Despite my disappointment in January, I continued to plot, plan, scheme, and strategize how to achieve my goal of living with a well-trained, well-bred Doberman Pinscher.
Seeds grow in the darkness. They need the rest of night to germinate life.
Witches and magicians warn against revealing plans prematurely. Such disclosures invite malignant forces, naysaying, and may dissipate creative energy in unproductive spiels.
I have been making progress.
“You have fallen into a fit of despondency, and there is not the least need. In fact, it encourages one to believe that there is nothing to be done, when all that is wanted is a bit of resolve to bring matters to a happy conclusion.” — The Grand Sophy, by Georgette Heyer.
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.
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.