The Beaver                                                                                                    I'm a Boston lady of 1773

When you get invited to a tea party, you generally think of dressing up a bit and sitting at a prettily laid table while sipping tea from fine china cups. But this summer, my granddaughter, Theresa and I went to a very different kind of tea party.

The Boston Tea Party!

Theresa had read a book on her summer reading list about the original tea party so her mother thought it would be fun if Grammy could take her to Boston to the Tea Party Museum. So, off we went. Although the original Boston Tea Party took place at night, this day was sunny and beautiful for a trip into this lovely old city. There are two replicas of the original merchant ships that sat in Boston Harbor loaded with tea while the Sons of Liberty and the British governor argued about the new tax levied on the tea. The Beaver and the Eleanor sit at the pier and the whole tour is a very fun reenactment.

Every visitor is given a role to play, and the name of one of the original tea party goers. Some of them have speaking parts and join in the assembly where Sam Adams does his rabble rousing best to fire up resentment against the tax and a refusal to let the tea be brought ashore. Then, with feathers stuck in our caps or hair, we troop onto one of the two ships and toss tea into the harbor. The kids got a huge kick out of that part and Theresa hauled her bale back aboard to re-toss several times.

Let's have a Tea Party!                                                                       Stearing the ship

The rest of the tour was instructive about how the Boston Tea Party led to the insurrection, with a short presentation on a wide 3-D screen of the first shots fired at Lexington Mass. What a fantastic way to learn about a little bit about  how this great country got its birth. Abigail’s Tea House is a great little place to enjoy a snack when you finish the tour. If you live near Boston, do go. If you don’t, why not plan a trip to this wonderful little city? The Boston Tea Party Museum is only just one of many places to see and things to do in Boston. Lots of history and lots of other great stuff, too.

The Captain's Cabin aboard the Eleanor was well appointed to show his wealth and success.

Last week I showed you my tent in it's original site, at the top of the hill with a fantastic view of the lake. Here's where it is now - nestled in a hollow down at the bottom of the hill. No view, but less wind.

Much as it pains me to admit to even thinking I might be too old for something, I’ve twice had a fleeting vision of renting a nice, cozy, dry place on shore next year instead of spending 6 weeks in a tent on my island. The first time was while I was wrestling an upside down tent in a 40-knot wind, in the dark and cursing steadily throughout.

I’d gone to bed, in my tent as usual, and was reading a book when the wind suddenly picked up. Rain was on the way and my tent doesn’t leak so I settled back and continued to read. As the wind grew harder, one lightweight, very flexible tent pole suddenly bent INWARD, bringing the entire side of the tent with it. I shoved it back into place with my foot and lay there on my back bracing the tent with both feet, now praying fervently that the wind would drop. Unfortunately my prayers were not answered and the next thing I see is the fly slipping off. I jump up and get out of the tent to capture the fly before it sails off to destroy itself on the surrounding trees.

It should have occurred to me that as soon as my weight was not holding down the mattress and thus, the tent, something worse might happen. All the tent stakes had been yanked out of the ground, both those around the base of the tent and the ones further out securing the fly. Securing! Hah! I should have had tent stakes the size they use to hold circus tents up. My entire tent flipped upside down with all my gear inside, including the dog’s crate, but thankfully not the dog who had opted to stay in the camp for the night. He’d have been in a panic so that was something to be thankful for, anyway.

So here I am, trying to find my way back into the tent to retrieve my flashlight to augment the pale light of the moon. The moon was nearly full, but for some reason didn’t seem to shed a whole lot of light on the mess. I eventually found the door, which happened to be on the opposite side from where it should have been and managed to locate not only the flashlight, but also my glasses which, by some exceedingly good chance, had not been crushed by any of the tumbling gear. With the threat of rain on the way, I knew I had to get all the rest of it collected and back to the camp, so I grabbed as much as I could carry and headed over to bring back the wagon. Three trips later and all that was left was the dark, unrecognizable outline of my deflated summer bedroom.

Locating black tent poles in the dark and figuring out where the other end might be is not as easy as one might think when going by feel alone. I now have a whole new appreciation for what blind folks live with every day. But they, at least, don’t have to dismantle a tumbled tent with a 40-knot gale still blowing down the lake with unabated relish. It didn’t rain, Thank God, but I was exhausted by the time all was safely stowed and I fell onto an exceedingly uncomfortable cot for the remainder of the night. It was 2:00 am and that’s the first time it occurred to me that it might be nice to have a cottage with a comfy bed and running water and warm showers to summer in.

Just a few days later, I was returning to the island from a trip to my son’s. All the way up, it threatened rain, but none fell. So, Murphy being such a great friend and all, as I arrived at the beach to launch our little boat, the rain began. I had grabbed big trash bags just in case, so I dropped my suitcase, tote and all the stuff I’d hauled up with me for our family week into bags, got the boat turned over and loaded. The rain got heavier as I drove back up the hill to park and still more persistent as Duff took his sweet time hunting for just the right place to relieve himself as we walked back down the hill. By the time we were in the boat and headed to the island it was downright pouring. We arrived cold, soaked and shivering to an unheated camp. That was the second time I considered the value of having a cozy little cottage on the shore.

I’ve reluctantly come to the conclusion that I just might be too old for this shit!

Duff at Paws Beach Pet Resort                              Scott's Hill NC (a.k.a. Tides Way)

It’s been awhile since I posted here and in the interim, many things have caught my interest and provoked a desire to share my thoughts. But busyness got in the way. Or I was on the road with my laptop packed away.

My last few days at home in St Augustine were, as always, busy with packing and lists, making sure I turned off the water heater and locked all the windows, stopping the paper and forwarding my mail, packing my bathing suit and laptop (making sure not to forget the recharging cords for all my gadgets,) grabbing time for lunch with one friend and supper with another, and of course, going downtown to see the 4^th of July fireworks and taking one last long walk on my beach.

Then it was off to New England with a detour in North Carolina to do some research for my new series, The Camerons of Tides Way. FALLING FOR ZOE, the first book in the series will be released by Belle Bridge Books in March 2014 with five others to follow. Since they are set in a lovely little place my imagination dreamed up not far from Wilmington NC, it just made sense to visit the area again on my way north to take photos, refresh my memory and germinate new ideas. I met and chatted with some of the nicest folk who willingly dropped their tasks to answer questions and share their knowledge of the area. Thanks especially to a nice gentleman near the waterway who told me about the tides, a long ago plantation and the lilies that were taking over his yard. Two lovely ladies at the airport, Mary Pfannenstein and Alice Razzano, pointed me in several directions with advice on places I really needed to see. While I was out poking about this wonderful little corner of our country, Duff was lounging at Paws Beach Pet Resort, swimming and playing with the other pooches. I think we both enjoyed this side trip very much.

I stopped in Maryland overnight and again in Massachusetts, and got to see one daughter and her hubby, my son and his wife, four of my grandchildren, a niece and my Dad before finally arriving in New Hampshire. Oddly enough, considering I drove over 1000 miles, the temperatures didn’t change. It was 82 when I left St Augustine and 82 when I got out to my little island up here. The heat and humidity didn’t make schlepping all my gear over from the mainland to the island all that much fun, nor setting up my tent and unpacking. But the reward was a lovely long swim with Duff. That and the gorgeous sunset that ended my first day here.

In spite of no television, which can be a blessing, I am in touch with the world via the internet. So I wasn’t spared the not guilty verdict for a man who killed another unarmed citizen and all the media hype. While I am convinced that justice wasn’t best served, I am appalled that our president and others with no business getting involved in the Florida justice system now feel they have to do something. And while all this is flooding the news, nearly to the exclusion of anything else, what about Russia’s big show of force with military exercises on the borders of China and Japan? What about the volatile situation in Egypt? Or the boat that capsized with 150 asylum seekers near Australia? Or the bombing of a Buddhist temple in India? And the ethnic clashes in Guinea that has taken so many lives. Never mind our own military, still struggling to maintain a fragile peace in Afghanistan and Iraq. The list of distressing events is lengthy and under-reported. Almost as if no one in this country really cares unless the media tells us we should. Missing children,  firemen who gave their lives protecting others, our flagging economy and monthly jobs reports, dead diplomats and downed planes get a brief mention, but they too get swamped by the media circus over one trial, and I find that so much more distressing than the acquittal of one man in a controversial case in Florida. Why are we not more concerned with what National secrets Edward Snowdon might reveal to our enemies? Or which citizens our government is currently spying on? Or who the IRS will target next?  Why are we not making a bigger push to either fix or get rid of Obamacare before it becomes the biggest nightmare in our country's history?

So, those are my thoughts on this gorgeous day in New Hampshire while I sit in a beach chair on my pine-needle strewn island with my laptop on my knees listening to the soft slap of water against the shore. I know I am truly blessed and I shall pray for all those who are struggling wherever they may be in this world.

My new summer digs                                                           And my summer transportation (at least until I get to shore.)

Beautiful because the water temps here are perfect for swimming and summer has arrived in all its steamy glory. Sunrises and sunsets, when thunderstorms aren’t hulking overhead, are glorious. I love to read my newspaper and have breakfast on the deck when it’s still cool enough to enjoy. It’s a wonderful time of year. We had a magnificent super moon a week back that made the moonrises even more spectacular than usual, spilling rivers of silvery twinkling light across the sea to my feet as gentle waves lapped at my ankles. What’s not to love about living by the sea? (We won’t discuss hurricanes here, please.)

Busy because in less than a week, I head north to our family camp in New Hampshire. When I tell people I’m spending five weeks on an island, they get impressions of grandeur. I wish! Years ago when my parents bought our little island, my dad built a fourteen foot square cabin that was supposed to be our temporary digs until he built a bigger one on the bluff looking down the lake. Then he got his first tax bill. Since New Hampshire doesn’t tax anything else, they soak you on the real estate. Our temporary cabin became the permanent structure. Today, even if we had the wherewithal to build something with bedrooms and indoor plumbing, we’d run into more modern building restrictions that make it impossible. There is nowhere on our tiny island that’s far enough from shore to get a building permit. So, we’re grandfathered in to the little cabin that my dad eventually tacked a bit of kitchen onto and stretched a porch along the front. We treat it like our clubhouse and everyone sleeps in tents. And, because I’ll basically be living in a tent for five weeks, anything I need to have, I take with me. It’s another reason I drive a CR-V – that and the dog. So, I’ve been busy gathering up the things I’ll need, the stuff I want and the gear I can’t live without. Did I mention there is no telephone or TV. I do have a laptop so I take reruns of my favorite programs on DVD to watch when I feel like watching something mindless instead of reading. And I visit my cell service provider to pay for two months of internet service on a little gadget designed to create a hotspot. Which it sometimes does. Just often enough to stay in touch via email and FB.

Rewarding because on my birthday my mailbox, which usually yields only junk mail and the occasional bill from entities that still live in the dark ages and can’t send requests for remuneration via email, held a bounty of riches. There was a contract, signed and accompanied by an advance check from my new publisher. A number of lovely birthday greetings and two packages from my kids. It was a most satisfying day.

And heartbreaking because 19 brave firefighters lost their lives in Arizona fighting a wildfire suspected to have been started by lightning. These were hotshot firefighters, specially trained. The best. And yet something happened to take their lives. I suspect that investigations will someday give us answers, but in the meantime, this is the single biggest loss of firemen since 9/11, the largest loss fighting a wildfire since 1933. And there are so many to mourn their loss. Parents, wives, children. An entire town. God bless them all.

Friday night I was privileged to be invited to the first showing of the new Colonial Crew Revue. A happy crowd milled about finding their seats at the tables beneath the giant Colonial Oak in the new Colonial Quarter off St. George Street. Lanterns lit the twilight sky and it felt like we might really have been transported back a few hundred years. In a city filled with history celebrated often and with enthusiasm, we were going to get a glimpse into a lighter part of that past. Into the humor, the laughter, the entertainment. Instead of the bloodshed and battles, we were going to enjoy a lighthearted look at a troupe of traveling players from a bygone era.

The Picolata Players didn’t disappoint. They were marvelous, one and all. The music was wonderful and the comedy most amusing. When the first few drops of rain began we were all having such a grand time, we refused to believe it could continue. But continue it did, growing steadily heavier. Many retreated to the shelter of a nearby veranda, many put umbrellas up, some just laughed, stayed put and got soaked. Even the players were wet, but it didn’t dampen their performance or the enthusiasm of the audience.

The performance was audience interactive and the impromptu, unrehearsed players were fantastic. Thanks to a wonderful cast, great writing and directing, a new and exciting attraction has come to St Augustine. The Revue will be staged every Friday and Saturday night – gates open at 7:30 and the show starts at 8:00. Ticket price includes drinks and snacks. So, why not plan to have dinner at Taberna del Caballo or the English Pub just down the street, then mosey on up to the New Colonial Crew Revue. It will be a night like no other and you won’t regret it. I promise

The Ancient City Romance Authors Hearts of Excellence Reader's Choice contest deadline is fast approaching. If you had a romance novel published in 2012 be sure to visit the chapter website (www.acrarwa.com ) and find out how to enter. Award winning author, Elizabeth Sinclair, author of the Hawks Mountain series and more than 20 other novels talks about this prestigious award and how it helps both writers and readers.

One of the stated aims of Romance Writers of America is to assist romance writers in their goal of having careers.  One of the ways RWA does this is with contests and awards.  As a former officer in RWA and co-founder of the Ancient City Romance Authors chapter, can you share a little about how contests can help a published author?

Contests (particularly those judged by readers) are an excellent way to get an author's name and books out to readers who haven't discovered them yet.  They read for the contest and realize they like this author and then go out and buy their backlist as well as look for any upcoming releases. ACRA's contest is geared to publicize the winners in any way we can. We announce the winners in the Romance Writers of America monthly publication, the Romance Writers Report, thus giving the author more PR exposure.  In addition to the above, ACRA gives the author a winner's clip to put on their website.  This year we hope to include a list of the winners and runner-ups in our conference program so the attendees can take it home and hopefully purchase some of the books.

Tell us about the history of ACRA's Heart of Excellence Reader's Choice contest?

When the Heart of Excellence was first conceived, we wanted a contest that could reach out to readers and perhaps help our authors and those of entrants from other chapters make sales they would not have made without it and to recognize excellence in romantic fiction.  That's why we decided to make it a READER's Choice.  Our readers come from all walks of life and are everyday people. Readers are the ones who put down their money for our books and what better way to acquaint them with talented authors they've never read before than by placing a free book in their hands through a contest? The contest has run for four years and has successfully garnered new readers for many authors.

Last year your book, Hawk's Mountain took first place in the Short Contemporary category in the Heart of Excellence contest. Has that had any impact on the success of this new series?

After Hawks Mountain won a Heart of Excellence Award, I noticed a definite upsurge in sales of that book as well as its sequel, SUMMER ROSE.

How should a published author go about entering? Is it complicated and does ACRA accept e-book and self-pubbed entries?

This year, to make certain all romance books are included, the contest has been opened up to e-books and self-published books.  Entering is easy and fast.  Just go to www.acrarwa.com and click on the Heart of Excellence tab in the toolbar.

Remember - the deadline for entry is June 15th - don't miss the chance to bring this lovely trophy home to your bookshelf.

ELIZABETH SINCLAIR

Elizabeth Sinclair sold her first romance, JENNY'S CASTLE, in 1993 to Silhouette Intimate Moments. Since then, this multi-published author's 23 books have sold in ten foreign countries and been translated into seven foreign languages.

Her books have won The National Reader's Choice Award, The Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award, and Maggie Award of Excellence.  She has also won a Gold Medal Top Pick from the Romantic Times Book Club and a Holt Medallion Award of Merit.

She is a co-founder and member of the Ancient City Romance Authors of St. Augustine, FL, and has been a member of Romance Writers of America since 1989.  Elizabeth served as RWA's Region 3 Director and chaired the 2001 RWA Annual Conference in New Orleans.

She has presented numerous workshops on the craft of writing and authored the THE DREADED SYNOPSIS. Elizabeth has published a total of twenty-three romances with Silhouette, Harlequin, Kensington, Thorndike and Bell Bridge Books. Her upcoming releases from Bell Bridge Books are HELL BENT, a romantic suspense, and WINTER MAGIC, the fourth book in the HAWKS MOUNTAIN series. Previous Books in that series are: HAWKS MOUNTAIN, SUMMER ROSE and FOREVER FALL.

IT JUST DOESN’T’ GET BETTER THAN THIS…

This past weekend was the 27^th re-enactment of Sir Francis Drake’s 1586 raid on the Spanish outpost of San Agustin. It was done with all the enthusiasm and attention to historical detail that is so common in current day St. Augustine, and included a weekend encampment at the Fountain of Youth representing the city as it was in the 16^th century. A bonus for visitors to our city.

I volunteer on Saturdays at the new Colonial Quarter which tells three centuries of history from the earliest beginnings through the colonial period. The raid re-enactment wasn’t scheduled until 7:00pm and I finished at 5:00 so I decided visit the Taberna del Caballo, which is part of the Quarter but open to anyone who cares to come in off St George Street for a drink or a bite to eat, or both. Like stepping back in time to the 18^th century, this candle-lit tavern is typical of the 40 or more taverns that existed in this Spanish Garrison town.

I hiked myself onto a stool and ordered a beer and found myself chatting with a couple who were visitors to the area. He was a sailor stationed up in Jacksonville and so far this day, he’d had a fantastic time exploring St Augustine and many of the attractions it had to offer. I asked him if he was staying for Drake’s Raid.

“What raid?” he asked. So, I told him:

427 years ago on June 6^th, 1586 twenty-three ships approached the harbor of the Spanish colonial city of St. Augustine with 2000 Englishmen under the command of Sir Francis Drake.  1000 of these men, led by Captain Christopher Carlile came ashore on Anastasia Island and mounted cannons across the harbor from the Spanish wooden fort and begin to duel with the Spanish forces there. The Spanish were forced to abandon the fort during the night and with daylight approaching on the morning on the 8^th the English crossed Matanzas Bay, taking the fortification and proceeding to drive the Spanish from the city of St. Augustine, after which, Drake’s men burned the city to the ground.

And tonight, I went on, they will re-enact that raid. Skirmishing from the city gate to the plaza with pikes and swordfights and the firing of canon and muskets.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” the young man replied turning to his girl. “This day has been fantastic and now this. It just doesn’t get any better!”

  VIVA SAN AGUSTIN!

The local paper today had a photo of a Cub Scout placing flags at the local National Cemetery. My daughter texted to say they’d just driven by the National Cemetery on Long Island and seen all the flags by each marker there, mentioning how impressive it was. I’ve seen Arlington National with thousands of flags fluttering boldly next to thousands of small white markers marching into the distance. It occurred to me to ponder on the enormous number of flags placed by faithful hands all over the United States. A mind boggling number. Then, of course, was the sobering reality that each of those flags represents a young man or woman who sacrificed everything they had to preserve this country and all it stands for. From that chilly day in April, 1775 in Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts to this, through two world wars, Vietnam and Korea and now the Middle East, on land, at sea, and in the air.

When I was seventeen, I was a majorette and marched with the high school band. One of the most memorable of those times was one unusually hot Memorial Day – Hot at least, by New England standards. It was so hot that several members of the band fainted during the two-mile march from the town center to the cemetery and had to be carried off to recover. Once we got to the cemetery, we sat in a small patch of shade while the various dignitaries droned on. I have to confess, I don’t recall a single word any of them said. I was more intent on the welcome sight of my father hoofing it over the hill with a jug of ice water my mother had insisted he bring to us. The idea of gallant young soldiers, slain in the prime of their lives for a cause far larger than themselves seemed poignant, yet removed from me and my life.

My viewpoint today is far different. I’ve spent my share of three-day-weekends playing at the beach and enjoying parades and cookouts, but I’ve also come to a place in my life, where I take the time to reflect on what Memorial Day is really all about. Instead of watching a parade with the simple enjoyment of hearing the bands play and watching the uniformed representatives of the various military branches march past, I see the ghosts of those who never made it home to march in a parade. I’ve always flown my flag, but now, when I run it to the top of the pole and then lower it to half mast, I am remembering in my heart all those who have given all they had to preserve my freedom to fly it at all.

God bless each and every one of you and thank you for all you have given for me.

This is really about sisters and brothers and the place they hold in our hearts and our lives.

We get to choose our friends and the man or woman we marry and have children with, but our sisters and brothers we acquire on the luck of the draw by birth. We grow up squabbling over turf and parental approval, teasing and being teased. One day rivals, the next day allies. Most of us can remember times when our siblings were the only friends we had, hanging together on vacations or weathering a stormy day in the shelter of a fort built with chairs and blankets.

But then we grow up. We go off to college, or into the workforce. We move away, or join the military and move all the time. Our interests pull us even further apart and we get busy raising our own children. Too often, we forget to take time to keep the relationships of our childhoods alive and vibrant and healthy. But this past week, I was reminded how truly precious and beautiful time spent with our brothers and sisters all grown up can be.

When I first moved to my little island, there was a lovely woman who invited me to join her for various little impromptu get-togethers. Sadly, she passed away last year and in the days and weeks that followed, I got to meet most of her children who came to deal with all the stuff that a death in the family brings. They had a gathering to honor their mom, of course, and I saw them often while we chatted over my fence about the mundane and the unusual in settling the estate. Eventually the decision was made to sell their mom’s house, and as each of them left for the last time (or so I thought) we said goodbye and wished each other well.   

But last week, they all showed up (or most of them anyway.) They were staying at a neighbor’s place and had rented another small cottage to make room for them all. I was invited to a casual party when they first arrived, but the thing that made me smile the most and remember again, just how wonderful good sibling relationships can be, was their habit of walking down each night to say goodnight to the ocean. Usually with a glass of wine in hand, and generally long enough after the sun had set for darkness to have fallen, I’d hear the cheerful chatter of the small group as they passed by my house. They always gathered at the seawall, a close little cluster of shadows against the backdrop of the nighttime ocean, and the murmur of comfortable conversation drifted softly in the warm evening air, punctuated by chuckles and laughter.

They were lucky to have a perfect week weather-wise, but even luckier, I think, to have that week together. They make time for each other, and that makes their lives so much richer. Now they’ve returned to their scattered homes and no happy little group passed by last night, so I walked down the seawall by myself and said goodnight to the ocean for them. And while I was there, I whispered goodnight to my own brother and sister. And  thanked God that my grown-up children still make time to be together, and know the joy of a companionship that will last for a lifetime.

An Op-ed piece in yesterday’s paper suggested that it was only the wealthy and congressmen eager to be out of Washington who were benefited by the exception to the sequester voted in and signed by Obama to end the Air Traffic Controller furloughs. But I beg to differ. It was my misfortune to have a ticket to fly from Jacksonville Florida to JFK in New York three days after the furloughs began. I knew there were delays expected and checked my flight before I left home but at that moment, it was still ON TIME. Two hours later, as I got off the shuttle from extended parking, it was half an hour delay. At first this seemed like it might be good, because I’d never seen security lines as long at JAX before. It took me nearly 45 minutes to clear security, get my shoes back on, my water bottle filled and get to my gate. By then the expected departure time had been extended an additional hour. I settled in to read, thankful that I had only myself to worry about.

The woman on one side of me had an active one-year-old, who was eager to explore which meant his mom had to schlepp all her gear and his to keep up with him during our extended wait. On the other side of me was an obviously ill young woman in a wheel chair. She was already tired. Two sailors headed home after a long deployment waited patiently though I’m sure they were eager to see their families as soon as possible. Businessmen glanced anxiously at their watches, probably concerned about being late for meetings. There were older couples, other families with young children. None of us looked like the well-to-do who were supposed to be most affected by the actions of congress to exempt air traffic controllers.

After several more delays the flight was eventually cancelled more than three hours after it should have taken off. A single clerk at the counter began the thankless task of rebooking a long line of angry, frustrated, tired travelers who now had to find somewhere to spend the night before returning to the airport on the following day, where they would have to face the gauntlet of checking bags and security clearance yet again. I was fortunate that I have a dear friend with a guest room who lives just minutes from the airport. In spite of the upheaval of packing for a long cross country trip, she welcomed me into her home and fed me breakfast before sending me off again. But I wondered about that woman with the little boy – they both arrived back at the airport in the same clothes they’d worn the day before. And what about the ill young woman who was probably aching for a chance to rest in peace and privacy? Or the sailors who had to wait yet another day to get home? There had to be at least some businessmen who missed meetings. And everyone had to find some place to stay if they didn’t happen to live in Jacksonville.

The following morning my flight was delayed again, but did finally get off the ground. For me this created yet more travel issues to deal with. Originally my daughter was to pick me up when my flight landed in the early evening, but now I’d arrive in the middle of her workday. She works in Manhattan so picking me up was out of the question. She offered to send a car, but the Scots in me balked at this expense and I opted for the Airtrain which stops at all JFK terminals and connects with the Long Island Rail Road in Jamaica. I asked a young man if he knew which train we were to catch. He thought he knew, but we both ended up getting on the wrong train and were fortunate that another rider told us where to get off to board the right one. We pulled into Jamaica 2 minutes too late to catch the next train that would have taken me to my destination so had to wait nearly another hour. Finally, I stepped off that train in East Williston and walked to my daughter’s house dragging my wheeled bag behind me. The UP side of this adventure? I now know how to get to my daughter’s home without relying on anyone to come fetch me from the airport. The downside? It took me 28 hours to get there – a journey that should have been 6 max!

Now, if only congress could work together to solve some of the other messes they’ve made!