FINIS

This all started with Loose Change, Dan’s desire to move south and my need to process what that meant. I’m now at the end of this journey. Not quite where I had planned, “a sunset viewing from Mallory Square in Key West”, but close enough. At the time I said, “My inertia comes from other places that I need to explore. Extended family, a multitude of friends, community and neighborhood, a great job, a house I love and a feeling of stability I'm afraid to uproot.”

I know now that wasn’t true. I lacked (we both lacked) the catalyst required to make a big change. For my 17 loyal readers you know that the catalyst triggered over a year ago when my 15-year position ended with my employer in Milwaukee. We were faced with a choice – find suitable replacement income in the area, or move. Dan and I chose to move, because if not then, when?

Was it easy? No. We went insane for a while, dramatically downsizing (but in hindsight, not quite enough). Internet searches found us a rental that would take a big dog and landed us in a 624-square-foot house. And can I just say that people who want to live in a tiny house are bat-shit crazy.

It’s been a wild, scary, lonely, and exhilarating year. We found a new home in a community that we love. I’ve found a terrific job doing work that energizes me. We’ve both met new people and are starting to add to our collection of friends (there’s always room for more). And we are settling in to our new home, our new environment and the consequences of our decision to move.

Did we lose things along the way? Yes, proximity to family and friends, familiar routines, faces and places, and the comfort of knowing every street and landmark. Have we gained things? Again, yes. Dan is finally warm year-round, we know we can meet any challenge and we’ve found out that our children are our biggest role models and cheerleaders. (Shout-out to Carl and Hunter for great advice along the way!)

So here we are, just a 428-mile drive from Mallory Square, in a very lovely community. We have great neighbors, we found a welcoming coven of liberal thinkers and we enjoy the lifestyle of year-round warm. I’ve had the opportunity to reconnect with cousins who’ve included us in family gatherings even though we were quite distant before we landed here in Florida, and for that we are both grateful.

Change is hard. Big change is really hard. But it can be done, even if all you start with is loose change.

Songs that Resonate:

Photograph - Nickelback (for Carl and Hunter)

100 Years - Five for Fighting

Sea Change

All good things come to an end and while I'm not claiming it was good, this blog is nearing its end. I've got a few more things to say, but for now, Dan says it best.

“We just returned from a vacation in Key West.  Dan, excited about the idea of moving, needed to ACT.  He proceeded to find all the loose pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters in various containers about the house.  He pooled all the coins and took them to the bank, making a $123.00 deposit.  ‘Paula, we need to pay down that bill, so mail it in.”  And that’s it, he’s off and running – next stop, Key West.”—Excerpt from Loose Change, Paula’s first Castle to the Keys blog, November 7, 2010.

It’s six years later, nearing the end of Paula’s “three to eight year odyssey to leave our beloved Victorian in Wisconsin and move to a conch house in the Florida Keys.” We have just returned from another great vacation in Key West, this time taking a 57-minute flight to our home in Safety Harbor which, without its two additions, would have been small enough to fit in perfectly on most streets on our favorite island. Our move didn’t take us all the way to the Keys, but we can drive there in a few hours. Close enough.

This past trip to Fantasy Fest continued a pattern that would have been a great concern for 2010 Dan. Eight years ago at our first FF, I took 1,354 pictures. This year I took 128, most of Paula in outfits or group shots with friends. The Fest has become an incredible reunion of established and new friends from all over the world. Admittedly, friends who are pretty quick to shed their clothes and jump into a closed swimming pool at 3am. To our Fantasy Fest friends who we did see, didn’t see, or still need to meet—see you in about 50 weeks.

Tutu pub krawl

When Paula started her blog it was about taking chances and moving—something that at the time seemed so far away, so crazy that we both doubted it would actually happen. But down deep, we started to make it happen--$123 at a time. Moving wasn’t on my mind when I sold my motorcycle or our convertible, when I donated all of the lumber I was saving in the hayloft for “the next big project”, or gave away the fiberglass car body I was always going to make into something. It was calm on Kavanaugh Place, but just below the surface was a salt water thermocline and a strong current racing south. We just needed to get off the boat.

People have asked us how we made the move. We both responded that you start today—get a donation to Goodwill once a week and make sure every week the dumpster is packed to the brim. Don’t buy more stuff. Upon hearing that there’s usually a pause, followed by “Well we knew you’d be OK!”

When you jump off the dive boat you put your fist on the top of your head to signal to the other divers that you are OK and ready to descend. Last March two very shaky divers put their fists on their heads, held hands and deflated their BCD’s. We’re both happy with where we've surfaced. 

Music that resonates:
Tourist Town Bar - Michael McCloud

Halcyon Days

We're in the midst of sorting and packing. We've been making decisions about items in storage spaces that have been untouched for years. The boys came home for Christmas and had to look at, and disposition items, they thought would be safely stored at their parent’s house forever. We are at the cliff, the point where the next step forward is a huge change that neither Dan nor I were truly prepared to take for a few more years. 

And yet, I think about why I started this blog, and it was to ready my mind for that big move to a warmer climate and a new beginning. Dan has been ready to turn that snow blower into a fountain for a long time now.

In December, my job was eliminated, just business and nothing personal. Except that, of course it is personal. It’s about me, and about what I contributed, and to what extent that contribution was valued. My professional currency became valueless and it was at that point they let me go. The company is heading in a new direction that didn’t include me and it is just business.

How arrogant of me to think I’m special, because of course I'm not, this has happened to so many people before me, my husband included. And now we are here, at the end of almost 20 years in the same beautiful house and a very special neighborhood, with neighbors that are not likely to be duplicated. And we sort and we pack. Even the dog is confused. It looks like something big is happening, yet no one leaves or takes him to the kennel, but everything is different.

I’m not sure where this story ends. I’m not done working yet. Neither is Dan. I’m very optimistic about two different employment opportunities, in two different cities, in southern states. They want to talk to me in person and I’ll be an enthusiastic participant in those conversations.

And yet, what a wonderful house this has been, on an incredible street, in an incredible community. Such great friends so close by. My heart aches to think about leaving.

The real-estate agent is optimistic. Great old house, well cared for, premium value, sellers market. The home stager was sweet as she complimented us on all of our personal touches and let us know exactly what to remove. No distractions allowed to confuse potential buyers. “They need to see the house and not what you’ve done to make it your own.” So we sort and pack and neuter the house, our home.

Tears roll down my cheeks. It is the end of these halcyon days.

Beach? Book!

A vacation, for me, must meet at least one of a few criteria.

• A meaningful experience.

• A visit with one or both of my children and their spouses.

• Relaxation and time "off the grid."

• Warmer weather than my current hometown.

I’ll take any one of the above and optimally, all of the above to call it a success. The one non-negotiable item, however, is a good book. I can’t call it a true vacation unless I’ve devoured a good book.

And when I say book, I mean a printed work of fiction or nonfiction, on sheets of paper bound together within covers. The kind of object that needs a physical bookmark. The kind of object that absorbs your affection for its form while also absorbing sunscreen, splashes from the pool, raindrops, food stains, and spilled wine. The kind of object that is always in airplane mode and does not need to be stowed during takeoff and landing. The kind of object that can be passed along limitlessly and enjoyed until if finally falls to pieces.

It’s called a beach book. A single inquiry of female friends, any good beach book suggestions? usually results in more titles and authors than can possibly be consumed. Generally, a good beach book is a light read, a bit salacious, well written and not too long. You can dig in to read and put it down without too much angst to participate in vacation activities. It should enhance the vacation rather than overtake your agenda.

I happened upon my latest selection by chance. Given a few options by my book club buddies I couldn’t find any of the titles at the locally owned bookstore. Forced to browse (oh, please, twist my arm) I was pulled in by covers (pastels are often a good choice) and titles. I flip each book over for signs that it’s a part of a series; I dislike being dropped into the middle of characters with backstories previously defined. I read reviews and the source of the review. I finally pick up a book with a dark, artistic cover. The reviews positively glow, and oh, there’s one from NPR, nice. Just under 500 pages – enough for a good week of off and on reading.

I spent my vacation in Key West, with periodic detours to 1920’s London. I was a voyeur into the lives of a widow and her spinster daughter, renting out the top floor of their upper class home to “paying guests” (certainly NOT lodgers as that would be low class). I watched a forbidden romance bloom and grow, I agonized over the traumatic events and consequences that followed and brought home 100 unread pages to thoroughly enjoy on my final Sunday of vacation. I also swam, napped, ate great meals and enjoyed evening activities with wonderful friends.

I’m a reader. I love a great book, especially if suggested by a friend. I’m happy to share a book and if I suggest a book, it’s because I think it will speak in some way to the reader. So, no e-Readers for me. Give me a bound book, let me hold it, read it, love it, stain it, watch the progression of the bookmark from beginning to end, and then share it with others. My beach read? The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters. I’d be happy to lend it, just let me know.

Is Rudy dere?

1980 was a milestone year for us. We bought our first house for $24,000 in the Riverwest neighborhood of Milwaukee. And we bought our first phone. Back then you called the phone company, they installed a landline at your house and you rented a phone for a monthly fee. But the phone company also saw a future in selling phones to customers and set up a store in the mall. Dan and I wandered in and fell in love with a retro looking dial-phone. (Push-button phones, while available, were not entirely commonplace.) The price was $180 and when we compared the monthly rental fee to the overall price it seemed worth it.

One month later we received a letter from the phone company, basically outlining the cost of the internal working parts we might want to purchase, now that we had bought the “shell” of the phone. What? Yes, that would be another $180. So for $360 in 1980 ($1102 in 2015, adjusted for inflation), we now were ahead of our peers and owned our own phone.

Two days ago, Dan called and cancelled the landline. These days, the only calls we get are from our parents and telemarketers. The phone will continue to hang on the wall, the source of many memories.

In the early days we got a lot of wrong numbers. “Is Rudy dere?” was a common call. Apparently, our recycled number (258-1503) had belonged to a very popular fellow named Rudy, as he was in constant demand. One evening we had a party and the call for Rudy came through, Dan said hang on, I'll get him. Our friends knew all about the Rudy calls and were happy to play along, picking up the phone for over 90-minutes, letting the caller know that Rudy would be along in just a minute.

There was the time Dan was helping out a friend on a Saturday and I got a wrong number from a woman who didn't believe she had dialed a wrong number. After taking that call a few more times I may have made some comment about her intelligence. She called back one more time and threatened to kill me. Home alone, I frantically called for back-up, finding Dan on the other side of town. He and his friend made it back to the house in record time, my knights in shining armor.

When Carl was just crawling his main objective was to get to the long phone cord, happily stretching it out for extended periods of time. Afraid that he'd pull the heavy handset down on his head, Dan purchased two phone cords at American Science and Surplus and made a giant loop out of them for his first birthday. Grandparents, aunts and uncles looked on with dismay as he ignored a cornucopia of gifts in favor of this new phone cord toy.

When I was expecting Hunter I went into labor early. Dan was out for the first time in a few months, with Malcolm, at Wolski’s. I used the phone to call Dan there and heard the classic bartender call to the patrons “Is there a Dan Johnson here?” When Dan got home, he called his parents house to come pick up Carl. Their phone was busy, so after several tries Dan dialed “O” for operator and asked her to break into the call (can you even do that anymore?). Dan heard his dad tell the operator he was going to have another grandchild.

Later memories include Hunter’s friends coming over to the house and needing to make a call for a ride. I’d point them to the rotary phone. More than once I'd see a kid pushing at the dial, trying to figure out how it worked. It was always a pleasure to explain the retro technology. Place your finger in the hole with the desired number, pull it all the way to the stop and remove your finger, letting it rotate back into position…repeat with each number. No lightning fast dialing, no caller ID, just basic pulse dialing technology.

We've started sifting through our belongings, making some decisions about things we must keep and things we can let go of. There are a lot of memories just looking at that phone that will never serve its intended purpose again. I’d advocate for leaving it on the wall when we finally sell, but I'm afraid the memories would hit the landfill. Instead I think we should take it with us, a metaphorical landline to many years of memories.

Music that resonates:
Call me - Blondie

It's cooler near the lake

It’s been a stupid week, and this is a rant. I also freely admit that I'm under the influence of too much Dayquil and Nyquil (and margaritas—it is Thursday) as I suffer through my second severe cold in less than 4-weeks. Here I go. I've heard and seen a lot of disturbing news today. Where to start? 

This morning, sitting at my desk, I heard on the radio that I should not wear any furry anything or leopard prints. Back into my closet to cull out more offending articles of clothing. Dan will not let me lose the leopard dress he loves so much. 

At lunch I saw an article about the coldest cities in the US. Wisconsin has the MOST of any state in the nation, even Alaska. Yes, it is cooler near the lake. (FYI, Milwaukee was #38.)

Then I read an article about the final push to turn Wisconsin into Wississippi.

On the drive home I heard about the limitations of my flu shot.

And finally, here’s the forecast for Saturday: Partly sunny. Highs in the mid 30s. North winds 10 to 15 mph.

Too much.

And that’s it. On Saturday we're on tap for the Santa Rampage. A whole lot of people, dressed in Santa suits, riding their bikes from one stop to the next. Dan’s been working on our Santa outfits, red-fleece lined sweatshirts I found at Target that will, hopefully, be warm enough to withstand the temperature, winds and wind-chill of riding a bicycle in DECEMBER in WISCONSIN.

Two pair.

Dan’s talents are wasted on this … seriously … and according to the first news article, it’s a fashion faux pas for me to wear fur anyway. If I'm going to live in a state that is a Banana Republic, I want to see bananas on trees, outside my window. And monkeys! I want fricking monkeys! I don't want an $8,000 property tax bill, I want an $800 tax bill. I want warm weather all of the time. And I NEVER want to see the name of my state on a list of COLDEST cities.

I’m sure that Santa visits Key West. I know he must. They decorate Christmas trees, hang stockings, sing Christmas carols and tuck the children in early on Christmas Eve. We could Santa rampage in Key West. Dan is talented with a glue gun and…a red bra…and red bikini bottoms…and a bit of white fur....