12 years ago in July we sold the house and quit our jobs.
We have wandered ever since, coast to coast 6 times, living where we wanted to live for as long as we wanted to live there. We have seen the country from the road, not from 25,000 feet looking out a plane window. We have camped in National Parks, State Parks, BLM lands, lived in trailers, camps, rentals, motels, RRVs, house sitting. My wife is such a good kid. Readers, don't try this at home...without the right partner. We enjoy the milder seasons and meeting some incredible people. It has been an amazing adventure.
A couple years into our journey, I figured out that a sustained practice of golf and fishing was not cutting it for me. No Armenian Porpoise... (inside joke). When the big market correction rolled in 2008 I figured I needed to go back to work. But going back to corporate America, labor relations, HR, etc. left me cold. Maybe quaking with dread is more like it. So I decided to work at different jobs. It was a great decision. About the same time I got passionate about writing.
If you have read back in this blog, unlikely but possible, you will have read about the many jobs I have had these past 10 years. From shoveling fish to loading trucks and boats, from construction work and limo driving to over the road trucking and sign installation, from handyman jobs and pressure washing to finish carpentry and art hanging. It has been eye opening, and provided plenty of writing material.
I've learned a lot and met some amazing people. Here in Georgia my buddy Pete introduces me as his "Snow Mexican", a title I wear with pride because the Mexican workers are such hard working and capable people.
It was on one of Pete's jobs that I was introduced to Leighton. He was a big man with a long ponytail, tattoos and scars and a gravelly voice. The voice was in part due to his profession as a painter. The fumes from spray painting does a number on the vocal cords. He always wore white painters clothes and a ball cap covered in paint.
One day I was working with him delivering some furniture. The old Ford pickup was also covered in paint and full of empty paint cans, beer cans, vodka bottles and rubble from past jobs. We threw the furniture on top of the junk and drove up Island. The right front tire squeaked with every revolution. And we talked.
Leighton was a sergeant in the Army and spent some time stationed in Africa in some dangerous, hell hole location. He lived on Mallery Street on the Island, divorced and was a heavy drinker. His reputation as a painter was solid and he worked long hours. A decent, hardworking good old boy.
One morning we showed up at a job site and he was looking pretty rough. I was looking for work for a friend from the mainland who was also a painter and a heavy drinker. Occupational hazard?
"Hey, Leighton."
"What's up, Brother" he growled.
"My buddy is looking for work. He can spray and has his own gear" I said. I knew he was short handed because his man had just been arrested for domestic.
He paused for a long moment. And he mumbled in his deep, cement mixer, Southern drawl voice;
"Is he sober?"
Another pause. "And does he want to work today?......."
And he finally finished the thought. "Because I'm not... And I don't."
Quintessential Leighton. Not that I knew him well, but I knew enough of who he was to like and respect him. 'Roger that', as he used to say.
I was in our condo rental when Pete called to tell me Leighton had shot himself. Don't know why. Doesn't matter. His family and the community circled and supported each other and mourned him. His memory will live on.
We have wandered ever since, coast to coast 6 times, living where we wanted to live for as long as we wanted to live there. We have seen the country from the road, not from 25,000 feet looking out a plane window. We have camped in National Parks, State Parks, BLM lands, lived in trailers, camps, rentals, motels, RRVs, house sitting. My wife is such a good kid. Readers, don't try this at home...without the right partner. We enjoy the milder seasons and meeting some incredible people. It has been an amazing adventure.
A couple years into our journey, I figured out that a sustained practice of golf and fishing was not cutting it for me. No Armenian Porpoise... (inside joke). When the big market correction rolled in 2008 I figured I needed to go back to work. But going back to corporate America, labor relations, HR, etc. left me cold. Maybe quaking with dread is more like it. So I decided to work at different jobs. It was a great decision. About the same time I got passionate about writing.
If you have read back in this blog, unlikely but possible, you will have read about the many jobs I have had these past 10 years. From shoveling fish to loading trucks and boats, from construction work and limo driving to over the road trucking and sign installation, from handyman jobs and pressure washing to finish carpentry and art hanging. It has been eye opening, and provided plenty of writing material.
I've learned a lot and met some amazing people. Here in Georgia my buddy Pete introduces me as his "Snow Mexican", a title I wear with pride because the Mexican workers are such hard working and capable people.
It was on one of Pete's jobs that I was introduced to Leighton. He was a big man with a long ponytail, tattoos and scars and a gravelly voice. The voice was in part due to his profession as a painter. The fumes from spray painting does a number on the vocal cords. He always wore white painters clothes and a ball cap covered in paint.
One day I was working with him delivering some furniture. The old Ford pickup was also covered in paint and full of empty paint cans, beer cans, vodka bottles and rubble from past jobs. We threw the furniture on top of the junk and drove up Island. The right front tire squeaked with every revolution. And we talked.
Leighton was a sergeant in the Army and spent some time stationed in Africa in some dangerous, hell hole location. He lived on Mallery Street on the Island, divorced and was a heavy drinker. His reputation as a painter was solid and he worked long hours. A decent, hardworking good old boy.
One morning we showed up at a job site and he was looking pretty rough. I was looking for work for a friend from the mainland who was also a painter and a heavy drinker. Occupational hazard?
"Hey, Leighton."
"What's up, Brother" he growled.
"My buddy is looking for work. He can spray and has his own gear" I said. I knew he was short handed because his man had just been arrested for domestic.
He paused for a long moment. And he mumbled in his deep, cement mixer, Southern drawl voice;
"Is he sober?"
Another pause. "And does he want to work today?......."
And he finally finished the thought. "Because I'm not... And I don't."
Quintessential Leighton. Not that I knew him well, but I knew enough of who he was to like and respect him. 'Roger that', as he used to say.
I was in our condo rental when Pete called to tell me Leighton had shot himself. Don't know why. Doesn't matter. His family and the community circled and supported each other and mourned him. His memory will live on.
