Sunday, Sept. 5, 2016 — The drive into Ormond Beach along old Dixie Highway was sunny and fine, with a sky as clear blue as a bolt of cerulean cotton.
A distinctly north Florida mix of dwarf palms and stately trees hung with Spanish moss shrouded the road. The dappled drive passed mansions that look like assisted living facilities for the seriously wealthy (never a nursing home for Daddy Sawbucks) next to old cinder block homes from the Fifties and Sixties with louvered windows.
The drive into Ormond Beach along old Dixie Highway was sunny and fine, with a sky as clear blue as a bolt of cerulean cotton.
A distinctly north Florida mix of some of the dwarf varieties of palm and stately trees hung with Spanish moss shrouded the road. The dappled drive passed mansions that look like assisted living facilities for the seriously wealthy (never a nursing home for Daddy Sawbucks) next to old cinderblock homes from the Fifties and Sixties with louvered windows.
The dao of house-hunting continues. I will soon start another round of house-hunting. I have been scouting neighborhoods up to this point. Now the quest is sign a contract for a home for me and my Doberman.
Each time I complete one step of this journey, I pass through another of the endless portals toward living my dao.
My excitement is growing.
I have taken this condo apartment as far as I can, unless I spend big money for a new kitchen and bath to make the place sparkle.
Those are not cost-effective investments.
I love the thrill of the chase in finding things to turn my home into a Bohemian fantasy. Enjoying the dao of the journey is more magical and fulfilling than reaching a goal.
Proof: I have a made-to-order sofa and loveseat purchased when I and a life partner were making good money. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as finding quirky resales. Imagining what I might do in my next home delights my imagination.
I welcomed myself to the 21st century in May by buying a GPS for the car. As a result, I discovered the DAO of the GPS. It is so much easier to focus on driving with this device.
I have wasted too much time missing an exit and having to take a long way around, or being lost in a neighborhood trying to find a house for sale.
South Florida is laid out on an East-West/North-South grid. If you know where the sun rises and sets, it’s hard to go too far wrong — unless you are in suburban neighborhoods of endlessly curling lanes.
It usually takes me by surprise when anyone says they don’t know the difference between the southwest corner of an intersection or the northeast, because they don’t know directions. How can that be in South Florida?
Mountain communities like the one in which I grew up are a little different. Roads follow the paths of rivers and old trails, some of these as ancient at the Native Americans. I planned to drive through at least four Florida communities, taking a glance at homes for sale. I decided I couldn’t do that efficiently with maps.
This Magellan GPS that does not include voice activation is wonderful. It got all the directions correctly to the local places where I was going.
When I changed the route home, however, the device relentlessly repeated that I should make a U-turn in 150 yards at 67th Street . . . . in one-quarter mile at 90 street . . . and so on until the device fell silent, no doubt sulking because it didn’t get its own way. It is rather like an annoying passenger in that regard.
It points out stoplight cameras.
I think I’ve decided on St. Augustine, but that market may be a bit overheated and out of my reach.
So I’m pulling out the GPS again for a peak at some places up in Martin County and beyond. The dao of the GPS is the dao of finding my place and the one where I can have the last great love of my life.