
Marveling this Monday evening at finding the perfect spot to write …


Marveling this Monday evening at finding the perfect spot to write …

Sometime all you need is a change of scenery …

Robert and I are back down in Ponte Vedra, Florida at the oceanfront condo my daughter is renting for six months, as she contemplates expanding her medical business down here. So of course we find ways to finagle our way here as often as possible.

I swim 20 lamps each morn at 7:30 before the sun becomes a broiler.

This summer, I am attempting to write a memoir about the challenge of “marrying” my previous straight life (to Donna) and my current gay life (with Robert). And what a challenge!
Here’s my sunny study in the condo where I’m attempting to write …

As I sit in that wicker chair, some days I realize that we’re all writing our memoirs, day by day and year by year.

Marveling, for sure.

Robert got up at 6:12 this morning to photograph the sun rising on the Atlantic here at Ponte Vedra Florida, where we are staying for a week.


I woke up about 30 minutes later.

Now we’re sitting on the balcony, drinks in hand, gazing at the full moon.




I walked in the kitchen and saw Robert, reminding me that I should post a T-shirt Tuesday!

For several years now, we have participated in Georgia’s Farm Passport program:
“The Farm Passport features over 100 farms included in Georgia Farm Bureau’s Certified Farm Markets program, which was created to help people discover where their food comes from, meet the farm families who grew the food, and create lasting memories as they travel the state.” Farm Bureau, GA

With each visit to a farm, we get our “passport” stamped to go toward prizes, including the T-shirt.




I’ve mentioned these t-shirts before, but I’ve almost worn mine out, so I thought I’d keep it alive a bit longer with some remembrance.

When my first grandson Daniel arrived some nineteen years ago now …

… I didn’t want to be called “Grandpa” (so OLD sounding!), “Papaw” (that was my father), etc., etc. My son-in-law (Cuban) solved the dilemma for me: “Let your grandkids call you ‘Abu”. Most folks won’t know what it means.”
Abuelo is the affectionate Spanish nickname for Grandpa.
When he was older and talking, Daniel decided that Robert should have a nickname as well, thus Rbu!

Marveling this Monday at late winter’s sparse beauty here in South Georgia.


I truly believe that if we look for beauty, we will see it.
A blog category about finding “art” in unexpected places and situations
Leaving my yearly urological check-up recently (TMI?), I sat down by their little fountain pool (which was not working) …

I attempted to meditate a bit while waiting on an Uber.
But then I heard them and saw them …

Young white men dallying and splashing around in the cold February pool.


So yesterday, Robert and I cleaned up the old farmhouse in Southeast Georgia where we have been staying for the last month while our downtown Savannah place was being renovated.
Did the last of the laundry (no dryer) …

I actually enjoyed (well, for a temporary time) the sensation of hanging wet washing on the clotheslines among the Spanish Moss.

We started loading boxes and bags in the kitchen for the return trip.

Looked down and saw him …

Benny in the Box.

He was ready to go home.
Enjoyed our last fire (the place had no central heat).


Enjoyed our unusual but FUN time in the snow a couple of days ago…


Sampled the “attractions” in the tiny town of Springfield GA (pop. 2,874) …






Our favorite Coffee/Bakery/Breakfast place …


And outdoor in January grilling and eating between the cold spells.



A Joyous Adventure. Thank you, Universe/God/Whomever for Such a Splendid Stay.

And that’s My Saturday Evening Post.

Recently Robert and I were driving back from a day adventure at the fascinating Webb Wildlife Management Area in Garnett, SC when we looked off to the right and saw this …

Yes, I know, the scene is difficult to see clearly. So HR pulled to the side of the road, and we walked nearer.

But the brush was SO thick, and we couldn’t get very close.


Two old cars hidden in the woods.
There has to be a story here somewhere.
And that’s my hidden-story Saturday Evening Post.
