Jody 'n Me
As best I recall, rising early has been my longTime habit, at least from closing Navy days in Pennsylvania. And then, nobody could sleep through the antebellum predawn crowing of roosters all over Apalachicola that 1984 summer we moved there. Built in 1900, rectory's double-hung windows were original thin, wavy glass and those that opened hung loosely, not meant to dampen sounds from outside. Our upstairs bedroom bordered US98 through town, right where eighteen-wheelers shifted gears either after or downshifting to gear-down for the turn onto Market Street. Magical, it was an active place where sleeping late was never part of the deal, always fine by me.
We love our years there, and early to rise was part of it. Thinking Time, study Time, reading Time, some days sermonizing. Timewise, those years were a highlight of life; and later when we sold The Old Place and started looking around, returning to Apalachicola was a possibility for me. Actively considered, a strong possibility again after Hurricane Michael did its worst.
Contemplating, even at this age, a strong possibility again should a next chapter be Son of Michael or Michaelsdottr.
What's the draw? Something about "lenten prep" essays I read in The Atlantic yesterday on liminality. One article discussed a new book about Henry David Thoreau; the other straight out about liminality and our American loneliness that exploded during and after the covid pandemic, concluding that what we want is not so much to be alone as it is a desire for privacy.
Which, privacy, my most highly valued asset in life, is a chief characteristic of 7H, indeed of living here in Harbour Village. Nobody knocks on the door. No one comes to hand out Bible tracts. Almost never does anyone walk by our windows that face downtown St Andrews. Twice a month I may meet someone at the elevator. In over nine years living here, I've had to wait for an elevator maybe three Times. The outlook over St Andrews Bay and beyond Shell Island into the Gulf of Mexico is exquisite; even liminal for me as I glance at Davis Point and replay Alfred sailing away in the Annie & Jennie, and that family tragedy's existential role in my life.
Trinity, Apalachicola is a liminal place for me. So is downtown Apalachicola. My echoing footsteps in the empty hall of Cove School on a summer morning. Driving east across 4th Street Bridge and turning right onto Massalina Drive. A few memories that, conjured up in the mind, carry me decades and miles to where only I know. Seeing photographs of USS Corry DD-817 is liminal for me. Liminality is not just a sensed space between earth and heaven, it's wherever whatever happens that transports you emotionally. It can be your Laughing Place. Or a place where you wept: a cemetery plot. A photograph.
On day two of Lent 2024 I'm thinking that my lenten exercise will be experiencing the privacy that enhances my life. Maybe visit some of my liminal places, material or mental.
To appreciate, to see that the kingdom of God has come with power.
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Breakfast: chopped liver on toasted Jewish rye bread, that, along with pastrami and deli Swiss cheese, arrived yesterday from Katz's on the lower east side where Harry Golden grew up and that he chronicled.
Anyway, it's Lent: don't give up anything, DO something that enhances your life. Lent 2023 I read books about Dresden, Hamburg to form my viewpoint. Lent 2024 I think I'll go places liminal, probably mostly very early predawn at my bayside window here in 7H. There's no better place!
RSF&PTL
T88&c
Me holding Joe 63 years ago!!