Now We’re Up in the Big Leagues

The drive from central Pennsylvania to Philadelphia is beautiful.  I’d never seen that part of the world until that Monday morning.  It reminded me very much of East Tennessee.  I was on the PA Turnpike and had a brief scare when I got so low on gas that the “refuel now” light came on.  With limited access to the highway, the next service plaza was still several miles down the road.   I made it, but just barely.   I could see it all flash before my eyes…a car laden down with all my belongings, including a blond boufant wig and a bike, broke down and janky at the side of the road.  Pretty.

The trip was short and I got off find Susan’s and drive through Princeton.  I’m normally good with directions but not this time.  The Jersey Turnpike confused me and I ended up seeing much more of Princeton than I had wanted.   The trusty iPhone and its GPS function got me to Cranbury without further delay.  I got to her place, got a ride in and showered before she arrived.   We cooked dinner and caught up on the porch over several bottles of wine.

Susan is one of my oldest friends.  We’ve known each other since I was a junior in High School.  She was Eleanor’s coach and she, her star pupil.  Teeter kept a close, protective eye on Eleanor but apparently I passed the test as we became fast friends on a houseboat with beer in the middle of Ft. Loudon Lake.  She serenaded me with “Soldier Boy” as I prepared to go off to Auburn on my ROTC scholarship.   As fate would have it, she followed me there after taking the assistant swim coach job.   As my freshman year unfolded, she roped me into managing the team, ironed my shirts, took me to football games and became a good friend and drinking buddy.  Our friendship has been an easy one to pick up on over the years as we both have lived our lives.  Susan has done extremely well as the head women’s coach at Princeton, becoming one of the winningest coaches in college swimming.  I am so proud of her but love to bust her chops when her head gets a bit big and the cockiness begins to show.  I love it all, nonetheless.

Her friendship is a constant that tells me that I’ve done something right with my life.   It reminds me of what I’m capable of.  Through whatever — Navy, Coming Out, changing careers — she’s always been interested, supportive, objective and encouraging.   Our visit this time was no different.  It was rich and full and close.   When she left for a class in the City on Wednesday, she grabbed both hands and looked me in the eye and told me she wished me luck and that she loved me.  That’s the kind of person she is, a straight shooter who’s never been afraid to look at herself or others squarely in the eye.  The way it should be.

Hit The Road, Jack

The drive North was fantastic.  I got away from Matt and Stephen’s at exactly eight.  Traffic was light and the sky bright blue.   I took note of the skyline with the thought of comparing changes at some future date.   Miles fell away quickly.  The music was good.  I answered the phone occasionally to chat with well-wishing friends.  Connie made a care package and her delicious scones became my mid-morning snack each day.

The drive on I-77 from North Carolina was exceptional.  I guess I’d never really crossed the Blue Ridge mountains except near Charlottesville.  But the drive up past Mt. Airy, North Carolina and into Virginia was spectacular.   Virginia, always lush and green and welcoming, did not fail.  I made it a point to call my sister and share with her the beauty of her beloved native state.  I called my Mom on Mother’s Day as I passed Roanoke, where I was born.

The drive up the Shenandoah Valley was equally as gorgeous, if not long and clogged with traffic.   I didn’t mind, I was happy.  I had to chuckle as the clichés popped into my head….the road was full of promise, my future stretched out before me, I was on a journey and on the road to happiness….etc, etc, etc. Before I left, Matt convinced me to stay at his father and stepmother’s in Mercersburg, Pennsylvania.

I was nervous about asking but Matt made the matter a done deal by arranging it himself and convinced me that their house was one where short-notice comings-and-goings were normal and welcome.   He did not disappoint.  Susan left dinner and the makings for gin and tonic and a nice note.   I unpacked, made myself a drink and waited on the porch for her, Ron and Grandma to return from celebrating Mother’s Day.  The sun slipped behind the Pennsylvania hills and I relaxed on the porch of this big, lovely, comfortable home.

Matt’s family is just that:  family.  They were warm and easy and gracious in their hospitality and made me feel immediately welcome.   All 3 were interested in my “journey” and we talked for a nice couple of hours. I was up early and, again at Matt’s prompting, had asked Grandma to cook me breakfast.  I walked the 3 blocks to her house, arrived at the back door and after a few minutes was greeted by this amazing 89-year old woman.  We laughed because, confused, she had gone to the front door.  The ice was immediately broken and we talked about her service in World War II, Matt and Stephen’s marriage, Mercersburg Academy, The Cape and a hundred other things.  Tough, fair and lovely, Grandma made me miss and love my Nennie that much more.  And her steamed eggs taught me a thing or two about simplicity and simple hospitality.

I didn’t linger and met Ron later at the school for a tour of the new “Gym.”  Well, Mercersburg Academy does nothing half-way, and this athletic complex, which I had seen under construction last summer at a memorial service, surely is a diamond among prep-school “gyms.”  It rivals collegiate facilities.  Ron’s pride in guiding its construction was very evident and he appreciated my interest.  Ron’s a big man and when I was leaving, gave me a big hug, enveloping me in his big arms.   It was truly wonderful and totally unexpected. And with a head full of love, I was on the road to Princeton.

Leaving Las Vegas

To be honest, the last year at work I did as little as I could.   The lack of motivation was a product of deep dissatisfaction with my job, little interest in the daily tasks, a mind that wandered to other things and too much money coming in.   I got very proficient at doing the least amount of work without getting caught.   So it was somewhat natural that I felt no guilt, when, starting on the Monday I resigned, I began working half days, often leaving for a farewell lunch with some friend or other, capping it off with a couple of beers or glasses of wine.   Lunch was followed by a nap and the gym or a ride.  Then cocktails.   The living was easy.  Everyone should live that life, let me tell ya.

But after my last “day,” things got crazy busy.  Packing up a home of 15 years is no easy task.  15 years of junk.  15 years of stuff.  15 years of memories.   My days began at 7 with coffee and a review of everything that had to be done that day.  Each day was dependent on what was accomplished the previous day.   The hard, absolute deadlines that approached were the movers, the walk-through with my tenant and my departure.   I worked all morning, breaking for another farewell lunch, then worked all afternoon until dinner.  The gym and bike fell by the wayside.   Dinners were with friends, often going late into the night with much drink and celebration.   And the next day I did it all again.  The days were full and rewarding on every level.   I stuck to my moving budget and never felt panicked or behind schedule.  Everything was orchestrated right up until I got in the car Sunday morning and left Matt & Stephen’s for the drive North.   One appointment fell through the cracks but that was it.  I was firing on all cylinders, hitting every step with confidence and purpose.   It was wonderful.

Several things stand out to me about leaving:  Matt and Stephen’s overwhelming hospitality, understanding and help.  Walt and Philip’s generosity and support.   A dinner with Marjorie and Annie when I realized how much worlds collide and how lucky and wonderful connections are.   The genuine and warm 20-year friendship easily picked up with Pattie.  Su and Jill’s gentle shove and cheerleading from the sidelines.   Dale’s tears the last night.   Really too much to recount.   Lots of love and lots of history passing before my eyes.  And an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for these remarkable friendships, gestures and words.

Then I got in an over-loaded Jetta and left at 8 sharp on a gorgeous Sunday morning and headed north.   I popped the CDs Stacey made for me into the player and rock-and-rolled my way North.  I felt very much like I did the day I got in different Volkswagen 24 years prior and drove North to begin my Navy stint.   Only this time, the fear and dread were replaced by joy and love.

…and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

One of the stated purposes for coming up here (that I stated to myself) was to do some soul-searching and reconnecting with the person I think I am or  who I thought myself to be or even who I want myself to be.   It’s not come easy in the last 2-and-a-half weeks…there’ve been openings to attend, there’s been work to help friends with, there’s been a teeny tiny house to set up and a job to find and learn.  There’s been a lot of sleep and a lot of crappy weather.   The weekly influx of close friends began this week.  The “season” started….and on and on.

So the fleeting moments of self-connection and self-awareness are few and far between.  But cherished nonetheless.

And so it happened tonight that I was hit with a full-on, body-blocking, face-check realization of just how much this move and this place and my life and my friends and  the inner-connectivity of Cape and Atlanta people and what’s happening around me mean to me.

Joel’s space on Commerical St. is an amalgamation art gallery/retail/real estate office.  It is the product of a year or two of dreaming and planning, a hard 6-weeks of physical labor and a fucking big roll of the dice financially.  This hybrid space stands alone in Provincetown, where art galleries, kchotchke stores and real estate offices are a dime-a-dozen.   His partners Meg and Maureen are seasoned, local, jack-of-all-tradeswomen.  That they’ve lucked upon each other is remarkable.

That this venture brought streaming tears of joy to my eyes is no less outstanding.

I am having problems describing tonight, their opening.  I pretty much “worked it,” cleaning, restocking, making the bar.  I did it unasked, unprompted and totally voluntarily.  2 hours of my work to help the dreams of dear friends launch successfully is no skin off my back.  That’s one of the beautiful things about Life On The Vortex….that, what ever you put out — emotionally or physically — comes immediately right back to you.   There’s none of the anonymity of the big city.  This is a crazy small town and the oats you sow are solely yours to reap.

And so it was tonight.

The first deluge of tears came while reading the artists’ statements displayed around the space.  There were Atlanta and Ptown friends’ works.   Those written statements illustrated to me the connections that create the  very fiber of my life:  the values and humor and ethics and aesthetics that bond my world and those in it.  So, in the intense dusk sunlight, amid laughter and music and beauty, I wept for  the first time.

And I wept again on my bike, on the way home, listening to the happy noise on the street and the silence, catching glimpses into well-lit homes and thinking of the joy and modesty of Marc and Evan, who, afraid to detract from the  Opening celebration, kept their engagement — their life commitment made this very afternoon — to themselves.

Rarely do I become overwhelmed by emotion.  It’s just not who I am and just not something I’m programmed to do.   I feel things deeply, but those feelings are mine and they’re intensely personal and not something I’m quick to share.  And when, tonight, I took Joel’s hands and said, “I’m sorry, but I need to sneak out.  This is too much for me,” he said, “I know, just when I think I couldn’t be any happier, something like this happens.”

And so it is with Provincetown.   A swirling vortex, somewhere out in the Atlantic Ocean, where people smile, doors are unlocked, status is the rustiest bike and it matters not your worth or your job or the nameplate on your car.

And Love is so palatable you can taste it.  And well you should.

Pedalpushing

Part of the Cape’s great appeal to me is the weather:  the gorgeously clear days and moderate temperatures are intoxicating to say the least.   I’m not so naive to think that it’s always like that.  There’s the harsh reality of winter and as the saying goes, a little rain must fall in everyone’s life.   But to go from the overwhelming beauty of Atlanta’s almost pornographic Spring to 2 solid weeks of “Foggy and 55” is a bit of downer, to say the least.

Well, this morning the Cape has come through for me in spades.  Sunny, clear and 65, there’s  a cool breeze blowing through my tiny apartment.  The harbor is its familiar azure blue, not a roiling mass of angry white caps.  I can see across to Wellfleet and Truro.

The town is deceptively still, awaiting the first crush of the season, appropriately called Baby Dyke Weekend.  Imagine 10,000 22-year old Massachusetts lesbians, fresh off their spring semester at Junior College, ready to get their party on.  This is the only time in 12 years of coming here that I’ve seen fights on Commercial St — girl-on-drunken-girl brawls usually involving some infidelity and at least a 12-pack of Milwaukee’s finest.   Oy.

So, I’ll take the good with the bad.   I’ve got friends from Atlanta arriving tomorrow (male and female) and although I have to work, I’m looking forward to the flurry of activity the weekend will bring.   Let’s start the summer, y’all!!

Ch, Ch, Ch Changes

So, I quit my job of 19 years, leased the house and moved to Provincetown.

That sounds rediculously easy and in some senses it was.  But the decision to leave Atlanta, my chosen family there, two decades of history and community and close proximity to my aging parents was not at all taken lightly.  The idea of spending at least the summers, or even a single summer, here on the end of the Cape has been in my head since my first visit here in 2000.   Former readers and anyone who knows me will know that this place has struck a deep and instant sense of home with me.   Just when I think I have it figured out, the Vortex springs another surprise, some new hidden treasure or gem of a person and I’m flabbergasted.

So a slowly deteriorating job situation (mostly by my own doing, I’ve since realized), smart financial planning and the impetus of other friends making the move got me thinking.  And acting.  The last piece of the puzzle to fall into place was leasing my beloved house on 5th Street.  When the couple who are now tenants said they wanted to rent, I was almost physically ill.  I felt as if I was giving away a child.  But I did it – signed the lease on Sunday and resigned on Monday.

That 100-year old house in Midtown is a gift from God, I believe.  Something greater than myself to which I am beholden.  It has enabled so much in my life, including this move.   I don’t normally put much stock in such talk, but I think that house has a spirit, a soul, that has given so much to me:  laughter, shelter, nourishment, inspiration, friendship, challenge, prosperity and much, much more.

So here I am.  In Provincetown.  At the end of Cape Cod.  Looking out to sea, but really looking west.  Not sure about what’s coming tomorrow or even in 20 minutes.   The possibilities are endless for one of the precious few times in my life.   It  feels good.  It’s scary as hell.   I’m paralyzed and highly motivated.

Here we go.

The View From Here

So, here I am, blogging again.  Lots has changed.  Lots.  Be patient and I’ll tell the story.