Obsessed by a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace.
A little disoriented this morning, finding myself back in Corning watching it drizzle in pajama bottoms and Charleston Law sweatshirt. I was supposed to be in the office today, getting ready for a trial next week and handling a mediation this afternoon. P and I had braced ourselves for an extended separation lasting most of December, with her working up here while I tried a case in Panama City then flew to Texas to meet her for Christmas on the 24th before sending her back to Corning on the 26th for another few days in the OR.
We weren't relishing the prospect.
Yesterday morning when we awakened at Wyldswood to dense fog and stillness, except for the geese I suppose, the plan was to have a little brunch and get on the road to Tallahassee so Peg could meet her flight back up here. From there I'd drive back to Perry, jump in the Columbia, and fly back to Panama City to settle in for a couple solid weeks of work.
Then an order appeared in my email thread at around 9:30. The judge in the case I'd planned to try had ruled on summary judgment that there was little or nothing left for trial, giving the other side pretty much everything they wanted as a matter of law. I don't really agree with the ruling, but can't say it was a gut punch for me because I'm relatively new to the case and didn't argue any of the issues addressed in the order. I emailed my co-counsel immediately to get a handle on whether there would be a trial next week in light of the ruling, and we decided it was highly unlikely.
With that, P and I huddled up and quickly decided after a review of the weather that I'd take her back to New York, rather than subjecting her to a day schlepping through passenger terminals with Delta.
As soon as the fog burned off enough to give us a mile of visibility, we were on our way.
The weather was mostly very good, the winds favorable, and in a record-breaking (for us) three hours and fifty-eight minutes we were on the ground at ELM. The folks at Premier had the truck parked and running right next to where we chocked, so by 4:15 we were driving back to Tara.
That gave us a little time to take in the last bits of Sparkle, Corning's downtown holiday celebration we manage to miss every year.
We waved at Santa in his heated gazebo of solitude.
We had a nice family take our photo in front of the town's Christmas tree.
We took in the lights on Market Street, admiring maybe the prettiest small town in the country.
Then we gorged ourselves on Thai food, walked up the hill to Tara, and watched Christmas stuff until it was time for an early to-bed.
I feel a little unease, and maybe guilt, every time I'm back up here working remotely. In theory we now have a place to sleep in Panama City, although it's a temporary certificate of occupancy because we don't have any cabinets or appliances, just a bed, toilet, sink, and shower. I didn't relish the prospect of spending my evenings alone in that mostly hollow space.
But the view's as lovely as always,
and these last few days there felt a little like home. From the Yacht Club to Ferrucci's, we encountered old friends from the days before the storm and the troubles, all seemingly glad to see us and most of them happily divorced and remarried since our last meeting. It's just that season of life, I guess.
I have come around to the realization that all three venues suit us, in different ways. So much of our history and circle of friends are in Bay County, and when I look out at that bay and think about days spent on the water I long to be back out there with a cast net and a couple fishing poles, or sitting alone with P on Shell Island on a cool December afternoon when the obnoxious crowds are home watching football.
Then there's Wyldswood, the site of the six happiest months of our lives, living our cloistered existence during the pandemic, raising chickens, and getting the space we needed as relative newlyweds to find our way together. My blood pressure drops twenty points as soon as we drive through the gate, and experience the quiet and solitude there among pastures and pines.
This place up in the frozen north, which isn't so frozen this morning with temperatures in the high 40s, was a leap of faith and chance to spend a season of our lives in a place that suits us with its rolling hills and tidy farms and folks who mostly share our values. Corning is a bubble to be sure, but that doesn't make it any less authentic. This little town on the Chemung never fails to please us, and we are surrounded by some of the nicest people I've ever met.
Then again, come to think of it, all three places have a surfeit of kind neighbors who've become a fixture in our lives. I think of eighty-year-old Dot hugging our necks when we arrived at the Perry Elks Lodge last Saturday to eat wings and watch Georgia lose.
So I reckon we'll keep working on this project of maintaining all three places in our lives. We're not looking for some lost kingdom of peace, not anymore. We've cobbled together our own out of these so very disparate venues.
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