7H to Davis Point

Here we are, Sunday morning at 7H. 7H is not conveniently livable because though we have the use of the porch, our bedroom and adjoining bathroom, no kitchen's available as it's filled with furniture from rooms being worked on and dehumidified. Hot water: this morning’s shower and shampoo will be cold water. 

What do I remember about cold showers? First, that Pop, my grandfather, took a cold shower every morning; he only lit off the water heater once a week, for mom’s hot bath. Second, that my summers at Camp Weed, our diocesan camp when I was a boy, we had cold showers every day; except that Saturday night the huge boilers were lit off to grace one and all with a hot shower. I was ten to seventeen those summers, no problem. 

Navy warship? No, it was a thirty second shower at times, especially off Yankee Station when the Marine contingent were aboard: Wet stop, Soap, Rinse stop; but always hot water. 

Yesterday, Ray had a phone call from the adjuster reporting the insurance company declaring Malinda’s house a total loss. This news brings relief because they will be able to move toward buying another house rather than suffering untold months otherwise required to rebuild - - plan,  permit, wait for supplies, wait for construction contractors to get round to them; living in temporary housing for that duration.

Saturday night was dark on StAndrewsBay, missing the usual lights from civilization at Tyndall, the white-white-green beacon, lights from TAFB housing area and yacht club, TAFB and Mexico Beach lighting up the sky. As though civilization died across the Bay, and I’m remembering Cormac McCarthy’s The Road right at first when the bathroom light went out and never came on again.

Living temporarily at the beach, PCB, life seems normal. Other than mornings, the endless line of worker traffic heading east into PC, and evenings, traffic west to shelter, beguilingly normal. But no sooner does one cross the bridge into town than desolation hits, and with it for me, the grief I first knew when Mom, my grandmother, died, pain that swells up in throat and chest, clinch teeth as lips start to tremble, men don't cry and surely not again and again; pain, hurt; anger stirs, rage builds again, fury, why, how, Who? I have an ineffable sense of betrayal, of being betrayed, mean, hateful, treacherous betrayal, my home, My Country 'Tis Of Thee desolated, desecrated, but by Whom or What, Who or What to blame, nothing but to curse the skies, hang over 7H porch rail and scream, rage at the heavens. My beautiful native land, what have You done, come face me, damn You, damn You to everlasting hell.

Others can wait for the trees to return. Me, I’m old, older, oldest, and this has been My Home, My Native Land longer than almost anyone I know. How to deal. Not chin up, don’t give me that, chin up, brave front and a smiley face, this is real, not a dream, it's real, and I’m a realist, I don’t sing falsetto.

Still, in every Loss, a Gain: no WiFi but my Personal Hotspot functions well this morning.

T

Pic: StAndrewsBay to Davis Point, 5:51 PM, Saturday evening, October 27, 2018