When Ideas Come At the Wrong Time

 I have more irons in the fire, as the old cowboys used to say, with a move in a couple of months, the sale of three properties (well, two, the third one hasn't been listed yet.), and now with Wayne having issues related to his health taking up a lot of oxygen. And so naturally, an idea for a book has been trying to crowd out all this other stuff. I'm already stretched, and I'm not that flexible anymore. I promise (hope) that will be my last cliche in this post. They have been rolling over me like surf lately. Here's what has been going on around here:

The sale of Wayne's family land is pending. He has 60 years worth of crap—oh I meant to say stuff, I really did—out there, and he has been bringing a lot of it home, by the pickup truckload, to add to the 15 years worth of crap/stuff already piled high in the garage, or what once was the garage before we closed it in to store things. There are boxes of samples in there from Wayne's years on the road. (He retired during the pandemic.) There's enough bedding to outfit a homeless shelter. There's luggage galore, we could go to Europe for six months and never have to do laundry with all the clothes we could pack. Why, pray tell, so we have so much luggage? And this is not to count all the tools, painting supplies, bric-a-brac and just plain old junk. No sooner do I get some of it boxed up and donated than here comes Wayne with a whole lot more. 

The sale of the coast house is also pending, both are due to close in a couple of weeks. And we have brought stuff/crap home from there as well. Thank goodness we sold it furnished or I would have so much more furniture to sell than I'm going to have already. We have said our goodbyes to both these places, a little teary-eyed at times, but now we face this mountain of crap (there I've SAID it) to claw through. 

We are moving to Kerrville, did I tell you that? Maybe I did. And we are downsizing. Again! We did this once already when we moved to New Mexico. But here we are again, back in that same situation with all this additional stuff from the other two properties. We also have some work to do on this 100-year-old house. The deck needs painting. The garden-beds need weeding. There's a bit of carpentry work to have done. And on top of all that, Wayne just had some major, MAJOR oral surgery done, and needs special food to eat right now. And he's scheduled next week for MOHS surgery on a small skin cancer. All this and all that. And so.....

New characters start running around in my head, new situations, a new time period. An old unpublished/unfinished novel has been playing in there, too. And I focus on that while I'm supposed to be focused on this other stuff, and can you just imagine what happens next? I lose my sunglasses. I have to turn around and drive back to the dentist's office when I realize I don't have my purse in the car. I forget to set the dishwasher and wake up to no clean coffee cups. I forget to call back people who have left messages. So far I haven't forgotten to pay a bill but I sense that coming. Why now? Why is this story idea pestering me now, when I'm up to my eyeballs with these big life changes? 

Maybe it's because it's the only thing I really would like to be doing right now. How great it would be if I could hire someone, trust someone, to do all this other drudgery for me over the next few weeks, nay months. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Too bad I've written all these books and none of them have been bestsellers or gotten made into movies (although one did come close one time). But even if that had happened, I wonder if I wouldn't still be in this situation. Because, alas dear follower, I confess I am a control-freak. Who can't seem to control her imagination. Any tips on that?

Onward....

Back in the Saddle, Part Deux

 (Trying this again, after I screwed up the last attempt.)

My least favorite part of being a writer has always been the promotion, in particular, in-person promotion—getting out there in the world, reading, signing books. I have been to book signings that were successful and those that have been big flops. The flops are usually because the venue did bother with any sort of advertising. Ot they scheduled no other event along with the book signing, or the signing was a single writer (me!) and not a group of writers, which usually brings out more people. The venue has to buy in books and if none are sold, it turns out to be a waste of time for all concerned. But when a venue does do a little prep work, a little advertising, an online announcement or a newspaper ad, things usually go better. 

I will be doing my first in-person appearance on April 27 at the Cuero Municipal Library, and it has been about nine years since I have given a presentation of this kind. I'm not nervous about it but I do want it to 

go well. They're doing all the pre-work so I want it to pay off for them as well as for me. I've been planning what I'm going to say, which passage from which book I'm going to read, and I'm trying to do my part in getting out the word, so if you live anywhere near Cuero and would like to attend, it would be wonderful to see you there. April 27, 6:00 pm to 8:00.

In 1994, I moved to DeWitt County, which is located in south central Texas. For the first twelve years I lived in tiny Yorktown. Then I got divorced and moved to Victoria for a couple of years, where I met the love of my life, sweet Wayne, who said to me when we first met, how he hoped he could help me find my way back to my writing. Well, he has!

We moved from Victoria to the outskirts of Cuero for three years, and then left on our big adventure to the New Mexico Rockies. We lived there another three years before health issues and aging parents brought us back to Texas—Yoakum, this time, on the opposite side of DeWitt County. Hopefully during all those years, I made some lasting friendships. The library asked me for a list of people to invite and I provided what I had. Several people have told me they received the above invitation to the event, and I'm thrilled with the enthusiasm so far.

Luckily for me, the Cuero Shutterbugs will have an exhibit going on at the same time as I am at the library. The Shutterbugs always have a wonderful Spring exhibit with lots of wildflower photos on display. Taking pictures of wildflowers takes a certain skill and the Shutterbugs have it. When I go out and take wildflower pictures, mine always seem flat and devoid of interest, certainly not the beautiful colors before my eyes. If coming to the Cuero Library to hear me doesn't interest you, come for the wildflower photo exhibit. You won't be disappointed.

Speaking of wildflowers, we have had a magnificent wildflower year here and I have no idea why. Texas has had back to back hard killing freezes two years in a row, with exceptional drought conditions in between, but still there they are, along all the roads and covering open pastures. Even the tiny patch of bluebonnets in my yard re-emerged this year, after having been dug under when the local natural gas company replaced their lines a few years back. I was so happy to see the little bunch of them again, I ran out and put some white border fencing around them so Wayne wouldn't mow over them. Oh yes, down here in Texas, we DO covet our wildflowers. But if you ever come during the wildflower season,  you will soon see why. 

Here's an update, for those who follow this blog, regarding our plans to move to Oregon. They are starting to morph into a more realistic plan to relocate to the Texas Hill Country instead. The disparity in cost of living between here and there will, it seems, keep us in Texas despite our desire to live near the Pacific Ocean. We have been looking at 55+ communities for "active seniors" as they say, and have found a plethora of them in the Hill Country. And the prices there are about one-third what similar houses cost in the area of Oregon we love. With that much savings, we figure we can plan a trip or two every year to visit our favorite town in Oregon, Florence. 

For those who don't know, the Texas Hill Country is roughly located in the center of the state. It's an ancient crumbling-down mountain range said to be one of the oldest in North America. Those long-ago mountains have eroded into "hills" and so, Texas-like since we have to name everything, we call it the Hill Country. But the best part about it is it's WINE COUNTRY in Texas! And anyone who knows me well, knows wine is one of my most favorite things of all. The soil in the Texas Hill Country is rocky and poor—perfect for growing wine grapes. There are roughly 65 vineyards and wineries in a 54-mile stretch of highway from Kerrville to Johnson City, with the quaint German town of Fredericksburg smack in the middle. I remember when these places began to pop up in the late 1980s. People pooh poohed the very idea of Texas wine, didn't believe it could happen here, but it has! And tourists flock to this area every time the sun shines, including in winter. So another big adventure awaits us as we start down this new stretch of life. Until next time, Sláinte!

Onward....

First Blog of 2023: a Writing Process

 I made no New Year's resolutions for 2023, except for maybe to clear out the clutter—physically and mentally. We are continuing to work towards trying to move to Oregon, although that still seems a long way in the future. We have our bay house for sale, and there hasn't been much action on that. Wayne is putting his land on the market next week, fingers crossed on that. I know it's been a tough decision for him, and not an easy slog to try to get it ready. He keeps coming across personal momentos from his life that make it more difficult for him. It's always been his home base, and was given to him by his parents. But there comes a time to move on. I think I've heard something like that before.

The plan is for one (or preferably both) to sell quickly, take the proceeds to Florence Oregon and find a house so we know where we're going and can downsize accordingly. Then we get our primary house listed and start selling off—for real—furniture and other overage we no longer want or need. No matter how you plan it, though, things don't always fall so neatly into place. We're aware of that, and also aware of time creep—meaning "we're not getting any younger." We're going to make another trip to Florence in three weeks. We have never been there during the winter and it's time to see what that's like, although we do keep daily tabs on the forecast and temperatures. It's a mild climate for Oregon. The real estate agent said Florence lies in the Pacific Temperate Rainforest zone, and judging by the slight variation in day and night temps, I think she must be correct. The only other place I can think of where there is only a few degrees of change during a 24-hour period is Ireland. Anyway, it's where we believe we want to spend our Golden Years. The weather isn't perfect anywhere, least of all where we live in Texas. As shown in the picture below—our backyard last summer, Ugh!

Meanwhile, I am in the middle of a (what—10th, 12th, or 100th) read-through edit of my next novel. My agent submitted it to a couple of publishers last Spring, got kind rejections but rejections nevertheless, and so I hired an editor to give it a look. She gave me a really thoughtful analysis and now, with her suggestions in mind, I'm going through and tweaking parts that need tweaking. Not all her suggestions rang valid to me, and those I'm leaving unchanged. It's alway smart to have another set of eyes on something. This novel is such a departure from anything I have written before that I wanted someone who was totally unfamiliar with my work. This novel is so different I have, in fact, been kicking around using a pseudonym. One minute I feel that yes, doing that would free the story; the next minute, I'm like—well, I wrote it so I should take the credit or the criticism that comes. I'm not a big-name writer anyway so what the heck—although I do have a small circle of loyal fans who have stuck with me for 30 years. Thank you to all of you if you are reading this. It gives me great joy to hear from you from time to time.

So back to working on this novel. I'm at the place where I always have doubts. Writer-friends of mine will know exactly what I mean. The sentences are smooth, images pretty clear, but does it sound a little smarmy? Too predictable? Overly melodramatic, or maybe it's too understated? As I read through this millionth draft I am still mortified that I actually let anybody read it in this condition. Some of the scenes are less than dynamic, some seem even a little sophomoric. I know, deep down, that this is a normal reaction for me at this stage, and that I have to slap away that naggedy little editor whispering in my ear, telling me I'm a washed-up writer, that this is a piece of crap and I should just stick it in a drawer and forget about it. 

However, this particular novel has already done a lot of drawer-time. I actually started writing it way back, even before LILY. Dashed off a quick, sloppy, first draft, dusted my hands and stuck it away. I might have thought about it once or twice in the ensuing years but didn't really linger on it until I started trying to clean up my office during the pandemic: all the boxes and bins of old correspondence, contracts, scraps of notes, etc. There were several unfinished manuscripts in that clutter, but this was the only one that inspired me to give another go, to try to untangle plot-lines that went nowhere, to flesh out the characters, brighten up the settings. After I worked on that a while, it seemed to be getting better. Several more walk-throughs continued to help, especially with the addition of sensory details. And then, after several months of this, a lightbulb went off in my brain, and I finally FINALLY figured out what the hell it's about. A whole new spin began there. Once I had that, I was going full speed, writing those million drafts. 

I'm blogging about this here because I have been asked to do more writing blogs so I thought I would share my process. Everybody has their own, and this scattered one I've described is mine. I'm not a naturally gifted writer who can put down fabulous words from the outset. I have to write several drafts, each one a little less terrible than the previous, agonizing over works like "the, or should it be an" until it starts gelling for me. If I knew from the first minute I put pen to paper, or word to computer screen, what was going to happen in my novels, I would probably never write at all. I like discovering where it's going as I write it, just like I enjoy discovering a story as a reader. Guess that's why I can never be a mystery writer. I don't know how to plot. 

Onward....

A Look Back Over 2022; A Christmas Letter

If you already received this letter inside a Christmas card, just disregard this, it's the same (except for the pictures):

Twenty-twenty-two has definitely been a better year than the two that came before, at least for us. Our first great-grandbaby was born on October 10: Rey Marie. She was a big girl at over 8 pounds, and was born to Brooke, Wayne’s granddaughter, and her husband Colt. They’re the pair who live in St. Croix, so we have not seen this new baby whom Wayne has already named Sugarpie to compliment his nickname for her mom, Honeypie. They are coming to Texas in January so we will finally get to lay eyes on this precious addition to the family. 

Also in October, the 30^th Anniversary Edition of LILY came out in trade paperback. Hard for me to believe it has been thirty years already since it debuted, but time does march on, as they say. It has a lovely new cover and I’m pleased that it was printed in big bold type so more people can read it and enjoy it again. Maybe it will find new readers, who knows. 

In August, in celebration of Wayne’s 75^th birthday, we returned to our beloved Florence, Oregon for a week of seafood and beautiful views. The VRBO we rented overlooks the Siuslaw River (pronounced Sigh-You-Slaw) a mile upstream from where it empties into the blue, blue Pacific. We spent a lot of our time just sitting out on the balcony watching the harbor seals and shore birds, as the tide came and went. We especially enjoyed watching cormorants dive for food. The water is so clear there you can see them underwater as they dart after the little sunfish they seem to relish. They’re terrific fishermen but it also turns out they’re gluttons. I stopped counting at 14 minnows one bird caught in 45 minute. 

We would love to find a way to move to Florence permanently, but the disparity in housing costs will probably keep us here. We have put our little bay house on the market, but we needed to do that anyway. Insurance on that place cost three times what our house in Yoakum costs, and I have tired of holding my breath all the way through hurricane season every year. We’ve had it eight years and I will miss it as my writing retreat.

Our flight from Eugene Oregon back to Austin went fine until right before we landed, when our flight was suddenly diverted to Houston Hobby. There were supposedly supercell thunderstorms in the area, although we later learned there were also some mechanical issues with the plane. They put us on a new plane in Houston and we got back to Austin at 2:30 in the morning instead of 10:30 as scheduled, and still facing a two-hour drive home. Several other planes had been diverted and it became a free-for-all in baggage claim. I was wearing a mask but Wayne was not. And of course, two days after we got home, after being completely vaxed and double-boosted, we both came down with Covid. It was, thankfully, a light case for both of us. Our doctor prescribed Paxlovid (a miracle drug) and within a few days we were well and testing negative. 

April was another big time for us. Mid-month we left on an 8-day cruise up the Rhine River. Stuart and Mark met us at the Amsterdam airport and we all shuttled to the boat. This was our second Viking cruise and we really love the excursions, the slower pace, the fewer passengers at only 225 people, the delicious gourmet food. These river cruises are a relaxing, easy-going way to travel. We loved the Rhine but think we loved the Danube in 2019 just a teensy bit more. We have now traveled to 13 countries and figure we need to add one more to get to a luckier number.

Also in April, my book FOR LOVE AND GLORY came out. It has been a long time coming and I was thrilled to finally see this novel I worked on, intermittently, for nearly 20 years come to fruition. I loved my editor, my designer, but have learned how hard it is to get a book noticed now, and into bookstores and review magazine. The publishing industry has undergone a dramatic change since my last book came out, but as I tell all my friends “I’M BACK, BABY.” I have been surprised at how many of my old fans have sent me texts and messages with well-wishes. 

In April, our cat Sam turned eight. It’s so hard for us both to believe he could possibly be that old already. He brings us loads of joy, and is still the same silly, lively play-kitty he was when we got him. In fact, I don’t think he realizes he’s not still a kitten. 

So here’s to another great year! I hope everyone flourishes and finds new joy in their lives!

ONWARD....🍷🍷

11th Month, 11th Day, 11th Hour

World War I, aka The Great War, began in 1914, between the European powers. American got into the war in 1917 after German U-Boats started attacking our merchant marines. So for the first three years of the War to End All Wars, so-named by Woodrow Wilson, the United States was neutral. By the time we got "Over There" France, England, Germany, Italy, Turkey, etc had already lost millions of soldiers to the war, a brutal affair where the military command was still fighting in the warfare style of the 18th and 19th centuries against 20th century weaponry, a fact that forced armies to seek cover down inside elaborate trenches. It was a bloodbath.

It didn't take long before America began to rack up casualties too, losing in about eighteen months more men than a decade of fighting in Vietnam would years later. Germany had thrown all it had at the war effort, men and materiel. On November 11, 1918, at 11 o'clock in the morning, the antagonists signed an armistice, or a ceasefire. For the next 36 years, we commemorated November 11 as Armistice Day, and in some places, Remembrance Day. Armistice Day was what my parents told me it was called when they were growing up. After World War II came and went, the veterans from that war thought they deserved a day of commemoration too for their great sacrifices, and in 1954, Congress changed the name of the national holiday to Veteran's Day. 

But what does it mean now? Where I live there isn't even a Veteran's Day parade anymore, like the ones I remember as a child living in Corpus Christi. My family is full of veterans, mostly from WWII. Almost all the men I knew growing up, family and family friends, had served in some capacity in that war: my dad, my grandfather, several uncles, close family friends, even some of the women enlisted in various causes, and those that didn't still did SOMETHING, like taking old tin pots to a collection area to have them melted down for ammunition. Everyone gave up things to help the troops. People were issued ration books for groceries and blackout curtains were hung over windows. My mom told me about a U-Boat scare in Corpus Christi Bay when she was a girl, and the air raid sirens that would sound as drills. Her high school yearbook is filled with pictures of men in Navy uniforms, classmates or enlisted seaman from the Naval Air Station nearby. 

It was nothing, even when I was a child, to see men with empty sleeves, or on crutches or in wheelchairs from limbs lost. My dad's closest friend was a double amputee who had been shelled in a foxhole during the Battle of Hürtgen Forest, the precursor of the more famous Battle of the Bulge. Another good friend of Daddy's had been hit by fire during the amphibious landings in the Bay of Salerno during the Invasion of Italy. My grandfather drove landing craft in the South Pacific at Leyte Gulf, and during that battle prayed to God that if He would see him through he would hand over his life. Shortly after he got home, my grandfather went into the ministry and became a Baptist preacher for the rest of his life.

The children of those 16-million veterans, my generation, were steeped in World War II. It was absorbed into us without having to be mentioned. It just lingered, everywhere around us, even in the row-house neighborhoods built for all those veterans and their new families. The kids played World War II in the streets, interspersed with Cowboys and Indians, of course. We knew how to make the sounds of ack-ack gunfire, and machine-guns, and bombs falling. A kid down the street could mimic perfectly a trench mortar letting off a round, so we even had a bit of the First World War thrown into our WWII street battles. I supposed kids are still playing war but doing it on the computer screens now, with realistic gore and trauma. Somehow it doesn't feel the same. 

I sometimes wonder what in the world my dad, and all those long-gone veterans would think about the so-called division in our country now, or the January 6th insurrection. The last time he flew in a plane was to his squadron reunion in 2003. He got pulled out of the security line and wanded, all over his body until they located the problem: a roll of Tums in its foil wrapping inside his shirt pocket. Daddy looked the TSA agent in the face, and with a disappointed smile on his face, said, "I served in World War II. You think I'm a terrorist?" He was so insulted by the episode he never took a plane anywhere again. 

In the 1970s, I married a man who enlisted in the US Air Force. The salary for an E-2, his rank just after Basic Training, was so low, we not only qualified for Section 8 housing, but also for Food Stamps, known now as SNAP. After he got out we found a little house we wanted to buy, and since he qualified for a VA loan, our down-payment was only a single dollar bill. I remember watching the mortgage banker paperclip that dollar bill to our loan application, happy to be so lucky.

So let's celebrate and honor our veterans, but let's also continue to fund and support the GI Bill, which we have not always done readily. Let's give them the highest quality health care available instead of always skimping on that, even closing down military hospitals so veterans who are unable to travel long distances end up shut-out of the system. Let's provide mental health rehabilitation so they don't feel compelled to seek anti-government militia groups for camaraderie. It's too easy these days to forget about our veterans who may have been traumatized by the realities of modern-day guerrilla warfare. Let's provide enlisted service men and women with skills they can use once they're out of the military so they can continue to contribute their patriotism and their sense of duty and fairplay to American society. And for God's sake, let's stop using them as pawns in the game of political gotcha, or slapping magnetic signs on our cars that say "I support the military," a brag that has just become another meaningless slogan. 

Happy Veteran's Day, America. Fly your flag!

Onward...

My Cat Got a Flea

Last week my spoiled but lovable cat, Sam, had a personality change. It happened on Monday. Sam isn't allowed outside at all unless he's on a leash or in his Kitty Walk enclosure. He is 8 years old and would not have made it to 8 months if he had been allowed to roam free. Too many dangers in our neighborhood from cars and other stray cats, and dogs who sometimes race unaccompanied through the streets. I started walking Sam on a leash when he was 4 months old, and he loves it, rushes from anywhere in the house when he hears the jingle of the harness. He even jumps up in a chair to make it easier on the walker to fasten the harness and leash, and once it's on him, he dashes for the nearest door. But he didn't seem much interested in our Monday walk. I had to pick him up and put him in the chair to get on the paraphernalia, and at the door, he hung back. Not the norm for Sam. He never holds back for anything.

Tuesday, he wouldn't eat his morning treats. They're called treats because that's what he has always considered them: TREATS! He wasn't interested in wrestling on the raggedy rug in front of the sliding door, his favorite MO for play. It goes like this: I push a stick under the rug and he comes in hot, sliding under the rug after the stick, and giving the rug a few killing kicks with both hind legs. Sometimes he even turns a somersault. Not Tuesday. He sat in the middle of the room and stared at me like I was from Mars and simply blinked at the end of the stick poking out from his beloved rug.

Next, he wouldn't eat his kibble. Or his wet food. And he kept yowling from a distant room. I told Wayne if he wasn't better by tomorrow I was taking him to the vet. I know my cat. None of this was normal behavior. He seemed agitated. Grousing. He stared at us, seemed to want something from us and it wasn't the usual things like going out, or food, or play. I went to bed that night worried sick over poor Sam. Wayne chastened me, accused me of being a helicopter mom, which I most certainly am NOT. I do pay attention to my cat, and I can tell when all is not well. It definitely was NOT well.

On Wednesday, I noticed Sam licking excessively, and biting at his legs. And he was fierce about it, so I thought he must have developed an allergy of some sort. I thought about the new litter we had bought when our grocery store quit carrying his old brand. When I petted his head, he turned it and leaned into my scratching hand. So I checked his fur, down to his skin. Not an easy task but I saw nothing. I combed him but only came up with some loose summer hair he hadn't yet shed. And still he was grousy and indifferent to all the things he so much loves. I carried him around a lot. I thought he seemed feverish. He was certainly pitiful. And then....and then! While I had him in my arms, a flea walked out from the hair just above his eyes. A flea! A disgusting burrowing flea. On my mostly inside cat. 

Wayne drove over to the vet for one of those ridiculously expensive topical applications you put behind your cat's head. Sam hates those things. He resents us for hours when we have had to apply them, so if we happen to be in the vet's office for a visit, I usually ask the doctor to do it. I would much rather Sam hold a grudge against the vet than me. 

But anyway, Wayne brought one of those vials home, so we put Sam in his carrier, and through the top trapdoor I applied the topical between his shoulder blades. We made him stay in the carrier until it dried so he wouldn't lick it or rub it off on furniture. He was unhappy with us. He hollered at us every time one of us passed his carrier. For the rest of the day he hated us.

But...but...on Thursday morning, he got up a different kitty. He pranced around with his tail high, loving and happy, doing figure-eights through our legs, jumping in our laps, ready to wrestle with the rug, ravenous for his treats and kibble and wet food, eager to go out on the leash, back to his silly but sweet old self. 

Guess it's time to spray the yard. Who knew a single, solitary flea could cause such misery and disruption? I'm just glad to have my old Sam back. And to maybe contemplate the possibility that... ah-hmmm...maybe there's a little bit of helicopter mom inside me after all.

LOL.

Onward....

The Oregon Trail

 It has been a miserable summer in Texas. It shows all over our yard and in our gardens. The tomato season was abruptly interrupted at the end of May, an unreasonable date for production to end, but we had already had several 100+ degree days by then, and the plants were dying. Birds were eating the tomatoes as fast as they could make, while they were still green. In total aggravation, I gave up. I tore the plants out of the ground, filling up the composter! I have never had such a disastrous tomato crop, ever!

Now, three months later, record temperatures have been broken over and over. Sometimes the indoor/outdoor thermometer in my kitchen shows as high as 115 degrees in the backyard. The grass is barely alive, and that is after running up the largest water bill to date on this house, just desperate to save the roots. Most of my potted plants have also died. A neighbor and I have noticed that even with watering every day, some of the plants have simply shriveled in the hot wind. Last time I paid attention to the news we have had 63 days of temperatures of 100 or more, and that is also a record. The lack of rainfall since the beginning of this year has made it all that much worse. In July we got .02 of an inch, and August so far hasn't been a whole lot better.

People started talking about global warming in the 1970s. Maybe it was sooner but that's when I recall hearing about it for the first time. Jimmy Carter had solar panels installed on the roof of the White House, which of course, Ronald Reagan had removed almost immediately. The petroleum industry turned the whole matter into a political issue and so it has remained for some reason, because people don't always recognize when they are being manipulated by big business. But I don't see how anyone can deny the weather is changing. They point to the fact that we have these blistering cold snaps, another thing that never happened until recently, so global warming is a hoax. But that happens exactly because the polar caps are warming and that arctic air droops down into areas of the world it never used to reach when it stayed nice and firmly frozen in place, sort of like how your glass of ice water gets the coldest just before all the ice has melted away.

Anyway, this heat – desert creep, I've heard it called by meteorologists – has Wayne and I yearning for the wonderful summer weather we enjoyed when we lived in the Southern Rockies. The problem for me there was the altitude, not the weather. I couldn't breathe and it didn't get better. The longer we stayed the harder I found it to get a breath. So we came back to Texas – and both of us have pretty much been complaining about it ever since we arrived. 

In 2019 we took a trip to Oregon – because I had never been and we both wanted to see Crater Lake. I've always had a fascination with the Pacific Ocean so we made sure to spend a lot of time on the Oregon coast, and we both fell in love with a little town midway down the coastline named Florence. We stayed in a B&B style inn on a hill with a fabulous view of the town, the harbor, and close enough to walk to Old Town restaurants. Our room had a little kitchen so we visited a local supermarket and made a charcuterie tray and drank some wine from one of the Willamette wineries we had visited. We slept with the windows open. It was a gorgeous weather, blue skies and cool nights. We walked on the beach. We noticed a lot of retirees there. We even came back at the end of our circular trek around Oregon for a last look before we flew back to Texas. 

Then the pandemic struck. We daydreamed about that October in Oregon. And we planned another trip as soon as travel became a reality again, This time, we vowed we would stay in Florence the entire time and use it as our base camp. In 2021, we did just that.

This time, October again because we were spending our "anniversary" there – this time, the weather was horrendous. A howling wind came off the ocean and ravaged the deck on the VRBO we had found online in Old Town. We didn't even venture out at all for one entire day other than to dash across the street to have dinner. We moved all the deck furniture up against a wall to keep it from flying through the picture window. Once the brunt of the storm had passed, on our second whole day, we drove up to see the Sea Lions we had missed on our first trip. The ocean was misty from the crashing waves rolling in. It looked like a scene from a science fiction movie, something from outer space. I could barely keep my fearsome, awestruck eyes off of it. The sea lions, of course, were nowhere to be seen. They're not dummies.

And yet, this fascination with Florence, Oregon has not abated. We are headed back in one week. We have been scouring Realtor.com and Zillow since May. We have been giving worried glances at all the stuff we have accumulated since we've been back in Texas – not to mention burdensome real estate we have attached ourselves to. We are actually, at our age, thinking of a big cross-continent move from Texas to Oregon – if we can figure out how to make it work. We will be doing yet another HUGE downsize if we do this, but we've got an appointment with a real estate agent while we're there, and we will see just how committed to a move we feel once this trip is over. If we do it, this will absolutely be the LAST move for us so we have to find a place that is awesome – a place that ticks all the boxes, as they say on HGTV – a place that makes enough sense to us to plan another god-awful long-distance move. 

Onward…