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.



Two Junes ago - a perfect combination and setting

                “Writers, like other dangerous criminals, should come to know solitary confinement.” – Paul Greenberg, Arkansas Democrat Gazette.

 I had been in Florida when he delivered his speech to the Arkansas Writer’s Conference, but  caught it in his next Sunday’s column. (Which saw double duty.)

Greenberg’s sentence hit me like a dirt clod. For each of eight mornings, some days as early as 6:15, I sat in solitude (not solitary confinement, but still...) and read and wrote. It was like being at a writers’ colony with Gulf breezes and doves as a background for creativity. What better place could I find myself?

Never mind that I had to look out over a parking lot as large as a football field. I tried to look up and beyond to the little patch of Gulf across the street and behind a row of ubiquitous condos fenced in against any but the owners/ guests. 

Our arrival at the condo turned out to be not-so-pleasant. The air conditioning labored, but got no cooler than 74 degrees. Billy couldn’t stand the heat so all the others in our party--Billy, his mother, his sister and a friend—“jumped ship” and stayed at J.’s place. “An emergency,” Daughter said, until a definite complaint to the lessors could be made the next day.

I found myself alone in room 2C of Tristan Towers, which touted three queen-sized beds but held only one-- they must have meant a blow-up mattress (in the closet) and a pull-out sofa for the other two. I had an oscillating fan that Billy traded for my smaller “face” fan.     

The AC was repaired later the next day, but by 6:15 Friday morning, I was outside on the deck.

Myriad doves with a different sound than those at home—a 3-pulse motif: coo-coooooo-cuk ––called over and over.

Sights included the horizon––the curved edge of the earth––a cloudless sky, dog walkers, joggers, swallows, palms, oleanders, river gravel, ornamental grasses and CARS! 

A business man, satchel in one hand, lunch in the other, purple shirt, taupe trousers, walked to the farthest vehicle in the parking lot––a slate gray hatchback. Before exiting, he pulled over to the concrete barrier/fence and hosed off the car and then headed into the gate’s security eye and disappeared. He must have been one of the 90 families who lived in the Towers. (I counted the mailboxes in the lobby!)

A dove settled on the top of a nearby light standard. Before I could get a good look through my binoculars, it flew. Another--or perhaps the one that flew—a gray blob fluffing its feathers--perched on the clubhouse chimney.

A cool breeze barely moved; a school bus passed silently––the merging of nature versus man, an attempt to meld them into a mecca where inlanders like us long to go on vacation.

If folks needed and enjoyed solitude as much as I did, they’d escape to a deserted place where only the water, birds, and fish were companionable. And the breeze.

My family didn’t know what a gift they gave me when they—for want of a cooler abode—fled to J.’s place for the night.

And they left me in a $1680-for-ten-days, Gulf-area condo—spacious, q-u-i-e-t, orderly.

For a day or so, at least.