So Charlie and I were chatting about where we’d be living after all the kids left the nest.
Would we stay here, in the country on eight acres of Georgia clay? Consensus: Only if we had enough disposable income to pay some person(s) to take care of the property. Unless the economy turns right around and a lot of people start buying books again, that’s not looking promising…
So if we did move, where would we go?
Charlie: The beach.
Me: Somewhere that I can see snow.
Charlie: Okay then. Hawaii.
I could do Hawaii. I’d been thinking of someplace like Washington state, where you can see snow on the mountains and maybe be up high enough to see the ocean. But Hawaii? That’s okay too.
Besides, in Hawaii the water wouldn’t be as life-threateningly cold as in Seattle. (Yes, it’s a word. Because I said so.)
You know, so we could swim. But wait… I’m a member of the Jaws Generation, the people who came of age when the movie “Jaws” came out. And of course this means I don’t swim in the ocean without experiencing a continuous anxiety attack.
Charlie: So why do you go in the water in Florida?
Me: You have no idea what’s going thru my mind.
(You Big Baby. You’re in three feet of water in the Gulf. You can see the bottom in all directions. You can’t make the kids panic. Be cool.)
Maybe Seattle would be okay too.
And maybe I need to write an open letter to Steven Spielberg and Peter Benchley. And to my dad, who let me and my sister Suzy watch “Jaws” when we were way too young for it.
At least I don’t get freaked out about sharks in the swimming pool or bathtub.
(Sorry to throw you under the bus, Suzy. But it made me feel much better about my phobia.)