Abbie Emma York Willard

Abbie Emma York Willard

Our Great Grandmother, Abbie Emma York Willard, was born on January 4, 1879 and died on March 17, 1979 at 100 years old.

From our father's genealogy work, the York's arrived from England in the 1600's. Samuel York was born in Oyster River New Hampshire in 1645. His son, Benjamin was born in what is now Falmouth, Maine in 1680. Maine became a state in 1820, by the way. That make's my children and their Tilton /Grannell / Johnson cousins 12th generation Mainers... And the 13th generation, their children, oldest to youngest, Ava Claire, Noah Peter, Brooke Louise, Lydia Grace, Griffin James,  Isla Rose, Rae Lynn, Davis Lowe, Eden Ashley, Daxton Daniel, Emmett Michael, Isaac Foss, Lyla Mae, Hunter Ryan and two little girls due very soon. As they used to say, "that and a quarter gets you a cup of coffee." Still, we are darned proud of it. 
Let's not forget the Davis clan, Izzy and Ian 12th generation and new baby girl Lulu. And the Johnson clan (gonna need some help here with names and ages...)

If you knew Gram Willard you'd know why we are proud. She was a spunky old gal. She was 72 when Craig and I, her oldest great-grandchildren, were born and we remember her laugh , more like a joyful cackle, even today. She lived to hold 4 of her great-great grandchildren; Christopher, Sayde, Eric and Ryan.

When I told her the names we had chosen for our son's she said, "Land sake, Sonny Boy. Where did you get those names... under the wood pile?" That from a woman married to Clarence with a daughter named Maybelle and a son-in-law named Morris.

I remember her telling the story of sitting on the point on Orr's Island as a child with her sister and watching the very first steam boat to ever enter the harbor. We were watching TV. It was July of 1969 and Neil Armstrong was walking on the moon.

Once when I was in 9th grade, I was explaining the names of the different types of clouds that I had  learned in earth science class; cumulus, stratus, cirrus... Gram listened and then set me straight. "We call them Summer Floaters..."

Gail tells the story of visiting her shortly before she died. Gram told Gail she was pregnant. Gail said, "No Gram, that's Connie. I'm not pregnant." Still, Gram insisted that she was and told the rest of the family. 3 weeks later, when Gail learned that she WAS pregnant (with Kimberly Rose) she called Gram and asked how she knew. Gram said "I saw it in your eyes."

Mom passed Abbie's oil lamp on to me.

Here is a audio/video piece of her recording a greeting to Morris and Maybelle in Florida sometime in around 1975. 

or

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GA7-xHvlCvk&feature=youtu.be

Today would be her 141st birthday.
So, Happy Birthday Abbie Emma. 

We remember.

Anthony Bourdain Quote

It's been a wild ride.

A lot of miles. A road sometimes smooth, sometimes hard and ugly.

And I guess I could tell you that if you look hard enough, that just next door is just as interesting as the other side of the world. 

But ... That's not exactly true. 

If I do have any advice for anybody, any final thought, if I'm an advocate for anything, it's to move.

As far as you can, as much as you can. 

Across the ocean, or simply across the river. 

The extent to which you can walk in somebody else's shoes--or at least eat their food--it's a plus for everybody.

Open your mind. Get up off the couch. Move

Fierce Women

January 1, 2020...a new decade.

Thought we would have flying cars and all that cool George Jetson technology by now. But we do have the Dick Tracy Wrist Watch Two-Way Radio, now called an Apple Smart Watch. Still waiting for Star Trek warp drives, transporters and fazers. Soon.

The new decade began with a bank overdraft. Damn! I was waiting for the new tax year to transfer money from the IRA to cover planned expenses and I immediately did so this morning...to arrive next Monday because of holidays and weekends? Cash flows slowly into the checking account and at the speed of light out of the checking account. Connie's response was, "We'll go down the the bank and yell at them!" My fierce woman.

It made me remember the time 3 years ago after Connie's knee replacement when I needed a document notarized. Two previous trips to the bank had been unsuccessful. On this third attempt Connie, with her cane, and I waited for 30 minutes for the Asst. Branch Manager to come down from lunch. Finally we were seated at her desk and I presented my documents. She glanced at them quickly and said with a self important tone, "We do not notarize documents like this." After having been told on two previous occasions that they would be able to help us. After scheduling this and two previous meetings. After waiting for 30 minutes. My face got red and I immediately stood up and said "Connie, let's go before I say something I will regret." I headed for the door.

She was alarmed at my obvious displeasure and immediately rose to my defense. She struggled to stand, turned and faced the crowded lobby. She raised her cane like a shot-gun, swept it across the room and said loudly "THIS IS SO WRONG!" The room froze. People stared open mouthed not knowing whether to run or drop to the floor.

I quickly returned and ushered my fierce woman out of the bank. I'm sure the video footage of the incident still exists in some electronic security file. We never returned to that branch. I'm sure we have been banned.

Another fierce woman memory surfaced. It was the summer between my junior and senior year in high school. I was working at Howard Johnson's as a soda jerk and as a maintenance/groundskeeper at several local motels. But I wanted to play football in my senior year and needed to attend summer practice, so I needed to scale back on the work. When I explained it to my boss at one motel he got nasty. "After all I have done for you? You're done! You'll never work at another motel in Thornton Heights when I'm through with you. I'm firing you!" I was shocked. I headed for home.

My mother sensed that I was upset and when I explained what happened her face set in an angry scowl. "Come with me." she ordered. I remember walking fast to keep up with her to the motel office. She walked up to the motel manager, her eyes flashing and put her finger in his face. "Don't you ever threaten my son! Do you understand me?" she yelled through clenched teeth. I thought she was going to slug him. He nodded, she wheeled around and we marched back home in silence. My fierce mother.

And then when I was six, living on Lincoln Avenue in Barton Vermont, I used to hang around with a couple thirteen year old boys, Dale Smith and Parke Webster. We would play ball in the large front yard with the other kids and the big boys would push us down and laugh. One day the screen door flew open and Mom who had been watching through the window launched down the stairs. She attacked Parke, threw him to the ground and sat on him. She pinned his arms and spoke angrily directly into his face. He squealed like a pig.  Finally she let him up and he ran home. Never got pushed down again. Not by him.

However, walking home from second grade, some tough neighborhood kids did knock me down. When I got home and told Mom she said "Did you fight back?" No, I said and she got angry with me."Tomorrow you fight back! Don't let them bully you!" she said emphatically. The next day I did. When I came home dirty and with a ripped shirt, She said "Did you win." I said "I don't know." But the bullying stopped.

Just talked to my sister and she reminded me of so many more examples where the women of our family, older and younger, stood up and dished it out. It's genetic or at least ingrained and imprinted on us all. Fight for that worth fighting for. Fierce women. We love em.

Just be aware of the video cameras...

20 Years

Love you forever, son. 

Dumpster Treasures

 Dumpster diving and dump picking has always been an enjoyable pass time for me.

Back in the 70's when, to borrow a quote from Elizabeth Warren, we were "just hanging on to the ragged edge of the middle class". I would make a weekly trip to the Fairfield town dump to drop off our trash and pick the dump for whatever. Kids toys, bicycles, building supplies, doors, peg board... a veritable cornucopia of useful items. A local manufacturing plant provided an endless supply of recyclable stuff. I always came home with more than I dropped off.

More recently, we enjoyed the "Swap Shops" of the Yarmouth and Freeport Transfer Stations; foosball tables, beach chairs, aquariums, plastic dinosaurs and a kids fire station. Good stuff.

The other day I spotted a snow covered picture near the dumpster where we are renting in Massachusetts. Curious.

I cleaned it off and found this.

Here is a an expanded view of the bronze plaque.

This didn't seem like a fitting end for a portrait of such a distinguished and accomplished man. He was an Armenia immigrant, graduated from MIT and Northeastern Law School, served in the Army and WWI, and was a Master Mason. I did some research looking for background and family connections. It lead to Cohasset MA and I was excited to find contact information for his daughter, now 89 years old. I called to offer to send the picture to her.

"Hello?"

"Hi. My name is Glen Foss and I have found a portrait of General Zartarian and..."

She cut me off. "I can't talk to you." click.

Curiouser...

Either she thought I was a scammer or she did not wish to engage for reason of some long ago family dysfunction. I decided not to call her back.

I have attempted to make contact with someone who I think is a grandson in NJ. 

Hard tellin, not knowin. In the mean time he sits on the floor of our 3rd floor apartment, safe and sound. 

hindsight

Just read a Forbes article about the apocalyptic media reporting about climate change. I've spent many hours reading and researching the issues trying to determine the truth. Depending on what "facts" you choose to believe, the planet may be 10-12 years from total ecological breakdown (major sea level rise, devastating weather related events like drought, floods, forest fires, hurricanes, flooding, earthquakes, extinction, plague...). Or not. The science and the politics of climate change is confusing and conflicted.

No doubt the impact of humans on the planet has been profound. Pollution, over-population, deforestation, sprawl, fracking. The environment must be protected and regulation is  obviously required. The regulation must be science based and must balance cost, global impact and the welfare of all life on the planet. It is a critical undertaking and demands our best minds to protect the environment. Politicizing the issues has not advanced the cause. Just the opposite.

In college I studied environmental science and drank the Earth Day Kool Aid. My professors convinced me that the earth was entering a new ice age because of human actions. And that the planet could not sustain a human population increase much above 3.7 billion level in 1970. As a result of pollution, starvation, poverty and disease the global population would crash the planet within decades.

Today, 50 years later, the prediction is for catastrophic global warming. Global life span has increased 20% on average. The population is 7.7 billion and rising. And global poverty rates have decreased 78% in that time frame. How could the predictions have been so wrong?

No doubt technology, science and public policy changed the predicted outcomes. So did the cycle of the sun.

I remember preaching the impending Population Bomb to my parents one summer break. I told them that, in light of the impending doom, having children was unethical, immoral. My father was alarmed at my anxiety and my world view. He said, "Calm down, son. I would give you a Valium if I had one. It's going to be ok."

He was right. The world did not end. And it will not end any time soon (baring cataclysmic meteor strikes or self destructive atomic war). Technology and science continues to advance at exponential rates. Nuclear fusion will eventually replace burning carbon for fuel and resolve the CO2 question. Energy from the sun will wax and wane and the earth will warm and cool. And humankind will adjust and adapt as it always has.

And the media and the politicians will continue to terrorize us with sensational claims in order to advance their agendas, their power and their coffers. I think what bothers me most is the degree to which science has been corrupted by politics and self interests. It's discouraging.

Wish I had a Valium...

thoughts

It is important to me that my family understand that I am not an atheist. But I do think differently.

I can no longer follow the main stream of religion. It doesn't make sense to me. The word God has been so defamed and polluted. I use Universe.

I have trouble accepting a personal Universe. My concept is of an Evolutionary Force, a non-random Force, but not a Force that provides me the answers to my prayers and that protects me from harm. I do communicate with this Force, more express gratitude than communicate. Communicate denotes a 2 way conversation. I say thank you. And I do bounce shit off the Universe. Just because it is helpful in my jumbled thought process

My Universe is Love. Love, taught to me by my parents and my family, and kindness, and trying to do unto others. Living a good life. Being a good man. That is what I think the evolution of the Universe is about.

I don't think the ego survives death. I think conscious energy does. I think love does.

And so, because of our love, we will be connected forever. That is how I think.

And that's all I'm going to say about that....

Dain

I stopped by Allens Seafood in Harpswell. I used to deliver bait there when I drove for Craig. It was a difficult approach and, more than once I almost stuck the truck or backed into a vehicle. But it was one of my favorite stops.

The flies were thick and the unload was strenuous. After each delivery to the wharf boss, "Albert Pogie" I would wander into the office to pick up a check. It wasn't really an office, more like a hovel with jugs of oil and boat parts and tools and paperwork and fly paper hanging from the ceiling. The old man would usually be seated in the corner with a mangy dog or two hanging around. 

Dain was an "old salt". He was Maine. Here is his obituary.

Obituary

Dain Henry Allen died on Sept. 7, 2015, at his home on Lookout Point Road in Harpswell. He was 79 years old. He was a fisherman from the day he could pick up a clam hoe. Yet he claimed to never have worked a day in his life. He simply got up in the morning and went and did what he loved to do. He was hauling his lobster traps two days before he passed.

Over his lifetime, he was involved in nearly every fishery in Middle Bay. Dain dug clams and quahogs. He was the first person in the state to commercially harvest mussels, in essence creating an entire industry. He built the market for mussels in New York by transporting a few bushels to the city for restaurants to try out on their customers. Before that time mussels weren’t considered edible. He was the first to drag for smelts using a net similar to those used for groundfish. He of course went lobstering all his life, and grew to know each ledge and piece of sea bottom where the crustaceans crawled. He also fished for sea urchins, scallops, and crabs. He purse-seined pogies for lobster bait. He went long-lining for halibut, cod, and haddock. Sundays in summer when he couldn’t haul his lobster traps, he often went tuna fishing, bringing home giant bluefin, which at that time were worth nothing so he butchered them with a handsaw and gave the steaks away. 

In the 1960s, his father Henry Irving Allen opened a seafood stand alongside the Harpswell Road. It quickly became a popular spot to buy and eat fresh seafood. Shortly thereafter, they built a wharf on Lookout Point. The operation was called Allen’s Seafood. For the rest of his life, Dain’s day started by going “to the shore.” Over the years, generations of fishermen passed through Allen’s Seafood or as it grew to be affectionately called “Allen University.” It is still operating today. 

Dain is survived by his wife Holly Chase Allen, his sisters Dawn Bichrest and Anne Anderson, a stepbrother Scott Roberts, sons Tom Allen and Albert Rose, and grandchildren Samuel Allen, Kimberly Rose, and Gwendolyn Rose. 

A remembrance of Dain is scheduled for Sunday, Sept. 13 at 1 p.m. at Allen’s Seafood on Lookout Point Road. The food will be potluck. His friends should come with a dish and a story to share. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to Harpswell Neck Fire and Rescue or to the Harpswell Santa Fund.

Dain told me he build a boat every year. Such a talented diamond in the rough.

I spoke with Holly and she cried when she told me he had passed. He was a relic from the past and I so enjoyed my time knowning him.

One Year

Remembering Russ

An extraordinary man. Those who knew him, loved him. 

Miss ya'll.

Leighton

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.

OOB

Stuff going on...so haven't posted much...which doesn't made sense because writing helps me sort stuff out. Anyhow, here's one that made me laugh. Laughing is good...

We moved into an oceanside condo in Old Orchard Beach (OOB) on May 1st and, for the most part, we have revelled in the experience. The morning sunrise views from our bedroom, the beach walks, the family time boogie boarding in the surprisingly warm ocean have been glorious.

It was a hot July day when Connie and I walked the 2 miles down the beach to the Pier, through the hoard of French Canadians with their colorful beach umbrellas and their skimpy speedo suits. It was something we did regularly and enjoyed thoroughly.

On this particular day Connie wanted to sit among the tourists and eat some pier fries followed by some tee shirt shopping for the grandsons. While she shopped, I headed to the public bathroom. When I was a teenager cruising the Pier for hot French girls, it cost 10 cents to use the pissery. Times change...

The short, round, frizzy haired, 50's something woman sat on a stool behind the counter.

"50 cents," she demanded.

"Sure." I acquiesced. "I remember when it was a dime."

"You're fucking old," she said with a chuckle.

The facility was much as I remembered, especially the odor of stale urine and the rusted, gray stalls. After getting my 50 cents worth, I headed back through the entrance, which was blocked by a mother and a young man in a wheelchair.

The mother said, "But I need a handicap stall."

The round woman replied, "There is a handicapped stall in the men's room."

The mother was perplexed.

"Can I help you," I asked.

The young man looked up and grinned giving his unspoken permission. "Thank you so much," the mother agreed.

I wheeled the 15 year old, severely muscular distrophied  young man into the handicap stall. I helped him stand, pulled down his shorts and pivoted him onto the hopper. He looked up and grinned.

"What's your name, buddy?" I asked.

"Timmy."

"And where do you live?"

"Spring Street." he smiled.

Sweet kid. "What town?" I asked.

"Norway."

"So you guys came to Old Orchard Beach to do some rides?"

"Yeah, but I had to pee... And I'm done." he announced.

I stood him up, pulled up his shorts and got him into his chair. We exited the men's room and the mother effusively thanked me for the help. As I turned to leave the short, round woman pointed a finger at me.

"Thank was really nice." she declared. "Next time, you come see me, because, from now on in OOB, you pee for free."

Who has more fun than people...

My Friend, Russ

These past ten years "on the road" have been such a blessing for us. We have travelled this country from coast to coast a half dozen times, exploring  and living in such amazing places. People ask what is our favorite. It's impossible to say. It is a matrix of mirriad moments, some heart-stoppingly beautiful, some heartbreakingly profound.

I know these are not proper words. My friend Russ, the writer, would not approve. But as my son, Ryan, told me 10 years ago when we ventured out of our safe harbor, "You will see some incredible country Dad, but the real journey will be the people you meet." So it is.

I first met Russ at a book store. He and a couple other older Island guys would gather every Sunday afternoon to talk literature, writing, occasionally politics. Russ was more about writing. So was I.

He was an unpretentious, white haired, bearded man who dressed casually, drove a beat up Jeep and smoked a pipe. He worked at the local CVS and lived in a modest older cottage near the beach. He played tennis every Saturday morning with a "Not Too Serious" tennis clatch. He was, I came to discover, one of the smartest men I have ever met.

Russ is a better listener than he is a talker, but once he focuses on a story, his story or any story, he peels the details back like an onion. We lived close to each other and would often find opportunities to sit and talk about life. Slowly, over the years, he revealed more and more of his story.

Born of humble beginnings, Russ excelled throughout his life, in school, in his many areas of interest, in the military, in business. He earned degrees in finance and in law. He taught at Georgia Tech. He owned several businesses, practiced law, raised a family, lived in a big Georgia house with land and horses and all the trappings of success. And at a point in time, Russ walked away from it all to become a writer on a little island off the coast of Georgia.

One day he handed me an elastic bound cardboard box. In it was a working copy of his manuscript, his labor of love. It was an honor that he bestowed upon me and it led to hours of conversation regarding plot and character, tone and method. It taught me much about the craft.

He loved my dogs. And he loved my wife. Whenever she went to CVS and he was on the register, he would always call out to her as she left the building "I LOVE YOUUUU!" and she was delighted to respond in kind.

Time waits for no man and time is catching up with Russ. Serious heath issues. The difficulties and ordeals of the past year would have caused a normal man to give up. With Russ, they revealed yet another layer of the extraordinary man he is. His suffering is tempered by acceptance, perseverance, stoicism. He does not complain and does not lightly suffer those who do. He sucks the marrow out of Life to its sparse, bitter end.
His example is something I sorely need to learn and I observe him closely.

I am struggling to find words to express how much I admire and love this man. I think he knows. But, just in case Life catches up with him before I get back to the island, I want to express it in this blog.

You are my friend, Russ. It has been my great honor and blessing. I will always carry our friendship with me in my heart.

18 years

“Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened."  Dr. Seuss

for my sister

     We sold the house and disposed of much of our stuff in the summer of 2007; the MG, the hot tub, years of decorative country crafts, saved pieces of pvc pipe and lumber, books and magazines and piles of cable TV bills and bank statements, the lawn mower (good riddance), beds and furniture, the RonCo salad spinner…all the knick-knacks of life. Those invaluable things that were left; video tapes and picture albums, great grams quilt, dad's snow blower, fit neatly into a small storage unit with room to spare. Years later, we don’t remember much of what’s there. Obviously, nothing we have needed. Through the years the stash has dwindled as stuff got distributed to those who could use it. Our goal is to empty it.

     The rest of the summer/early fall was spent in a small rented camp on a lake in Maine resting, swimming and canoeing, preparing for our journey. I finished up at my job, trained my replacement and signed up for individual health insurance coverage, a high deductible, expensive safety net. We bought a Town and Country Touring Van with “stow n’ go” rear seats, power adjust front seats and a roof top Thule carrier. We established gmail accounts and purchased a nationwide cell phone plan. The laptop and phones would be our invaluable communications links to family and friends, banks and investment accounts and provide us the tools to stay connected to those who wished to stay connected to us. We established a budget.

     We also established a travel blog; www.gdfoss.blogspot.com in order to provide our kids with pictures and prose of our journey. As of this date, there have been over 86,000 hits on the blog. Clearly our adventure has piqued the interest of so many more people than we had expected. And it has provided me an opportunity to practice “the craft”. 

   

     Writing is something I undertook in the painful aftermath of the loss of our son. It was a way to process my thoughts and emotions, an attempt to capture the lessons Life was serving up, at times shoving down our throats. Like the blog, writing led us into incredible experiences, contact with thousands of “strangers”. It cracked open doors that we had never imagined were available to us. 

     October rains stripped the leaves from the trees and ushered in chilly mornings and teeth chattering nights in our little cabin. The wood stove could not keep us comfortable and we began packing for a drive down the east coast. We outfitted the van with a cot, porta-potty, tent, sleeping bags, books, tools, clothes, maps and scores of other personal effects. Over the years we have added and subtracted from this list of necessities as we ventured into unforeseen living and travel situations. It is less a science, more an art. What can you live without? What items bring the most utility and joy? Everyone will refine their own list. Our partial list of “essentials" include; a guitar, a massage table, a GPS, a camera, a good set of binoculars, a magnifying glass, our Cutco "cultery", a wok, journals, computers, jumper cables, pillows and down comforter and an old school file box where we kept track of contact information of our people and the people we met on the road. 

     We visited doctors and dentists, friends and family, accountants and financial advisers and said our good-byes to our son and daughter. They arranged a wonderful send-off party for us at their apartment in Portland and we basked in the love and well wishes from loved ones. Stops in New Hampshire and New York for more good-byes and we were on our way. 

     Leaving a life behind, the people and places that were and still are so much a part of us, is no easy task. We are now 10 years down the road from that point in time. My sister and brother-in-law have just begun the "downsize exercise" and they are feeling all those emotions that go along with it. Are we doing the right thing? It's scary. Can scary be right?  

     But we know what we know. We have lived long enough, experienced enough, watched others reach the same fork in the road. Should we stay the course? Go down with the ship, so to speak. Or are we brave enough to move forward and grab some of a life we have dreamed of, but not yet experienced? It's a very personal decision and it depends very much on your choice of a life partner.

   

     I have always been the adventurer in our relationship, always up for new places and new faces. Connie has been the nest builder. So asking her to consider such a radical step was a multi-year conversation. We talked and we talked. And then we talked some more. I couldn't answer her questions; what if this happened or where would we spend Christmas or what will people think.  

     In the end, we knew what we knew. Life was for living. It is short and uncertain. People die and move away. As much as we all crave security and live like there will always be a tomorrow, life can change in an instant. There are no guarantees. We saw our window of opportunity open. And we jumped. 

     In hindsight, it was the best decision for us. Over the past 10 years we have been stretched and tested. It has not all been fun. It has been challenging. We have grown. I can't recommend it to everyone, but I can encourage those who have it in them to live life fully and to suck the marrow out of life. We like this quote 

“Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, champagne in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming “WOO HOO what a ride!"
 

     And so, little sister and her wonderful partner, we are very proud of you. Your eyes are wide open. It's scary and you're doing it anyhow. Do we ever regret our decision? Not once. 

     What a ride...