Keepers of the flame

I logged in and approved more than a hundred comments. I missed you too. I adored them, every single one and, I'm blushing.

                                                    

Don't worry! I am the same: Fearing scalding explosions and small spaces, revering good men and linen napkins, and still willing go thirty rounds with a Hatfield or fine tequila - provided you've that good man and he knows something about a fireman's carry.

Very much the girl you came to know (like here, and also very much and really here and here). 

I had babies, as you remember. Two tiny girls, beautiful smart wily things, I am watching them like a hawk. I have been warned, by than no less than all of you, that these moments will disappear in the blink of an eye. 

And, I've been working - at everything. Harder than I ever did in those sixteen hour apparel days at 1700 Broadway, but with just as fine a view.

I want to tell you something very critical, to me, anyway. I have had eleven addresses in fifteen years. From many of those places, I went even farther afield; finding myself in any third-world nation on any given Tuesday. 

That almost feels like a confession. 

Some of it was the Navy life, more of it was a gypsy wander lust and the sheer power of being able to cut ties and move on whenever I wanted to do something else, see something else. Make no mistake, there is a lot of adrenaline tied up with thinking of the next thing and then doing it in some new, exciting, challenging place. I have never been good with the same old thing, but very good with moving on. 

My Mother considers that "moving on" thing a character flaw. I consider that I have become very good at every sort of goodbye; seen em' all. I don't think I have missed one sentiment, except perhaps remorse. Like I said, I am very good at this concept. 

But, for many reasons, that is all done. It's time to throw the suitcase out and put down roots, even though just typing those words caused me to shudder.  Meet my new home as of July: Just slightly north of Broad, Charleston, South Carolina. 

Or, more correctly: Meet my new money pit. In flood zone F: Which is where you are just sure to die if you stand there, I think, because the hurricane insurance is insane. But, worth it, to be right there, downtown and able to hit McCrady's with a 7 iron. 

For the first time since leaving my parents home at 18, I can have an address engraved on my stationery. And that is a big, big step. 

Onward, ya'll.