Mother Nature doesn’t always accede to our plans

Google image: Ozarks

            

                 BFF-Dot-from-Beebe and I have spent the past few days “on vacation.” Planned ‘way back in early August, Navarre Beach, Florida was to be our destination. An off-season, half-price rate made it ultra enticing.

 

               But as the time neared, Karen, the tropical storm, threatened. And came closer. Then closer. Predictions were dire.

 

                The condo owner called and cancelled us. With the rain they’d already had, he said, plus what would come with Karen, Navarre would flood and more than likely cause evacuations. Who wanted to spend an anticipated (Dot had never been to Florida) vacation holed up in some hotel with (possibly) the power off? Even if one’s son lived in the area?

 

              Dot was ready to go somewhere. We lobbed possibilities back and forth: Eureka Springs and Branson were two of them.

 

               “What about the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked her. She was accepted earlier through an application process that included ten pages of writing samples, a list of publications and two references.  But, because at that time they required a 2-week minimum stay, she backed out, not needing to leave her place for that long.

 

                I’m an alumna of the writers’ colony, so I said, “Let’s call Linda and see if perchance she has two suites unoccupied/unscheduled. SHE DID!  And for the entire time we intended to be away! Serendipity! The rooms were in separate-but adjacent buildings, which was fine with us.

 

                I boarded Greye and Boots at the animal clinic, and we Taurus-trekked northward to the Ozarks (4 hours) instead of southward (10 hours) to the Florida panhandle.

 

              Even with the next-day’s rain, we both were happily warm and dry in our suites, complete with writing space, wireless hookup, coffeepot, snacks, good lighting—everything a writer needs for a productive getaway. Oh, and our laptops.

 

              Dot slept longer than usual the first night due to the extra walking, climbing and descending stairs, excitement, etc. Plus, she didn’t need to get up for work or to get Son off to work with a lunch. I usually sleep as long as I can anyway, having nothing but cats to cater to.

 

            We wrote and read and emailed and Face-booked. At mealtimes during the weekend, we ate from the residents’ refrigerator that held culinary leftovers—cauliflower, rice, soup, pasta, dilled potato slices, white cake with a lemon curd layer—plus sandwich makings, juices and milks. Or from food we’d both brought along.

 

           By Sunday night, the Corvette Club members had returned to where they were from—or were on the way home. The previous day’s rain had cooled temps down to jacket weather. I’d packed shorts for the beach, but did have two pairs of jeans amongst them. A windbreaker and one long-sleeved blouse were my only warmish duds, so Dot loaned me a denim shirt.

 

          Six other residents have moved in since we came, so this week at the common dinner hour, there were 8 writers around the dining table. Such sessions of good food, fellowship and sharing added to the serendipity of the alternative vacation—

 

                                                    ---the mountains instead of the beach.