Back on the Bay

And there's that one particular harbour Sheltered from the wind Where the children play on the shore each day And all are safe within

Most mysterious calling harbour So far but yet so near I can see the day when my hair's full gray And I finally disappear

-Jimmy Buffett

Taking my coffee this morning on the patio, rocking in our cool new wicker chairs, watching the powerboats slap across the bay past Redfish Point. I can hear the stereo as one thunders "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC as my morning serenade. It is Bay County after all.

Now an osprey floats by at eye level, here four floors up, looking for breakfast in the shallows below.

And behind me is . . . furniture! I arrived here after lunch on Friday to find a flurry of activity, with movers setting up what looked like a model home as Lori and her graceful Southern lieutenant assembled and steamed the fabric seat covers so they'd lie just right. All we lack is a backsplash on one section of kitchen wall, and a few punchlist items, and we'll be there. That would be 1,279 days since the storm destroyed everything. Life goes on, I guess until it doesn't.

I worked through the weekend, attending a condo association meeting early Saturday to explain the grim journey ahead as they try to hold their contractor responsible for installing every single window and sliding glass door incorrectly after Hurricane Michael. From there I drove east to the farm, arriving just in time to buy some corn for the hissing, lunging attack geese, then holding them at bay while I crawled under the truck to install my spiffy new front license plate.

And yes, I poured myself a cocktail, which I then took to the golf course where Nicki the cute bartender who's remodeling a house with her husband flung open the door as I approached and shouted "Hello Stranger!" across the parking lot. It's nice to be welcomed, to be remembered as an individual. We still have that in Taylor County.

As often happens there, Nicki closed up while I was duffing my way through nine holes, leaving me as the only human being on the property. I was reminded of this fact when my approach shot on the fifth hole drifted a little left toward the banks of the Fenholloway, and I came upon this fellow guarding my ball.

I let him keep it.

By and large, there weren't many errant shots that afternoon. In fact, I played maybe the best golf of my life, and blazing fast--nine holes in a little over an hour. What was different, after the Fairhope disaster round last weekend? Well, no one was watching, for starters. I feel like the Warner Brothers frog, who only sings and dances for his owner when there's no one else to see. I also talked to myself a lot, using a technique I learned in a book I read a few months back, Chatter, that provides methods of quieting that negative voice in one's head. Speak out loud to yourself. Refer to yourself in the third person. Describe what's going on around you like you're watching it at some remove.

So yes, that was me babbling at myself like a homeless schizophrenic late Saturday. But it worked.

Afterward I found myself lonely and a little buzzy, and decided to drive up to the Elks Lodge for supper. The place was really dead, a shadow of the venue where Peg and I sang karaoke and caught up with all her old friends before the pandemic. It was a reminder that generation is fading away now, and there's no new crowd of young hospital people or mill managers to take their place because those places are fading as well.

As I sat there at the bar pondering the menu and this sad observation about the lodge, I glanced up in the mirror and noticed Dot sitting alone in a booth in the pool room. Dot's one of our favorites, 81 and spry with bright red hair and blue eyes. I have a picture somewhere of her and P dancing in the dining room, not so long ago.

I decided to take my supper over to her booth, and proved myself the world's greatest conversationalist by asking her about her grandkids and, of course, about Roscoe. Dot's husband had been the love of her life until he died a few years back, and she lights up whenever she gets to relive their travel adventures to Alaska, and their years raising kids together.

The jukebox played "Hello Darlin'" by Conway Twitty, "He Stopped Loving Her Today" by George Jones, and "Don't Close Your Eyes" by my old favorite Keith Whitley. It felt like home.

Then through the door came Helen, our favorite 84-year-old bartender, and her daughter over from Jax. They encamped at one of the round tops in the bar, and I swung by for a visit after paying my check. We talked about P--everyone needs confirmation things are fine when I show up by myself, i guess. I asked if Helen was ready to come back and tend bar (absolutely not). I asked if it was true she still mowed her own yard every week (yes, but it's been less while the weather's cold). There's that great conversationalist again.

Yesterday I spent the early morning in the barn dragging out boxes of dishes and coffee mugs and tupperware that have sat there for two years, waiting for 407 to be finished. Then I spent several hours in document review to get ready for depositions this week in Tallahassee. Then, well, I drove over to the course and played a quick nine holes on a gorgeous day, amazed so few were out there with me. Mike, Audie, and Christopher (and his bride) were out on the deck having a cocktail after playing 18, and I joined them for a few minutes before heading back to the farm to load boxes for the long drive back here.

And then I was up until eleven last night stacking dishes on shelves, arranging the silverware, and doing what I can to make this place exactly right before P gets here and rearranges everything.

Kidding. She usually has her reasons for moving everything around. I can't wait for her to see this place and give it her touch.

But for now, I'll enjoy the sound of the bay lapping the rip rap four floors below, just for a few more minutes. It's shaping up to be a very, very busy day, a busy week in fact, with my schedule packed out until well into the night. I'll just be grateful some still wants to pay me for my time, and to still find myself surrounded by three "families" in our three homes.