adversary (I Peter 5:8) in the form of temptation can pose its greatest draw.  Yet, the testing of faith produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope (James 1:2-4).

That being so, know this:  As each of our earthly "butterflies" flutter away out of sight if not out of mind, with open palms we await the next "butterfly" to softly light and touch our very souls.

Which leads to the another question, a question laden with hope: What's next? 

FUD (Kid Stuff)

Thinking back as far as the sixth grade, investing has always been an enjoyable pastime.  Over the years my focus has narrowed from the stock market in general to a small subset of specific technology companies - those fledgling corporations which are attempting to develop and then actually capitalize on some sort of discontinuous innovation.  In theory, the primary goal is to make money but there are fringe benefits to be had as well.  One such perk being the attempt to visualize the world as a better place while other pluses manifest themselves in an inherent fascination with the interactions of risk/reward, time/value, and comfort/change.  Lastly, the exercise of studying the enabling technology behind the imminent gizmo both creates and satisfies curiosity.  Needless to say that my grasp of the science is rudimentary at best and the tuition for this learning, i.e. the investment itself, has all too often proven to be expensive.  

Regardless the pros and cons, solid state batteries are currently front and center in the never-ending search for the "next great thing".  Now the notions of energy, fast charge, cost, cycle life, and safety are somewhat relatable but the Genie in the Bottle resides with such unfathomable concepts as energy density, voltage stability, and Coulombic efficiency to name but a very few.  My IQ quickly short circuits but for unknown reasons I remain undeterred.

Recently, I listened in on an investment "webinar" presented by a national investment bank.  The moderator interviewed the CEO and CFO of a company whose mission is in part to transform energy storage.  The presentation was dummied down to the degree that I was actually able to glean a tidbit of appreciation.  A few days later, I was reading an article authored by a man who had obviously listened to the same talk that I had heard.  The "journalist" confirmed most of the thoughts that had been presented those three days prior.  However, one item was subtly reversed to the degree that I barely noticed it on the writer's first iteration.  By the third repetition with ever increasing weight, it was obvious that there was an agenda beyond the simple reporting of the facts.  Yes, the seeds of angst had been sowed and my limited comprehension was shaken to core.  A single shock wave, and a small one at that, had left my investment thesis quivering like a house of cards.

The term "FUD" is generally accredited to Gene Amdahl in 1975.  Mr. Amdahl had left one of America's great, iconic corporations and ventured out on his own to create a better mousetrap...make that computer.  Once the machine had been perfected and the assembly line fired up, the only thing left to do was to sell them....and this is were things got sticky.  Potential customers seemed to know all about Gene's creation before the entrepreneur even walked in the door.  Apparently, the vast sales force of Gene's former employer had beat Amdahl to the punch and infected the potential market with the germs of mistrust - fear, uncertainty, and doubt - in regards to the quality, reliability, and durability of the johnny-come-lately product. 

Of course FUD has been with us long before 1975.  Genesis 3:4-5 says this with respect to The Garden, Eve, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil:

The the serpent said to the woman,

"You will not surely die,

For God knows that in the day you eat of it

your eyes will be opened,

and you will be like God,

knowing good and evil."

Did you catch that?  Theologians of yesteryear might summarize that conversation as temptation pleading with a base envy of God Himself.  Present day pundits on social media strapped for time and nuance mayhap simply say FOMO - fear of missing out.

Today, disinformation applied as a competitive advantage is everywhere within the digital realm and employed in the fields of politics, public relations, investing, marketing, sales, and my personal favorite, polling.  Pervasiveness in spades.  It's doubtful that would be the case if the practice didn't reap benefits for those telling the lie.  It has been said that all good lies contain an element of truth.  No....to create real havoc, tell the truth with a subtle lie cloaked within.  The art of FUD has become a science.        

Pain is the  body's way of saying "Hey!  Knot-head!  Wake up!  Something is wrong!".  Likewise, fear is a survival mechanism, instrumental to our wellbeing.  A degree of fear, uncertainty, and doubt is healthy, God-given, and available to us all.  Indeed, fear grounded in truth is liberating.  Fear stemming from lies is suffocating.  It is our responsibility to seek truth in all things - all the more-so when we find our motivations governed by fear.  Then, by the Grace of God peace will be ours within the understanding.

Leon and that which Remains (Kid Stuff)

One of the great blessings that age affords is the reality that gainful employment is no longer a consideration much less an option.  The blessing manifests itself to the everyday in that schedules are far less rigid and the thinking process is allowed to run it's course, in it's time.  Without an alarm set for 00:dark:30, a freedom is presented to rouse oneself into the still of the night and simply reflect.  Recently, one of those thoughts that has bounced around is the musing that we share our planet with a menagerie of creatures.  A few, we choose to cohabitate with.  

The Bible tells us that God presented Adam with a number of choices for a helpmate (Genesis 2:18-20).  Thankfully, the selection process progressed beyond the four legged variety of companions.  However, a rumination persists:  Are those animals which we label "domesticated" the ancestors of those creations introduced to Adam all those ages past?  Foolishness to ponder the unanswerable.  Yet, those creatures with which we live, possess God-given traits.  They leave their mark and we are richer for their godly touch.   

Written accounts of two such gifts can be found here:

Rascal

Fäet the Cat

Now there will be a third.

The three little words "I've been thinking..." never fail to twitch my antenna whenever they come out of Jamie's mouth.  Inevitably, my blissful routine is soon to be interrupted.  Now translated, those words really mean, "I've made a decision".  Plus, and here's the tricky part, "and it involves you..." - an interpretation that took years of marriage for me to decipher.  Once my attention is focused, a ritual, dare I say dance, ensues.  She leads.  I object.  She insists.  I rationalize.  She counters.  I try to reason.  She voices wisdom.  We get in the car. 

So it was not long ago, "...we need a cat".

Jamie had already picked out a cat listed on the local cat orphanage/prison's web site.  The cat's rap sheet read in part, "Needs quiet home.  No kids.  No other pets.  Shy boy looking for peace and a master to love."  I had to admit, our sedentary lifestyle sounded like a perfect fit.   

When we arrived at the rescue we found Jamie's companion of choice to be an 8 year old Maine Coon named Leon.  Large, with orange fur and white boots, Leon's crowning glory is actually his tail - outsized and fluffy.  Besides their size, Maine Coons are known for their intelligence and in keeping with his breed, Leon voluntarily gave one, single rub of his flanks against each of our shins during that initial meeting before retreating.  An act suspiciously self serving as he no doubt understood that a small show of affection would guarantee an escape from his confinement.  Yes, Jamie was smitten and I'm hesitant to admit that my heartstrings were tugged a bit as well.

Besides intelligence, we've come to learn that Maine Coons are by nature talkative and playful, friendly and gentle.  They are known for following their humans around doglike from which strong bonds soon form.  However, they are generally not the proverbial "lap cat".  Staying near but not necessarily in contact are strong traits.

The age old debate of Nature vs Nurture is in full throat with Leon.  How much of his behavior is purely feline, genetically predetermined as far back as the garden?  How much of his ways have been learned, if not encouraged, along his path in this fallen world?

Once home, an ongoing acclimation process began for Leon...and for us the more so.  We continue to be amazed by his attentiveness to our every move.  If one of us leaves the room while he is napping, somehow he senses, and will literally run after us to see what we're up to.  It is quite endearing to hear the muted rhythm of his padded paws meeting the hardwood floor which he combines with quiet chirps that just have to mean "wait... wait...wait for me".  In addition, that single rub of his flanks on our shins has increased to multiples accompanied by deep purrs. 

But that affection is nearly always initiated on his terms.  Early on we learned not to approach him from behind and attempt to pet him.  Especially with something in our hands.  Such actions were met with a glare and a swipe of the claws.  Persistence on our part resulted in full on attacks which in one instance drew blood.  Sadly, we now understand why Leon was incarcerated on at least two separate occasions.  Negative conditioning, perhaps physical abuse, at the hands of a previous owner being the presumed culprit. 

Regardless all that, Jamie is determined that love and positive reinforcement will undo any and all bad habits learned from the past.

In the meantime, Leon seems content to practice the Theological Virtues to the best of his abilities.  Despite the fact that faith, hope and love are impossible to perfect in our sinful state, we persevere.  Leon carries on as well.  While our faith is based on an assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen (Hebrews 11:1), Leon is simply finding confidence that a human's touch is not synonymous with pain.  As for hope, we place our ultimate expectation in a Living Savior (Psalm 42:11) while Leon patiently anticipates our return at the front door.  Finally love.  Ours is sacrificial      (I Corinthians 13:4-8).  Leon is given to emotional displays.

Now that we share some part of the same path, Leon and the companionship he provides are becoming an ever increasing source of joy and a valued reminder of what lies ahead.  

The hour is coming when the earth and all the works within it will pass away (II Peter 3:10).  Then a new age will arrive where the wolf shall dwell with the lamb and the young lion with the calf (Isaiah 11:6).  Indeed, the Three Virtues will abide in perfection as they once did in the days of Eden.

"And now these three remain:

faith, hope and love.

But the greatest of these is love." 

I Corinthians 13:13   NIV                                             

Leon

 

My Box of Journeys (Kid Stuff)

Recently, Jamie suggested that we look for a new hobby.  Now, she said "we" but I suspect her intent focused on me.  Yes, it's hard to imagine but I suppose that it is marginally conceivable that the sameness of my daily rituals had become a bit trying.  Perhaps the term "underfoot" best fits the situation for indeed, Jamie is just too nice to come right out and say that she needs some space.  Rather, she cloaked her suggestion with the trappings of health benefits appropriate a septuagenarian.  The inherent joy and the resultant lowering of blood pressure that curiosity when confronted with new tasks bestows.  Dexterity gained by the use of the hands on something other than a computer keyboard.  The exercise of the right side of the brain - the creative and spatial reasoning side.  Mercy, those brain cells are weak even on their best day and more than one of those puny muscles atrophied long ago.  Regardless, a creative outlet made sense if brought to bear in my struggle against the aging-processes' war of attrition.  Still, the precise venue remained illusive.

A few days later I was browsing through my "box of journeys".  As is my habit from time to time, I dig an item or two out of the box and allow my mind to wander back to times past.  The baubles never fail to trigger memories of people and places, travels and events that have touched my soul.  The collection started circa 1990 with a small rock picked from the sands on Cannon Beach, Oregon.  Finished smooth by sand and sea, the stone nestled in the palm of my hand and presented a small  hollowed out impression tailored to my thumb pad.  Without thought, the rock found it's way into my pocket and from there to a window sill.  Then onward to desktop to drawer to jar before some years later finding its way into the box.

The alpha collection piece.

Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach, Oregon

Over the years dozens of trifles have been added to the box and the practice of the putting-in has proven therapeutic as a sense of wellbeing is always induced.  So too, the taking-out.

Well, on this day, much to my annoyance, the lid of the box would no longer close tight when the two items were attempted to be placed back into the box along with the rest of the hodgepodge.  Hmmm...confound it...walaa!!!  Yes truly, necessity is the mother of invention.

The right side of my brain blurted right out loud, "Doug!...why don't you make a new box?...Doug?"  

The comment stunned the whole of my mind and it went numb for a time - a state of affairs fairly common, truth be told.  Regardless, Dexter soon gathered himself and continued making his case but thankfully for the sake of my dignity in silent mode now, "A wooden box. Design it yourself, Doug."  

Before it even started the conversation threatened to erupt into fisticuffs with the southpaw synapses rationalizing sarcastically, "Oh!  Yes.  Good idea.  Lets build a box....Are you crazy?  Have you ever built a box?  Actually...that would be no.  Of course not.  Do you have any idea of how much work that would be?  Again, nooo.  Well, let me tell you, it would be a lot of work.  Think about it.  Surely, a much nicer box could be purchased for less money than the cost of materials alone and for a fraction of the effort."

But the neurons on the right would hear none of it, "This will be fun, Doug.  Doug, you can do this.  Besides, you've been prattling on to Jamie for days now about some so-called hobby.  Put up or shut up, Big Boy!"

The gray matter on the left shot back, "No!  You shut up, Dexter Doug."

With that, numbness once again enveloped the entirety but only for a few seconds.  Then, for reasons not completely understood, Lefty relented, "Well, maybe you have a point.  Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone.  But you better see this through.  I'll need your help with the design.  And we'll need to make some jigs for the cuts.  Think you can figure that out?  You better!  Because we're not going to spend a bunch of money on fancy new tools!  Let's get to it."

And so it came to be that a new box of journeys was designed and built.  Sixty one individual sticks cut to size and glued together along mitered butt, rabbet, and some very primitive tongue-and-grove joints.  No nails or screws but a magnet in each of the upper corners with corresponding attracting magnets in the lid.  Large enough to hold the elder box as it has become one of the medley in and of itself.   Plus space for trinkets reminiscent of journeys yet to be.

Lefty was correct - a purchased box could be had with far fewer imperfections, not to mention lower cost.  Yet, the project was both fun and satisfying.  Welled over with attendant benefits - two such rewards being a renewed connection with the sense of touch and some compulsory thinking outside the box.  (For you punsters in the group)   Surprisingly, those advantages proved to outweigh those moments of frustration when Lefty's reality didn't quite sync-up with Dexter's vision.

With a tinge of pride and without further ado, I present my Box of Journeys together with a small random sampling of whatnots gathered along the pathway of the journey grand.  

Inside Dimensions
Elder:  8"L  x  5.5"W  x. 4"H
Big Boy:  16"L  x  12"W  x  7"H
 

A plastic ornament that I made in a 7th grade crafts class.  It is being displayed here as supporting evidence to the comments made earlier regarding Dexter's creative prowess or more accurately, lack thereof.  The bauble was placed in the box because my Mother attached it to her key chain the very day I brought it home from school and she carried it with her until her dying day.  I hold it in remembrance of her.

My Mother Esther
as pictured on Jamie's and my wedding day.

Top row left to right:
Hallands Fläder Aquavit bottle, Stockholm, Sweden
Seashells in bottle, Kauai, Hawaii
Wooden Thimble, Bellagio, Italy
Oyster Pass (subway system),  London, England
Bottom row left to right:
SeaUrchin spine and Tiger Cowrie shell, Tikehau, French Polynesia
Seabean, Molokai, Hawaii
French Pacific Franc, Tahiti, French Polynesia

Rascal's dog tag. 
Ironic, in that he would never run away.  Always by our sides.

Rascal.

Jamie's Birthday Extravaganza (Kid Stuff)

 

Sunsets as viewed from sea are no more beautiful than those seen from land, but they do tend to inspire greater awe.  The boundless union of water and sky together with an ever changing fusion of color and light never fails to beget a divine inspiration. 

That is one reason that on December 12, 2023, Jamie and I set sail on a 12 day cruise across the Atlantic from Lisbon, Portugal to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  Then, once in Florida, we rented a car and proceeded to explore just a sliver's worth of Southern Florida for the next 7 days.

A second reason, and probably more motivating, was an event of a lifetime.  Jamie turned 60 on December 27 and we wanted to do something special to commemorate the occasion. 

The links below contain a few thoughts and pictures garnered over our 3 week adventure. 

Somewhere, somehow, during our trip I became conscious of the the fact that there are now some 8 billion souls inhabiting our planet.  Forty five million individuals were added to our population in the '23 calendar year alone.  During one of those "inspirational" sunsets, I found the need to write about a particular friend - one of the eight billion.  The first link includes some of those thoughts:

Link------Voyagers in Passing

Other sights along the way:

Link------Lisbon and the Viking Neptune

Link------The Keys

Link------Quicksand

Link------Christmas Day on Dry Tortugas

Link------The Everglades and Big Cypress National Preserve

The Everglades and Big Cypress National Preserve (Kid Stuff)

Water, water everywhere.  So different than home.  Yet, stunningly beautiful....and diverse.  Pictures can tell it better than me.

A purple gallinule seeking out supper.

They would turn over the Lilly pads and find insects. 

How's this for some bad nature photography.  Those are Manatees.
Sometimes they would raise their head out of the water and snort,
but we were never quick enough to capture the moment.  

Sawgrass for as far as the eye can see -
prairie like but fresh water flowing slowly over the entire base.

Smallest Post Office in the US.

My avifauna identification skills are exceeded only by my
nature photography skills.  I have no idea what this guy is.

I think this is an American crocodile.

I think this is an American alligator.

Alligator hole.
Alligators form holes by using their feet and snouts
to clear muck from depressions in the limestone bedrock.

Big Cypress grove.

Bromeliads, aka Air Plants.

Now this one I know for sure.
Two hams on a boardwalk.

Thanks for taking a look.

Christmas Day on Dry Tortugas (Kid Stuff)

In 1513, the famous explorer Juan Ponce de León stumbled upon 11 small keys 68 miles west of Key West, Florida, in the Gulf of Mexico. Intrigued by the abundance of sea turtles, he named the small islands Las Tortugas. However, the name later evolved to Dry Tortugas as a caution to seafarers that there was no fresh water to be found on the islands. Warnings be what they may, there are believed to be some 250 to 300 shipwrecks scattered across the islands and surrounding reefs. The exact number is difficult to pinpoint as hurricanes periodically churn the sands, thereby obscuring any remains. Indeed, the seas have reclaimed four keys themselves, leaving the seven keys as we know them today.

In 1821, Dry Tortugas was ceded by Spain to the United States as part of the Adams-Onís Treaty. This treaty ended the Florida Purchase negotiations and formalized the border between the United States and Spanish Florida. Not long thereafter, a lighthouse was built on Loggerhead Key and Fort Jefferson was constructed on Garden Key. The fort's construction consisted of some 16 million bricks and the fortress initially fulfilled the duty of an advanced post in defense of the Gulf Coast. Later, the outpost served as a Union prisoner-of-war camp during the Civil War followed by a period of disrepair as the result of neglect, vandalism, and repeated storms. President Franklin D. Franklin designated the area a National Monument in 1935 and on October 26, 1992, Dry Tortugas became a National Park.

For some time now, Dry Tortugas has been somewhere on my ever changing bucket list. So, I decided to give myself a Christmas gift - with Jamie's blessing of course. Yes, it came to be that on Christmas Day, 2023, Jamie and I boarded the the Yankee Freedom III, the daily passenger ferry from Key West to Dry Tortugas. The catamaran accommodates 250 passengers and is licensed by the National Park Service. Out we headed for the 2.5 hour crossing, 4 hours at the park itself, and the 2.5 hour ride back despite Doug's TRAVEL RULE #1 - never go on a tour which requires more travel time than actual boots-on-the-ground sightseeing time.

Now, Dry Tortugas was anything but "dry" on this day. Indeed, we stepped off the boat into a blowing mist which within the hour turned into a continual, drenching downpour. Did I say blowing? That would be a politician-like understatement. The boat ride in both directions proved to be anything but smooth. Let's just say that vomit bags and spaces on the gunnels were hot commodities among my fellow passengers. Thankfully, Jamie and I had taken a meclizine pill prior to boarding - one of mankind's greatest inventions along with sun screen. The motion sickness medicine surely helped but my real defense proved to be a simple mental distraction. I tried to focus on the horizon and repeatedly sang in my mind the lyrics from an old sitcom comedy:

The mate was a mighty sailing man,
The skipper brave and sure.
Two fifty souls set sail that day
For a three hour tour, a three hour tour.

The weather started getting rough,
The tiny ship was tossed,
If not for the courage of the fearless crew
The Freedom would be lost, the Freedom would be lost.

                                                                               The Ballad of Gilligan's Island                                  

                                                                               George Wyle and Sherwood Swartz                           

Regardless all that, Dry Tortugas was fascinating and I'm glad we did it. However, our pictures were disappointing. They failed to capture any of the vivid turquoise blues and greens that I had hoped to see. Also, the exploration of nooks and crannies was cut short. Nor were we able to get in the water as the surf had kicked up so much sand that a swim would be anything but enjoyable. As such, the first picture posted is a copy off the internet which I assume portrays the place as it is on probably 360 days out of the year.

Garden Key and Fort Jefferson.
Photographer unknown.

Right off the boat.
Perhaps that red flag was somehow weather related.

Cannon bays that housed some of the 464 total.

The fort is six sided.
The moat is singular in structure encompassing the whole fort.

Looking out at the Yankee Freedom III.

A local resident.

15-inch Rodman
with Garden Key Light on the far wall.

And then it started to rain.

Quicksand (Kid Stuff)

Forever seeking the path less traveled, our explorations on this morning found us forsaking any number of beautiful State Parks and opting to reconnoitre Coupon Bight Aquatic Preserve, Big Pine Key, Florida.

"Don't worry, Jamie.  It looks pretty solid here along the edges.  Follow me."  

(unmute)

The initial breakthrough and suction with subsequent flounder and extrication are best left to the imagination.  Besides, an unnamed camera-person seems to have been otherwise distracted.

The white shoes make a statement of their own, don't you think? 

    

 

The Keys (Kid Stuff)

 

The architecture of Key West.

A roadside bar serving up
caesar salad, peel-and-eat shrimp, and white sangria.

The Keys were connected by rail in the early 1900's.

The remnants are larger than life in some places,
barely visible above the waterline in others.

View from Bahia Honda State Park.
Pronounced Bah-EE-ah OWN-da.

Canals take the place of neighborhood streets.

Out the windshield view of
US Route 1 - the Overseas Highway.

Bright colors everywhere.

Two hams again.
This time at Southernmost point buoy.
We opted for a picture on the back side as there was a line
a block long of people waiting to take selfies on the front side - truly.