For The Love of Humphrey

I have always been more of an animal person.  People seem too opinionated, always at the ready to share unsolicited points of view.  Don’t get me wrong,

I have lived with people, have given birth to people, worked and volunteered with people, traveled with people and the list goes on.

Somewhere in my journey, I opted out; probably more for self-preservation than for any other logical reason.  Although during the transition from gainfully employed by somebody else to gainfully employed by me, I needed the select group of people who shared their homes with animals.  Some coined the phrase “pet parents”.  I didn’t really like that (for if you know anything about animals, the parenting of one is not, in any sense of the imagination, possible).

I became a pet sitter. Started small and ended that career after a decade of living in my car between the hours of oh my God thirty and the bewitching hour. Daily, (holidays included), I would pack for the day and maintain a driving route which repeated in 3 hour intervals.  Mostly dogs and cats; birds and rabbits were an added irritation, but not my call.  I had only three exceptions:  no snakes, no puppies and nothing that crawled both vertically and horizontally. 

I am still a pet sitter, but the club is now so exclusive, that I no longer live in my car and can say no just because.

In my home, I live with animals.  It would be absolutely naked without them (the house, that is). We get along without expectations and the few rules are flexible.

As the new ones join us and the old ones leave us, the commotion is my refuge.

Sometimes a guessing game ensues if I have been away too long.  The culprit is not always easy to spot…

Occasionally, my life is lived outside the parameters of my cozy abode.  When opportunities present themselves, I travel. When I travel, I find an excuse to be with animals.  I will book an excursion to commune with a wolf.  I will plan a short vacation around a zoo or aquarium. Other options are animal shelters and those are the most difficult for me to visit for obvious reasons.

I am just back from a visit to San Antonio.  It was a reunion with the city of my early married years.  I can’t remember exactly when I left, but gaging that my youngest is now 22 years old, it must be at least two decades absence.

I traveled with my husband, Jeff, who informed me that I had been places and had done things I couldn’t recollect.  We were pretty evenly matched, because I countered with the same logic.  That repartee allowed for long lunches and a little too much drinking.

I didn’t remember the zoo. I remembered going to the zoo, but the layout was unfamiliar and the species were somewhat not the collection of my original visit.

Those details were inconsequential because I was expecting a thorough education and heaps of joy.  The morning was cool and the parking lot was unoccupied when we arrived.  A shady spot beckoned and we accepted the invitation so that the rental car would be bearable inside at the hour designated for us to leave and lunch.

Prices had gone up…that I remember. Thankfully, the gray hair prompted a smile and a discount. Map in hand, my husband headed that-a-way and I tugged and suggested that we head another direction. 

After about an hour of nose to glass exhibit gazing, we rounded an enclosure of tropical birds, Koi and native ducks.  The keeper was busy adding sand and a layer of hay to the few covered nesting lairs. Cushy life, I thought. As we approached the pathway to another enclosure, I read the sign “Giant Anteater” and I stopped.  I was immovable. I was over joyed and the tears started.  The keeper said that “they” would be out shortly.  I waited. My husband waited. We found a bench and waited. I asked again and was told the same thing. I walked around the exhibit for the umpteenth time and the keeper kept his focus on his task at hand, but his peripheral vision kept me on the horizon and he said “the trainer just passed us, they will be right here”.

I wondered where they were now. I followed the trainer. She shut me out. I couldn’t see anything.  She took too long. While I stood vigil, Jeff moved just to the other side of the enclosure and shouted “Here he is”.  I couldn’t get to the viewing spot fast enough and I needed to ask questions of the employee.  Thankfully she didn’t step back out for a minute so I had a quick peek and my heart skipped a beat and I exhaled. 

His name was “Humphrey”, he was two and part of a breeding pair.  Her name was “Sprout” and she didn’t like him and was generally a trouble maker.  Humphrey was allowed out during the day and she was allowed out at night.  I learned that they were good swimmers and that their diet was not restricted to ants. His bowl was filled with freeze dried insect pellets, avocado and orange slices.  He was magnificent! I introduced Jeff and myself; don’t know that he realized the magnitude of the moment, but he lifted his head to investigate and then went about forging a path between the ducks and the fence line to the enclosure.

I followed him from my side. He was so close; we were in harmony.

Let me interject and inform you that Humphrey was not my first Giant Anteater. I have seen others in my travels.  Yes, I have seen maybe half dozen of the specie, but I didn’t fall in love until now.

So deep was the bond, that I (and Jeff by default) became sponsors.  I think the contract referred to “adoption”, but the wording doesn’t matter.

Our visit had a hidden agenda, I didn’t realize it then. I came as a spectator, ill prepared for the fork in the road which led me to unexpected resolve. The uniqueness of him allowed me to make sense of the world.  I don’t know a better ambassador of the splendor of nature.  He is my guide to all things peaceful and possible and joy filled.  It is predestined to journey together and I will share the horizon of my life with Humphrey, one ant at a time.

Artist By Design

Here I am, avoiding another task.  I have to critique another’s writings for class tomorrow.  And I don’t want to.  I must, but not at this moment.  I have finished one critique and it was tedious labor of I don’t know what.  I’m not a published author, want to be though and understand my membership in this informal “Meet up” social group requires that I give and take helpful pre-publishing advice from total strangers. 

Purpose of joining is to expand; socially and professionally.  It’s been too long sitting on the fence of what to do next.

So while I am avoiding my promises, I hopped on the internet and searched framed art for sale.  It’s a totally cheap, neatly arranged package of endless inspiration.  Don’t even have to change out of my moose slippers to view the world’s contributions.  My current address limits my ability to physically travel to galleries and museums within a reasonable day’s driving distance.  How fantastic to be able to point and click.  Even the few local collections can be visited 24/7 from my computer screen.  Occasionally, I still tune in to see what television programs offer when needing a more personal or guided tour of exhibits.  Haven’t gone so far as to rent a DVD though, but just might.

I remember “Kodak Presents” travel presentations…went with my grandmother.  Always held at the university’s auditorium, they were an annual highlight for us.

She always planned excursions.  Loving all things educational, she perused the newspaper, clipping out advertisements and making lists of upcoming events. If the subject matter was appropriate for a preteen, she’d extend an invitation.  Now, her definition of appropriate might have been questioned, because one time, we ended up in the campus theatre watching an Italian foreign film about the Crucifixion. Thankfully, there were subtitles and I read most of them when not hiding my eyes.

So, growing up I had unlimited opportunities to see what’s out there and I am thankful that those memories keep me in constant forward motion in the hopes of continuing my informal education.  Daughter of an educator who married an artist and said artist had an interest in Chinese history, I had no chance of missed opportunities.  It was almost normal for our home to be filled with interesting people who had been to interesting places.

Art, in my opinion, is present always.  It’s in the deliberate design of slippers at bedside.  It’s in the positioning of the toothpaste on the brush.  It’s in the collage of dogs within the border of the rug at fireplace’s edge. I’m surrounded by it. It is my joy.  The natural world is a gift of art from a higher power.  The manufactured and intentional art is a gift of that same higher power. I am lost and unfulfilled without it.

In my home, I have inspiration drawers and closets and once empty spaces between cabinets on the floor.  All projects for someday.  It’s a modest collection and I’m not going to expand its size beyond my estimated life span. No one else, here to named in my Last Will and Testament, will ever be able to understand my reasons for keeping the varied collections.  So I promise to complete them as soon as I can figure out why I bought them in the first place.

This brings you to the point of my story…a small collection (maybe 7; always odd number) of keys.  One of them is a working skeleton key (to someone else’s door),

some are from the charm and jewelry section of a local art and craft store and the rest are from the only designated junk drawer in my house, so they’re definitely mine.  The collection has been carefully chosen for a framed shadow box.  I changed my mind…the collection has been carefully chosen for a painting of a framed shadow box,  I think.

All the keys are together in a zip lock bag in a drawer of my desk. So now I need a background for the grouping.  My current choices are: newspaper, a page from Merriam Webster, fabric, painted canvas, sketch, photograph, stained glass, wood,

decoupage, dried flower arrangement and any and all borrowed inspirations from the recent internet search. Well, now that I think of it, maybe the arrangement of the keys will dictate which background to use.

I can’t go forward in my creativity.  I’m stuck with my current train of thought; which is why “keys”? What is the significance? It must be a pertinent and deliberate answer to my ongoing search for purpose.

Keys are tools. They’re no use on their own they must be paired with locks. So the mystery evolves.  Why locks? Subconsciously, I may be repressing something. I generally do not lock anything; not my house, not my car, not the cabinet where I hide the M and M’s.  I don’t want to delay access by unlocking.  Now, if I were to be responsible for something of yours, which you normally lock, I would comply. My life, however, is no secret - hence no need to keep you out. My things are just that and if they disappear, the memory of ownership will suffice. I have no use for delegation to future generations, if their respective memories want to include things I had, so be it. 

Keys are also an explanatory list of the symbols on a map or chart.  Ok then,

now I am a map; road, world, atlas, bike path or trail? The endless combinations here are sufficient to entangle the left (logical) side of my brain.

Another definition is something that allows someone to achieve a desired goal. This would include the intangible variety of keys. Education comes to mind or perhaps

invention; maybe sheer dumb luck. Goals at any age are a good reason to get up in the morning. Short term (more appropriate for the over fifty crowd) and long term are the choices. Let’s see, my short term goals include creative expression.  In my bucket or (on my bucket list) are a gallery showing of my paintings, complete memorization of any Rachmaninoff composition, learning flower designing and/or interior design ( to the point of earning potential) and inviting old hippies to share nirvana with me.  Long term?  None at present.  My comfort zone is in the here and now.

So let’s go back to just keys and locks.  But then again, there are endless kinds and sizes of locks; doors (interior, exterior, jail cell, root cellar, and car) and padlocks (big and tiny), ones to gain entry to diaries, windows, lockboxes, munitions lockers, guided-missile silos…Oh my g…..

I don’t think I really know why “keys”.  I think I’ll let the artist within struggle with the bigger picture or let you see the finished project and pass the responsibility of interpretation on to you.  In the meantime, I’ve got details to contend with and no time to consider my choice of the subject matter. The elements of design within the art form will reflect who I am creatively.

Spirit has delivered the following message: “You a creative soul. Take your gift and let it shine.  Share joy….for it is the key to your divinity”.

Ah, now I understand.

Leaps and Bounds

Being the age that I am, I thought building blocks, Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and other manipulatives were stored in my attic for future generations.  Who knew that I would still be building towers; although this tower is an imaginary one dictated by Mother Nature and my connection to her.

The animal totem is a surviving symbol of ancient cultures.  I believe it’s a tool which represents a bridge to the natural world. I believe the spirits of the totem are personal and deliberate in the several messages derived by the embodiment of carefully carved likenesses.

For me, I have a two-tiered one, but I’m newly on my spiritual journey and in hopes of discovering more.

The base of my totem is a toad.  Well, I think it’s the base because it was the first spirit to cross my path.  It represents change.

Earlier this week, a rabbit appeared and it was not entirely out of place given its early spring, my lawn is overgrown and it was apparently hungry. Maybe I got it wrong and it wasn’t the rabbit appearing, but rather me, from my car.  There aren’t choices of pathways from my driveway to front door, unless you count going around the front of the car as opposed to the trunk end.  I guess I could have gone through the garage, but that’s not the part of the house I wanted to enter.

The evening had been spent out of town with a group of published and soon to be published, local writers.  I found them on a social network and hoped to connect with like-minded creative persons.  The primary focus of the group is to offer critiques, insights, comments, direction…and all things positive to encourage our inner voice permission to speak.  Putting words to paper is a thoughtful and sometimes tenacious process; at least it is for me.  I spend as much time hitting the “backspace” and “delete” buttons as the other 70 something possibilities on my keyboard. So now, I’m engaged in the process… with witnesses.

Returning home, I was full of hope and planned to sit awhile and edit.  I don’t know why I looked down, but I did and the rabbit sat motionless as if it sensed my person to be a threat.  I’m not a threat unless you have grown 6 other legs or don’t have legs and slither.

I passed it, turned around and gazed at it and came inside to call for my daughter to come out and validate my sighting.  She did.  We stood.  We smiled and she knew instinctively to go and get the book “Animal Speaks, by Ted Andrews, as surely I would want to know why it was there.

Here’s what I read (in summary).  The rabbit or hare represents the concept of being according to the Greeks.  It is one of the 12 Chinese astrological signs and embodies the power of the moon. If a rabbit totem shows up, you can begin to see a cycle of 28 days beginning to manifest in your life. (The cycle of 28 days is all things lunar). It can lead one unknowingly into the realm of the faeries. It procreates and its fleetness is a virtue of survival. The hare has an innate sense of defense…it creates forms to hide and never foreshadows its movements, being aware of predators. They shift from freezing to great speed and this skill should be gleaned by those with this animal totem as it will enable one to take advantage of opportunities which may only present themselves for brief moments. They are still, they listen and they are intensely in tune with the environment.

Now, what to do? Again, I find that my life is being orchestrated from beyond. Thankfully, I am availing my soul unrestrained direction.  Responsibility is another person’s burden.  Not mine.

Can I just be?  Shall I engage to strip all my senses of what I perceive to be truth? Is it time for the universal truth to redefine me? I think perhaps it is.

I will quite my soul and follow the hare.  His presence was a gift to remind me of endless possibilities.  His presence gives me the courage to take chances; for survival is not predestined, it’s a quest taken in leaps and bounds.

An Agnostic's Retreat

On the way to a Memorial Day family outing, I posed the following question to my companions in the car:  “Is there a monastery for the Agnostic?”  Silence ensued as they tried to figure out where, in left field, did this question come from…

Well, I was just thinking that I need to get away…far away…maybe another planet somewhere.  My life is complex, complicated and I never can catch my breath.

I should be feeling free and able to focus, seeing that I just penned my resignation letter to the Hospital Auxiliary.  That one less item on my daily agenda should have allowed me time to regroup as I have volunteered too many unproductive hours in the past two and one half years.

I have a flaw…just realized in the first person sense.  Others have tried to explain this personality blemish, but I was not ready to receive the diagnosis.  Now I realize that I can’t see the forest because of the trees. I am forever detail, detail, fix, more details to sort, etc.

I can’t seem to just do what I can and let the rest go…flow into the streams of the unimportant and insignificant details of life.

Blaming my way to early introduction to Astrology and learning all about capriciousness and Capricorn ways, I always prided myself in solving the minuscule errors in others. Rules, rules, rules… I am all about the following of, establishing of and changing (if no longer applicable) of rules.  Maybe it’s time to stop.

My thinking is that if I remove myself from everything familiar and just exist, the cobwebs will clear, my heart will stop racing and peace will find a pathway in.

Problem is where to go?

A commune might be appropriate; everyone sharing an equitable part in the running of such an organization.  But there is that word “organization” which stirs the possibility of hierarchy and then my perspective on how well those in charge are really doing.

Well, how about an artist’s retreat?  That would be interesting at least and the shared excitement about the creative process would keep me focused. But the possibility of a well- intentioned criticism might prove to be the fly in the ointment.

Won’t attempt anything remotely religious, can’t be tethered to a limited view of the universe.  I already know my purpose…I am a creative soul.  I create and release, the reciprocal bond is inherent and unending.

I know I was born into the wrong decade…just a few years earlier and I could have satisfied my longing for nirvana in the 1960’s and joined in the flower power mind set.  I’m trying to do that now, but opportunities just don’t appear often in this Bible belt region of this country.

So, my effort will be ongoing.  I am displaced from myself and I feel it in my gut and aching and tenseness.  I am in the wrong place at the right time.

Sanctuary must be a wonderful state of mind.  Some people find it in the material offerings of society.  Places, buildings, writings, great music, artistic endeavors left by generations before mine offer respite to the weary.

If you researched the principal personalities responsible for the greatest works afore mentioned, would you be surprised to learn that they were tortured souls?

Centuries of men and women driven by inexplicable forces to create.  I don’t want that experience.  I don’t want to be used up and incarcerated in my own mind.

Where does the Agnostic release the constraints of social pressures?  Where does one exist and not become unnecessarily self -reliant, living with the beasts, wild and free?

The answer will come, at a future intersection of my predestined pathway. In the meantime, I will continue to rid myself of responsibilities to others and allow the gifts from beyond to beckon at my proverbial door.

Semantics

The Universe will communicate if you listen and do not anticipate timing as the key element of your messages.

In my journey, I am in flux as most are of my age. I find that I am in that category of the sandwich generation, waiting for the inevitable…children to leave with half my garage in boxes and the in-laws deciding their next move.

So while I muddle around, the current popular topic in conversations I have with myself is escape.  Runaway, leave, skedaddle, vamoose. 

To prepare for this, I must redefine and let go. No big deal, I tell myself.  I can do this in stages.  Formulate a plan, execute the plan, and congratulate me on the job well done.

In a roundabout and unexpected way, I received the first green light yesterday.

I was deep in retail therapy before joining my bestest friend, Diana for lunch.

Having just half an hour of free time, I parked at the mall and went in for nothing in particular, but as the minutes ticked by, I realized I needed bras and jeans.

Found jeans in a lovely dove gray and two of the other.  I was concentrating on cup size, color didn’t matter as I never buy panties to match. My shopping spree did not break my allowance, I felt energized and hurried to the restaurant.

Nice long lunch, where she shared that she found her purpose. It came to her in a dream Valentine’s Day weekend. She had read an article in a magazine about flower farming.  The details of her passion flowed and entertained the duration of our ninety minutes together.  She was radiant.  I was jealous.

The rest of my day was just awful. The message center “blew up” on the dashboard on the way home…said “anti- lock, service engine soon”. I had a cell phone in hand and called my service center and asked for a definition.  I was told there COULD BE A PROBLEM, COME RIGHT IN.

I was in the waiting area with keys in hand within ten minutes of my frantic call.

I was in the waiting area without my keys for the next 4 hours.  Stupid ass car.

The message center did not repeat for the mechanic even after 20 minutes of driving hooked to a computer. But they did find two problems, which if not attended, would leave the car unmovable for the duration of the lien against it.  I was offered five bucks, almost took him up on it.

Well, about dinner thirty, I pulled into the driveway.  Too tired to rumble through the fridge, I invited family out to dinner.  I was certain, that the car would make it to the restaurant…$800 in repair was as good a guarantee as I could ascertain.

Dinner was lovely, “Lobsterfest” and wine proved a much-needed distraction from the eternal afternoon seated in a room with strangers and car parts.

Home again, I started to put the new clothes away and that, of course, entails removing price tags, labels, etc. “Minimizer” the word caught my attention.  On one hand, I gloated over the fact that I had grown curvy enough to necessitate such a garment.  On the other, it was the single command I needed to begin my plan.

Minimize. There should have been fireworks or a tympani drum roll, or an excerpt from the “Hallelujah Chorus”. 

Finally, I am in sync with the universe!! I was giddy with anticipation. I celebrated my recent exit from volunteer work, not knowing then, but understanding now that that step was meant to be, but on my terms.

Now, I need to clear my life of burdens; mine and others.  I am discovering that wounds self- inflicted are just as life diminishing as those caused by others.  I am existing, not thriving.  I am in need of detox

My Dad once shared that he would much rather a rescue from me, during a crisis than from my brother.  I found that a compliment (rare from him) at an age when I should have taken college seriously.  I didn’t, not that I couldn’t but just didn’t. My brother did, twice. Anyway, Dad said I could always find my way out of a paper bag.  Funny comparison, but I understood him.

That definition of my life has been consistent. For those of us who must learn lessons through multiple incarnations, I can tell you it’s exhausting and not a favorable mark on the soul’s report card. I have been guardian and fixer of problems my entire life; since childhood, I guess.  I’m good at it, just like the Cliff notes which are an invaluable resource to the student. I adopted it as my own truth and have lived it, have proof of it, and now don’t know what to do with it.

So, the task of minimizing is at hand. I need to unburden my soul and release the pent up energies.  Once the tethers and restraints are gone, music and art (which have always been my companions), very old friends and some new ones, places to run to for momentary sanctuary and places which beckon me to stay will redefine me. I wish I could animate myself into a Renoir painting and just stay there.

Whichever the path to my destiny, my free will shall navigate direction.  Never the destination, always the journey and the beauty of it is that I will eventually discover me.

The Right Frame

Change and embellish.  Those were the thoughts propelling me up and down the picture frame aisle at a discount retailer just the other day.  I found two possibilities, one decorated with silver highlights, the other multilayered but monotone.  The picture which needing reframing was a black and white portrait of my son. It’s stunning, it’s intense and it’s my favorite of all his childhood portraits. The current frame is wood, black and fades into the portrait.  The back of the frame is in disrepair, nobody really sees it unless they walk around the back of the coffee table, but I know it’s there. Well, I couldn’t decide, so I left the store empty-handed.

I asked my daughter her opinion and you’ll learn her reply a little later in this story.

It was one of those days with too much time on my hands.  I had actually run away from my life because of the death of my dog. 

The three remaining dogs and 4 cats vied for my attention and they, too, realized the significant loss within the walls of the house.  For me, it was a heavy dose of guilt as I signed the authorization at the clinic.

So now my days would never be the same; time for change. Start small I thought.

I’m not the only one having this conversation with myself.  My psychic counselor

started me on this path last week, Monday it was. I requested a life reading…it would be the fourth in a series of intuitive sessions.  Two previous visits within the last three years had been contact readings, but last week, I felt the need for redirection.

My message was two-part: first that my life, as I know it, is not authentic.

To begin the hour’s session my counselor shared the following (I am paraphrasing):

She has a sister who, as a small girl escaped a lot.  This drove their mother to

find a way to keep the little one happy and safe in the back yard so she found a rope and tethered her to the swing set with plenty of room to reach the back door to come in.  Her sister stood in the yard and screamed.

This is me in my present life.

I am tethered to this never-ending stage production, playing all the roles (including playwright and director). All I know is that I am repeating other’s expectations and fulfilling their needs while depleting my own.  Trouble is, I don’t know what I need.

Other message…that my end of life Karma will repeat in the next life if I choose to return.  We are reincarnated into similar circumstances if we do not change and grow.

I wanted to grab a suitcase and leave after the hour’s lesson. Well I did, the next day, just for a day. Drove a couple hours, checked into a lovely hotel and know what happened?  I became invisible.  I explored the city into the hours just after dusk; dined with me, shopped with myself, lost half a day enjoying the exhibits in the art museum. Almost had to look twice when I realized that I was in the presence of an original Norman Rockwell and then again when I stood mesmerized by an original bronze of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

No one knew me or cared. The pressure of keeping up appearances did not exist. I was totally me but in an understated way.  That’s what most people do when found in new surroundings.  Feel your way through.  Give and take, re- define and breathe.

Yesterday, I listened to the recording of my session.  Having had time to consider all the hidden innuendos one misses when in the moment, I realized that there was a pleading in her voice.  I realized the importance of the messages, the vital life-affirming messages there to guide me.

I want to tell you what my daughter said when asked her opinion on the picture frame.  She said, “get the plain one, it won’t compete with the subtlety of the portrait."

Maybe it’s time to shed the embellishments of my identity.  Opt for black and white; for within the realm of neutral, lies my destiny.

It all begins with knowing how to choose the right frame.

Meeting Aunt Sarah

By all definitions, this is my year.  Having taken a full week of the new year to ponder on how to officially begin, I am on a decidedly new path and I am excited to follow, without question, the unexpected and delightful road signs along the way.

I left my rut, packed an overnight, waited for my girlfriend to collect me and we drove half a day’s distance to “almost” Georgia.  I say “almost” Georgia because we stayed in a welcoming ancient bed and breakfast on the Florida side. 

Without giving too much detail, (as I am a rather private woman), our arrival was timed for late afternoon to allow for a side trip to a natural hot springs.  I had been and was over the moon excited to share this pristine treasure with my pal, Diana.  We dined leisurely at the lodge; lunch was perfection on a plate.  She chose a portabella burger and for me, the “bee keeper’s salad” (a trademark of the establishment) which was just too delicious. We took a moment and warmed ourselves by the fireplace before heading to the loading dock for a nautical guided tour of the state park.  You noticed I said “warmed ourselves…” “In Florida”, you ask?  Well yes, it’s early January, unseasonably cold and the icicles were still adorning the lower branches of the Cyprus which lined the banks of the springs and river.  Salt had been scattered on the stone pathway to ensure the safety of all guests who were not focused on looking down as they entered the lodge.

Kept warm by the several layers we were in (under our very best winter coats), we joined the remaining few brave guests and were soon underway in a windowless, ferry boat for a look see at the undisturbed magnificence of Mother Nature.

Our Park Ranger was passionate and the rehearsed monologue was dotted with personal observations and pleas for us to understand and appreciate our surroundings. The emphasis was to educate and encourage preservation efforts both ongoing and planned in the near future. 

I was amazed, my friend was equally amazed and busied herself crossing from one side to the other photo documenting the many native bird species and reptilian occupants.  The family behind us had an ongoing oral interpretation between mother and children.

This area has Hollywood history as well as we were told three Tarzan movies and the cult classic, “Creature from the Black Lagoon,” were filmed in their entirety at this location.  All in all, the few hours spent there gave the day a five star rating.

A short hour’s drive brought us near the bed and breakfast which would welcome us home for the next two evenings.  This is small town America

where the locals know all the shortcuts across town, this fact was not readily available to the two in the car however and I needed to call our host for clarification.  Embarrassing or not, we were three blocks too far in one direction, but with encouragement and plenty of patience on the other end of my cell phone, we found the driveway at the end of the white picket fence and parked, unloaded and waited for our host to join us.

In the meantime, having been given permission to “move in”, we explored our rooms on the second floor of this historic 1872 residence.  Our host arrived with a cheery “hello” and soon we had wine and dessert in hand amicably chatting with her and learning about the best of three restaurants still open at this hour for dinner.

Another scenic encircling of the downtown area brought us to a parking spot just caddy corner from the Mexican restaurant.  We hurried in as the wind had picked up and were plopped in a booth and greeted by who we believe to be the proprietor.  The menu was bountiful and after deciding that we were indeed hungry, ordered from the “entrée” list.

It was evidently near closing, as we were the last patrons, so we paid and I delayed our departure because I could not resist the opportunity to show off my Spanish speaking ability.  I was impressed that I remembered so many of the verb conjugations and the young man who ran the cash register was equally delighted at my wanting to carry on a conversation.

The final drive “home” was lighted by a glorious full moon.  Heading upstairs to our rooms, we agreed on 8:30 for breakfast.  It didn’t take long for me to slide under the 600 thread count sheets sandwiched between feather topper and powder blue duvet.

Everything in the room was blue or slightly blue . . and this has significance.  I was in the “Blue Room”.

Traditionally bed and breakfast establishments name the several private rooms.  When booking online, photos entice the guest to experience ambience specific to their taste.  My friend had the Magnolia Room, fitting as she is a Southern lady.  For me, the color blue reminds me of my mother.  It’s both color of my spirit animal totem (blue bird) and it was her favorite color as well.

The house hosts 6 bedrooms, parlor and dining room which comprise the common areas available to guests. Outside is a deep front porch resplendent with rocking chairs and the focal point in the garden is a three tier fountain which stands about 15 feet tall. Between two bedrooms upstairs is an entrance way to the cupola.

The following morning, we were greeted by husband and wife, already seated at the table, who were also guests.  Conversation was relaxed and interesting.  They were from the United Kingdom and shared insights into the daily life they have shared together in their 47 years of marriage.

Our host informed us of the several courses she would be serving. Citrus,

sausage (local), eggs, and maple pecan pancakes.  The condiments included mayhaw berry jelly. As each item was brought from behind the closed door to her commercial kitchen and private suite, our host delighted us with personal glimpses and factoids about the neighborhood.  The local Chamber of Commerce is lucky to have elected her President.  She stated they had been trying to do so for the 14 years she had lived there.

Our itinerary planned, the first day was designated for exploring Georgia; Thomasville to be exact. It’s just a short 20 minutes to the city limits.  Of course we didn’t pay attention to the sign and were headed out of town before realizing that we missed our turn.  This prompted an unscheduled stop at a chain motel for directions. We were able to gather multiple brochures, thanked the man at the check in desk and headed back in the opposite direction arriving at THE sign stating “Thomasville, right”.

First stop was to the Visitors center, which lead us back to the car for a 9 block trip to the Museum of History.  The tours, both guided and self-navigated were well worth the couple hours transported back to the glorious days of antebellum plantations and glimpses into the pre and post -Civil War era in the “Real South”.

Time for lunch, the museum’s director suggested a soup and sandwich shop. We found it nestled among the rows of converted former office buildings; nothing fancy, but historically significant and telling of the laid back, never in a hurry, atmosphere that we had come to appreciate.

Just moments after being seated, we were greeted by a well -dressed elderly gentleman (long wool coat, scarf and hat- maybe in the Dobbs style, freshly shined shoes and gentile appearance) who made a point of asking how we were and shared with us the recent loss of his wife of 65 years. This self-appointed ambassador, having executed his duty to welcome us, walked to the counter to inquire of the health of the wait staff and to order the daily soup special.

Food was hot and definitely regional as I had never been served a grilled cheese sandwich with red peppers. I liked it. We both ordered the chicken and rice soup and agreed that there was a very good cook running the kitchen.

And what girls day out would be complete without shopping?  Downtown didn’t disappoint. The next to last stop was to a newly opened wine and tapas shop where we enjoyed wine tasting before making selections for our private collections as well as a gift for our host.

Dinner had been decided earlier in our day and we found the local’s favorite pizzeria, ordered take out and once back to the B and B, we enjoyed our 12 inch room temperature pesto and veggie pizza.

As we sat at the designated table for two (rather than the massive formal dining room table), we were greeted by the proprietor.  She had just a few groceries to put away and stopped to ask about our day.  Conversation turned to how she became owner to this establishment and how her years of dedication brought about the transformation and status the home now enjoys.  Every wall, floor board, window pane, stair step and fireplace was now original, the imperfections lent to its stateliness and charm.

Bed time was around 10 for me.  I settled into a guide book of the town before welcoming the solitude I had so desperately needed. And then it happened…after the text I sent to my friend stating that I had just read we were staying in the exact town with the distinction of “most haunted small town in the South”.  She replied “Cemetery, homes”?  I said, “No further information, see you at breakfast”.

Light at bedside out, night light in bathroom on for emergencies, I closed my eyes and after several minutes…heard “thump”.  I got up to look under the bed.  I walked into the bathroom to see if something in my make- up bag found its way to the floor.  No. on both accounts.

The blower for the A/C Heat came on and I rolled over and just listened.

“Thump” again and again.  “Well, is someone tossing pebbles at the windows? No, I think not, no one knows I’m here”.

I fell blissfully asleep, remembering the fabulousness of the day.  Remembering this celebratory birthday get away was to be the catalyst for my very successful and intuitive year ahead.

First to breakfast, as we wanted to get an early start, while Diana headed to the coffee pot, I questioned our host about the hauntings and she said with a twinkle in her eye…”you know the Blue Room is the only room visited here in this house.  Wait a minute, I’ve got something to show you.

She brought a brochure and told me to gaze at the photo in the lower left corner…said “see the Orbs”?  “They appear in the garden, it’s documented.

And now it’s time to tell you about Aunt Sarah.

She was the maiden Aunt of the doctor and his family.  She lived here and died childless; such a shame.  Have you been to the cupola?  “No, not yet, I replied”.  You should go, her rocking chair is up there.”

Food came to table, other couple arrived and time got away from me.  Always being a polite guest and one to love conversation, “Aunt Sarah” and hauntings slipped my mind. 

The wife did share, however, that she had also read about this phenomena and asked me what happened.  I explained best as I could and she smiled. Her husband always so stoic at meal time also smiled.

Girlfriend and I had to check out, the morning would be first and last opportunity to explore this small community. Almost out the door, I remembered that we hadn’t seen the cupola.  We headed back upstairs and were met by our newest friends who were navigating their I pad in the hallway.  The door was pointed out and she and I climbed the almost vertical staircase and arrived in the octagonal loft with the solitary rocking chair on the original wooden floor. On the way, we noticed the well -worn doors to the attic spaces. Some were taught and others characteristically warped with hinges frozen in time.

You could see the whole city through the magnolias. Each window framed a glimpse of life in all directions. We gazed at the rocking chair, Diana extended a hand to caress the curve at the tip of the arm rest. On the descent from the cupola, the poem “Desiderata” was hung for all to read.  We read. We were lifted to a higher plane of compassion and we tip toed down the last few steps in reverence to those who had gone before.

Did I meet Aunt Sarah?  I believe she visited and in doing so, gave me permission to release my fears and embrace my destiny.

·         I would like to thank Pat Inmon, owner of the 1872 John Denham Bed and Breakfast in Monticello, FL for welcoming us and making us feel at home. My personal journey shall be forever forged by those I meet along the way, both in the natural world and from far above the clouds.