Sorry, Dorothy.

I can breathe now. I secured a job teaching AP Literature at a Lynchburg, Virginia high school. We found a house in the nearby town of Bedford and will close on March 21. Three obstacles face me now.

Shoulder replacement on March 29. I have avoided thinking about this for months. Last year’s surgery repairing torn tendons consumed my summer with physical therapy.  Alas, during Thanksgiving, I fell and dislocated my shoulder. Ouch. Remember Inspector Kemp in Young Frankenstein? That has been me, using my good hand to move the bad arm. (My students find it comical to see me writing on the board with my good hand holding up my elbow.)

When the topic of my shoulder is under discussion, I am surprised how colleagues and acquaintances jump in with a horror story of their own. “Abe’s body rejected the replacement. It was a foreign object and after three more surgeries, he’s still in pain.” Or, “Amy got an infection and it nearly killed her.” I haven’t heard of anyone dying from a shoulder replacement, so that is what I’m focusing on.

Should we sell Dorothy or take her with us? Jim found a discarded wooden sign down the hill from our motor home. Dorothy became the name of our “ship”. To me, Dorothy is a vessel that rocks and rolls during windy gusts. She requires preventative maintenance and diligent care. We bought her six months ago. She is thirty-eight feet long and cost $165,000 in 2002. Twenty years later, her value is nowhere near that amount, but she is priceless to Jim. He tinkers and attends to her with daily devotion. Since we are boondocking at the edge of an RV park, we get the benefits of a water filling/discarding service, internet, and the laundry room. It also means we rely on the generator and solar panels for energy. The instrument panel is checked throughout the day and night to ensure we do not run out of heat and electricity.  Jim has itched to drive her across the country when we move in late May. He promises me the Cummings engine can do it.

I, on the other hand, have become rather timid with adventures. I voted to sell her before we leave Arizona. I am afraid something will break during the 2,000-mile drive. I worry we will not recoup our money the longer we live in it. Last night, Jim and I drank wine and listened to Charles Lloyd play the sax while Lucinda Williams, whose voice could make a dog howl, sing “Dust.”

We talked about adventures and why I was becoming a scaredy-cat. “Why waste so much of your time thinking of our future home than appreciating our home today? In Dorothy?”

Jim refreshed my wine glass. We looked at the hills and watched the night set in. “We are about to cross the country, and that’s the adventure! Let’s stop in Nashville and see Graceland. Let’s eat ribs and listen to music in Memphis,” my wise husband suggested. 

Sorry, Dorothy. It is never too late for an attitude adjustment.

Time to share novel three and blog again. The third hurdle has been the World War II novel I put5555 on hold along with blogging. I’m vowing not to wish for the fut5ure. After all, who knows how March 29 will turn out?  And the third manuscript? I’m going to share “The Lost Sisters of Bataan” now. Chapter by chtapter. Be my guest and be a critic. I’ll hire a professional editor with the hope that Dartfrog Publishing will agree to its publication.

Love & Friendship,

Cindy