Where were the snails? I eyed the soup nervously, hoping they would be easy to spot. Mr. Bill had already tucked into the fragrant bisque with abandon. I was surprised by Mr. Bill’s enthusiasm, when our friend Jill, served us soup made with escargot. This was a revelation to me. Fifty-two years on and I am still learning things about Mr. Bill. I never knew he liked escargot.
On one memorable vacation, Mr. Bill and I had dined with snails, but not on them. Every evening snails crashed our dinners in the kitchen garden of an old French farmhouse, along the Canal du Midi. As soon as the wine was poured, the uninvited guests would arrive silently under the cover of darkness. The thirsty creatures would be scaling our wine glasses before we noticed them. We let them be. We found it amusing and not at all alarming. After all, they were French snails and had a nose for a good vintage. Mr. Bill did not offer them a glass but neither did he eat them. Now, I was astonished to see him gobbling them with relish.
Escargots may be a delicacy, yet the thought of swallowing a slimy body made me queasy. I glanced around the table; our hosts Jill and Ken, friends Cathy, Herb, Barbara, Jamie and Mr. Bill were all enjoying the first course. Gingerly, I dipped my spoon into the steaming bowl, bravely repeating to myself, the words of grandson Billy’s beloved Sister Consulta, “you get what you get and you don’t get upset”! With this sage advice, the kindly cook at Gianelli’s pre school, had coaxed generations of picky young eaters, to try new foods. Wanting to do the good sister proud, I swallowed. The soup was delicious. Relieved, I took another mouthful. There was sausage in the soup and I devoured all the spicy chunks, with a gulp of the garlicky broth. No snails revealed themselves. Next, I skimmed the tender white beans onto my spoon, confident that I had only legumes and no mollusks. The level in the bowl was getting lower, but still no suspicious, gelatinous lumps had appeared. There were greens floating in the soup. I wondered, could the snails be hiding underneath? Carefully I captured and consumed the ribbons of leafy vegetables. No snails. Soon only the savory liquid remained. Had the snails melted? If yes, then I had to admit, that I too liked escargot.
Driving home, Mr. Bill waxed nostalgic over the escargot soup, declaring it as good as his grandmother’s. Once again I was taken aback, as he had never spoken of this dish, when reminiscing about his grandmother Sophia’s cooking. It was her, ‘melt in your mouth’ homemade pasta, lasagna, tomato sauce, and pasta e fagioli soup, that Mr. Bill had spoken of with longing through the years, but not escargot soup. I couldn’t take it another minute and demanded to know why, he had never mentioned, that his grandmother made escargot soup. “Why, she added escarole to her soups ALL the time”, Mr. Bill informed me, as if it were no big deal. You mean eh saar go, I corrected, giving him my best French pronunciation for escargot. “No, it’s es ka roll “, he countered in Italian, patiently articulating each syllable. Fine. Whatever. Just to be clear, I switched to English saying,”We are talking about snails aren’t we”? “NO”! Mr. Bill was aghast, explaining that the soup was not escargot but escarole, a leafy green vegetable. Oh.
Well then, I wish I had seconds!
A Good Vintage for Snails
Moving faster without the shell!
Thirsty Snail
While Bacon begs, a stealthy snail climbs up the table base.
The Canal du Midi, where snails are dinner guests.More Wine or More Snails?
Far better to have a story, than be the story. Had we just lived through a F-2 tornado? We had. The experience was surreal and over in seconds. The telling will take longer than the twister lasted. On that night, Bill and I hugged each other tight, still in a state of disbelief but very, very grateful to have returned home safe and sound.
Little did we dream, that our quick detour to Doris’s Italian Market, on our way home from the 4 o’clock Mass last Saturday night, would put us in a tornado’s path. There was rolling thunder during the latter part of the service but that was hardly alarming, as afternoon thunder storms had been predicted. When the doors of Saint Patrick’s opened, so did the heavens- right on cue. With thunder crackling above and lightning strikes all around us, we dashed across the parking lot, but we could not outrun the downpour. However, as we drove away the rain eased, thunder ceased and the sky ahead was clearer. When we arrived at the crossroads of Prosperity Farms Road and PGA Boulevard, I asked Mr. Bill, if perhaps we should head home. Mr. Bill was unconcerned, as we had been out in far worse storms and I agreed with him. We drove on. Our destination was nearby, across the Intracoastal Waterway in North Palm Beach. As we waited for the drawbridge on PGA to be lowered, I thought that surely no boaters would be on the water, in this weather. Looking down as we crossed over the Intracoastal, I was surprised to see a line of fast moving vessels, and judging by the waves being churned, they were ignoring no-wake zone. Once on the other side, Mr. Bill took the ‘back way’ into Doris’s via Ellison Wilson, which runs parallel to the waterway. This street has an expansive view across the water to Palm Beach Gardens. The view was dramatic. A narrow yellow band lay along the horizon and the sky above was a solid block of indigo. There were no clouds and certainly no swirling funnel cloud- yet.
Our modus operandi when shopping is, Divide and Conquer. I work the store’s perimeter, produce, dairy, meat and bakery, while Mr. Bill gets right to the heart of the matter, and tackles the wine department in the center. We weren’t in Doris’s long, when the lights began to flicker. That made me uneasy. When the lights go out, the only place I want to be, is next to Mr. Bill. I was ready to leave the veal for another day and make my way back to Mr. Bill, when the butcher stepped out from the behind the case. He calmly reassured nervous customers, explaining that the store had a huge generator, which would immediately engage if power was lost. Then the store went black. As promised, the lights came back on with a whirl of the generator. Veal in hand for the week’s stew, I hastened to Mr. Bill’s side, anxious to depart. I found Mr. Bill in a mellow mood, deep in conversation with the wine rep, who had also mentioned Doris’s powerful generator. That made Mr. Bill happy, for he was enjoying a glass of Ferrari Carrano’s Tresor, from the self-serve wine bar. Although the lights were back on, I was still keen to leave. To save time, once again we parted ways. Mr. Bill lingered to pick up a few bottles of the Bordeaux blend, while I hustled to get cheese and bread, located adjacent to the side exit.
That is when the tornado hit. It struck hard and fast. Seconds after piercing tornado alerts blared from every cell phone in the store, the door by me blew open with a great rush of wind and rain. Wet leaves and broken twigs were suddenly blowing down the cheese aisle. There was a loud bang as a metal display rack, was knocked to the floor. Looking up, I was bewildered by a stream of mist, white as a jet’s condensation trail, snaking along the ceiling, spraying water droplets like a garden hose gone wild. Over in the center of the store, Mr. Bill felt the splash and feared the wind had ripped a hole in the roof. Up in the front of the store, the cashier said her ears popped from the sudden change in air pressure. In the back of the store, strong men tried and failed, to shut the loading bay doors against the tornado’s intrusion and ran for the safety of the interior. All the while, items were flying off the top shelves. Artificial flowers summersaulted past like tumble weeds, becoming part of the swirling eddy. Nothing made sense but when a round metal tray became airborne and was hurtling towards me, I snapped out of my daze and moved! I retreated to the wine section, where my hero Mr. Bill was waiting.
There was confusion and commotion but no one panicked. Miraculously there were no injuries and there didn’t appear to be any major damage to the store. Before we left, Mr. Bill checked with the store manager, making sure that no one was hurt and thankfully, no one was. Once confident, that whatever had happened, had indeed come and gone, we made a beeline for our car and turned for home. The back way in, was now a no way out. The exit was blocked by several uprooted trees lying across the road. Mr. Bill turned the car around and inched onto US 1, carefully avoiding twisted metal road signs and unrecognizable debris strewn across all lanes. We gaped at damaged cars and buildings, a massive carwash canopy was in tatters and trees that were still standing, were shorn off at the top. Traffic lights were out but caution prevailed at every intersection. Police cars with sirens screaming and red and blue lights flashing, sped past, heading in the opposite direction. Waiting again for the raised drawbridge to be lowered, we could hear the wailing of sirens from emergency vehicles, stuck on the other side. Once the bridge was down and safety gates lifted, police cars, firetrucks and rescue wagons flew over the bridge. Help was on the way-fast!
Traveling home with a wary eye on the sky, we returned the call of our worried daughter, Audry. We happily reassured her and her husband Dave, that all was well. Audry who also lives in Palm Beach Gardens, had simultaneously received the same tornado alert. Knowing her parents had gone to church , she tried contacting us, worried that we had dilly dallied on the way home. As we do. We felt blessed to have a caring daughter and to be returning home unscathed. Audry called again the next morning, when the tornado alert sounded at 9 am, checking that her parents were home and sheltering in place. She need not have worried; her night owl parents are seldom out and about, catching worms with the early birds. Her mother was up but the shril warning did rouse Mr. Bill, from his beauty sleep.
Some couples stick together through thick and thin. Traveling together, Mr. Bill and I have stuck like glue, though blizzards, hurricanes, cyclones, earthquakes and now a tornado.
One week later at Doris’s Wine bar.
Mr. Bill points to where we were, when the tornado hit.
Tornado damage
The corner of the building was ripped open and insulation was blowing in the wind.
It was that time of year in Florida, spring migration. No sooner had the snowbirds began departing, then in moved the reptiles on their scaly, little, tippy toes.
Snowbirds start flapping their wings in March, preparing for their long trek north. Some fly, some drive, while others ride the auto train, but no matter how they go by May, ‘The Season’ is over. With every departing car carrier, the streets become less congested and spaces abound in Publix’s parking lots. Florida slips into summer mode. Son-in-law, Dave, cheers every northbound transporter, as part time residents leave the southernmost state for northern climes. You might even spot him driving on Northlake, a boulevard he avoids half the year.
Most snowbirds leave in the spring and return in the fall but not Mr. Bill. Mr. Bill shrugs at the usual split of the shoulder seasons and prefers spending springtime down south and fall up north. He lingers until June, resisting his native’s state’s siren call, opting for the warmth of a Floridian spring, to Connecticut’s offering of damp, chilly weather. Does he miss the early blooming crocus, daffodils and tulips? Does he miss the flowering of lilac, forsythia and rhododendron? Apparently not. And what of the furry little creatures that emerge from their winter homes to say hello? Their absence does not make Mr. Bill’s heart grow fonder, for he has found new friends aplenty. He’s captivated by Great Blue Herons, Sandhill Cranes, lizards and alligators. Well, perhaps not all alligators. There was that one rude gator who ignored golf etiquette, while Mr. Bill was playing a round and with jaws opened wide, launched himself from the water hazard, snapping at Mr. Bill. Now perhaps he was only popping up to wish Mr. Bill, Bon Voyage and wasn’t annoyed by the errant golf ball, disturbing the off season peace. However, it’s more likely that he wished to tell this over stayer to leave! Thankfully, Mr. Bill is fast on his feet and there wasn’t an, “Oh no, Mr. Bill!” moment.
With seasonal change comes a shift in the natural order. Keeping one’s eyes open is a must, lest you miss something odd; unless you are fortunate to have an advance scout pointing out the sights, as does Mr. Bill. When biking Mr. Bill, ever the gentleman, invariably lets me lead, thereby allowing me to set the pace (See Iron Lady March 4, 2020). It was a lovely day in May of ’22, when we set off for a leisurely ride around the neighborhood. The sidewalks were empty of the usual foot traffic and we were cruising. I was in the lead scanning the route ahead, when I spied with my little eye, two eyes looking back at me. As I drew closer, the eyes grew bigger. There on the verge behind a pile of fallen palm fronds, was a pair of unblinking peepers, staring back at me. I was excited and slowed down, hoping to catch a glimpse of an iguana, before it scurried away. It didn’t. Instead, it raised its horny head. I was thrilled. First the splotchy, greenish, brown forehead that was so cleverly camouflaged by the brush emerged, then the eyes and horrors a long snout! Not a lizard! Alligator!
I braked and yelled, “Stop”! Mr. Bill called out what’s wrong but all I could manage was, “stop, stop, STOP”!, which seemed to annoy him. I came to a hard stop and Mr. Bill had to swerve to avoid crashing into me. “What’s wrong, why did you stop”? an irritated Mr. Bill demanded but I had lost my words and could only point. Mr. Bill looked. He easily found his words, of which, alligator, is the only one fit to print. Now fully revealed the alligator began approaching us, as if to the claim the sidewalk. We gave it a wide berth. After all, sharing the sidewalks is the common etiquette in PGA. Besides he was just a wee fellow and would not have yet learned, that sharing is caring. And more importantly, we did not know if he was traveling solo. He inched toward the Avenue of The Masters. Too busy. He corrected course and continued on the now vacated sidewalk. Mr. Bill had my back. He searched for laggers while I recorded. Always assessing a situation, Mr. Bill determined that the alligator was too small to drag us but those sharp teeth would do some damage and we’d likely get a nasty infection. We wondered where had he come from? We were some distance from the closest water, for a creature to wander on such small feet. I worried, would he make it safely to the next pond? Should we help? My tenderhearted friend, Kitty, always stops, to rescue turtles who are in harm’s way. What would kind Kitty do? I had a basket on my bike. Should we give this alligator a lift?
Mr. Bill pondered and prescribed a dose of Tough Love. We let the reptile be.
If you doubt the veracity of this account talk to Sharon, for she is our witness. There were four of us on that fateful afternoon, jogging across the shallow end of the pool, when a rogue gust of wind touched down and became a water spout. I know that it’s quite extraordinary, that Mr. Bill was not the catalyst of this peculiar event; after all, he is a bonafide cyclone magnet, but life is full of strange surprises. ( If you are not familiar with Mr. Bill’s unusual super powers, may I refer you to: Between Cyclones– July 2017, Bomb Cyclones -January 2018, Water Blog-February 2018, Change in the Weather-August 2019 and Mother Nature Weeps -November 2019. Prepare to be amazed.)
It was a picture perfect day in South Florida when out of the blue, strange bursts of wind, disturbed an otherwise calm spring day. Sharon, Mary Ann and I, along with our instructor Christina, were in the pool at The Preserve at Ironhorse, doing our warm-up exercises for the water aerobics class. Suddenly the equipment cart began rolling back and forth across the pool deck, like a ship tossed upon the sea. Although that seemed odd, we continued hopping and bopping about to the music. Sharon, who was running west to east, saw bright green balls caught by the wind, fly over the high fence of the adjacent tennis courts, sail across the sidewalk and drop into the pool. With a loud whoosh, another gust of wind took aim for the pool. Smack! The wind made contact and water was pulled up into a six foot spinning spiral and spun across the pool. Sharon was astonished to see MaryAnn and I inside a mini waterspout and we had no idea what had hit us, when we were slapped with a wall of water. We were drenched! Water raked across us counterclockwise, our sun hats were snatched from our heads and flung in opposite directions. The wind had come from behind, slammed into us and continued on, forming horizontal furrows, not waves, as it pushed the water to the edge of the pool. Back on land, the wind transformed itself back into a mini twister and pushed on toward the 18th green, after first scattering the furniture on the clubhouse deck along the way. We looked at one another in amazement. What had just happened? If not for Sharon, we would never have known what had struck us. To me, the quick soaking felt like the stinging spray from a slalom water skier, coming in hot and bent on a bit of mischief, which was a prank, that never got old for me and my summer pals. For a brief moment, I felt young again.
But what of Mr. Bill? Where was he during all this wet drama? Why he was nearby on the course, playing a round of golf. His status, therefore, is unchanged. Rest assured, Mr. Bill has not lost his ability to attract wind and water. Either he has become better at evading Mother Nature’s soggy embrace these days or she is growing weary of the chase. One thing is certain in their game of Hide and Seek, he’s winning! And everybody loves a winner.
Safe and SoundThe Preserve at IronhorseNo waterspout could move this fellow!Still waters in the pool after the excitementMy 9am aquacise class
Have you ever had that creepy feeling, that you are being watched? However irrational it may seem, you know with absolute certainty, that something unseen sees you. Your sixth sense is warning you and cannot be ignored.
Bathing outdoors is one of summer’s decadent delights. I was over the moon with excitement last August, when shown the outside shower, while visiting our friends Ken and Jill’s Fire Island, beach house. I was all in having grown up bathing in a lake but I suspect that the more modest Mr. Bill, was relieved to note, that the enclosure had four solid walls and was only open to the sky above.
There I was blissfully performing my daily ablutions, when suddenly the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Alarmingly, Mr. Bill was not within shouting distance, when my spidey sense began tingling to alert me, that I was not alone. I spun around. I was reassured that there were no peep holes in the weathered wood and the door was still firmly latched. I looked down but only soapy water was finding a route through the deck floor to the sandy soil below and there were no inquisitive eyes peering upwards. Nervously, I looked up. Staring down at me was a pair of unblinking, inscrutable, green eyes. Our eyes locked. I nodded and said, “well hello Ozzie” and with an insouciant flick of his tail, he was gone. Ozzie was a cat.
Ozzie is no ordinary gray tabby; he is the neighborhood watch cat of Atlantique. He lives next door to our friends and has taken it upon himself, to guard that narrow stretch of barrier island, which lies between the Great South Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Ever vigilant, this fearless feline is always on the prowl. Not only does Ozzie provide home security for the island’s humans, he keeps the population of wild, white tailed deer under control. Ever my protector, Mr. Bill had obviously engaged Paw Patrol as back up.
The glorious outdoor shower Ozzie policing the wildlife
Safely walking hand in hand after Ozzie swept the beach.
Invariably, upon hearing our accents, Mr. Bill and I would be asked either, “where in America are you from” or “are you Canadians”? The former was expected when living abroad but not the latter. We had never been mistaken for our northern neighbors, until we lived in New Zealand. The difference in speech, which is so obvious to Americans, is too subtle for Kiwis; much as the distinction between Aussie and Kiwi accents had eluded us, prior to residing in Ohope.
We humans are curious creatures. In getting to know one another, what better ice breaker could there be, than asking where one hail’s from, to start the process? More often than not, the well travelled Kiwis, were familiar with our neck of the woods.
When an American asks another American where they are from, the answer is usually a state. If from the same state, a city or town is then named and depending on the other’s familiarity with the region, it could keep on going to suburb or street, until a common connection is made. New Yorkers, if not from the greater metropolitan area, will quickly announce that they are from upstate New York. Whereas those from New York City, won’t bother to tell you, that they are from New York. Instead, they will name which of the five boroughs they call home; as if Manhattan, Queens, The Bronx, Brooklyn and Staten Island are separate countries. Confusing? It can be, especially when they skip the borough part altogether and only say their neighborhood. I was completely flummoxed once when a woman said, that she was from Jackson Heights. In turn, she seemed put out when I politely asked in what state was her town located, and was informed (rather huffily) that it was a section of Queens. I suppose you cannot blame someone from the Big Apple, from thinking that they are a big cheese.
When introducing ourselves as we travelled around Aotearoa, we quickly learned that after proudly proclaiming our small state of Connecticut, the inquirer often drew a blank, which prompted further explanations. In the beginning, I’d say that Connecticut was part of New England, which I soon learned wasn’t very helpful. Mr. Bill would answer that we were from the east coast of America, until the day a couple from Auckland replied, “oh, you are from California “! That lead to a gentle explanation, that although California was indeed to the east of New Zealand, it was on the west coast of The United States. I settled on saying, that I was from Connecticut, the state next door to New York and that worked the best. Once asked and answered, it was our turn. If you think that replying Connecticut, is confusing to some, imagine how perplexed we were, when in response to our query, a young woman brightly answered that she was a ‘Jafa’. *
My friend Heather, recently asked me where I now call home; since Mr. Bill and I have become snowbirds, dividing our time between Connecticut, the Nutmeg State and the Sunshine State of Florida. That was a no brainer. Home is with Mr. Bill, wherever that may be.
*JAFA-just another f****** Aucklander
Home is wherever Mr. Bill is.Flying out of Whakatane in 2014, we met the prime Minister. John Key knew where Connecticut was!
I never expected, that would be something I’d miss, but I do. Can you imagine striking up a conversation in this pandemic, with someone outside your household? Horrors! Talk about stranger danger. Sadly, those accidental chin wags, are another COVID-19 casualty.
When first we fell in love, I dreamed of living in a bubble with Mr. Bill, just we two. It was a fantasy I never expected to come true. Yet here we are, living the dream, twenty-four seven. One could say, alone at last with Mr. Bill, everyday is Valentine’s Day. However, in the fifth decade of our romance, it can be said that our conversations of late, are more prosaic than romantic. I’m certain that Mr. Bill, misses the stories that I would carry home, after a day left to my own devises, out in the world. Gone are the days, when Mr. Bill would patiently listen to my breathless retelling, of incredible encounters with persons unknown; even though he was undoubtedly more interested in hearing, what was for dinner. Unfortunately, these days there are no literary morsels to tease him with, not even a crumb.
It has been said of Helen of Troy, that her face launched a thousand ships, but my countenance doesn’t invoke such fervor. Rather, I seem to invite the most curious revelations from perfect strangers, without any prompting on my part. Some strangers share secrets. What is the etiquette, when an elderly gentleman falls into step alongside you, and recounts the circumstances of his conception? “It was wartime, my parents met at a bar, he was shipping out the next morning, they went into the alley and he got her up the pole”. Perhaps because of my astonished expression, he kindly proceeded to explain the euphemism. How exactly, does one reply to that conversation starter? This chatterbox finds listening, is all that’s required sometimes. My confidential conversationalist was the most charming man, and we became good friends. Many more stories were forthcoming, all recounted at day’s end to delight Mr. Bill. Some strangers share sorrows. Upon being told of bereavements, I’ve found that a sympathetic ear is what’s needed. After offering my condolences for their departed loved ones or beloved pets, I have listened and learned of many beautiful lives. Some strangers need help. There were the four people who rang the doorbell on summer’s day, looking for a place to live. I invited them in, fed them and they stayed six weeks. Mr. Bill was a bit surprised when he arrived home for dinner around nine that evening, and I offhandedly mentioned that we had company, who would be staying a while, but he took it in stride. Sometimes, strangers say rude things. I don’t engage them in conversation, but you can bet your bottom dollar, that Mr. Bill hears all the gory details and what I wish I had said in reply! Some strangers are best forgotten. They say things that don’t make sense until years later. That happened when I was seven and was walking home alone from school, when an old man stopped me. He asked if I would like to go home with him, to see his monkey. That put me into an uncomfortable dilemma. I knew that I was not supposed to talk to strangers, but I also knew that I must be polite to grown-ups. Guilelessly I answered, “no thank you I have been to Roger Williams Zoo”, and continued on my way. I can’t say why, but I never told my mother when I got home; maybe this is why I tell Mr. Bill everything- just in case I misread a situation again.
Some strangers are good sorts. Living in self isolation last May, after returning to Florida from New Zealand, I accepted that we’d be keeping ‘ourselves to ourselves’. Our daughter, Audry, had stocked the pantry and made us a welcome home dinner. Naturally, it was the one time, that I had left the cupboards bare in our absence. Our son-in-law, Dave, scored us some toilet paper, for which we will be eternally grateful. Having all the necessities, we settled in for our two weeks of quarantine, although surprisingly, there was no obligation to do so. Imagine my delight on our first morning back, when I spied a stranger scrabbling around in our bushes. Unable to contain my excitement I dashed out the door (stopping well within a safe social distance), and waving my arms frantically, called out, “hello, hello, it’s so good to see you”! Mr. Bill was mortified and retreated out of sight, while I advanced, my eyes on the prize. I was in my pajamas and cared not a wit. I had seen this woman poking about in the philodendron before, but had let her be, not wishing to disturb her. Not this time! Here, within shouting distance was someone to talk to; an opportunity not to be missed. I’m afraid my enthusiastic greeting frightened the woman, for the poor dear was alarmed. Heedless of her distress I persisted, babbling away like an overflowing brook. I learned that Fran, the woman shaking the shrubbery, is a keen gardener who has adopted our street. She weeds between the landscaper’s visits, leaving neat piles to be collected. Incredible! Fran is a neighborhood treasure. I often see her on her self-appointed rounds or when she’s out walking her beat. Invariably, she breaks her stride and darts into a hedge, to pluck a dead leaf. I tell her, that she just cannot help herself, and she laughs good-naturedly, saying she is a crazy gardener, but I think Fran’s terrific.
Living life in the slow lane these days, Mr. Bill no longer multitasks when he hears my tall tales. I’m not sure if he’s lost the ability to sort and read the day’s mail while listening, but he now hangs on my every word. Isn’t life strange?
A farewell photo, taken high above Ohope from Julia & Derek’s house
Mr. Bill and I have burst our bubble.
It happened just before the clock struck twelve, on May 13th, when New Zealand went from Alert Level 3 to Alert Level 2. Unfortunately, all was closed at midnight in Ohope and there was no place open, to go and celebrate our newfound freedom. Nothing for it but to go to sleep and dream of all the things, that we could do come morning: such as, finish packing. We bid Aotearoa farewell, on the day that Kiwis emerged from fifty days in lockdown. Although we missed all the fun and excitement of resuming our stalled social life, at least we were free to stop and say goodbye to friends, as we drove out of town. We might have missed the opportunity to take a final Tiki Tour, when the travel ban between the regions was lifted, but fortunately, it meant we no longer needed permission to drive to Tauranga Airport. And wedefinitely missed the chance to get haircuts. I fear we’ll be sporting our long, lockdown locks, for a lot longer!
Mr. Bill has hung up his scalpel. It was a hard decision to retire but all good things must come to an end. He has always maintained, that’s it’s better to leave too soon, rather than too late. However, Mr. Bill never dreamed that he would be ending his career in a pandemic, when he decided that this locum tenens would be his last. As the novel coronavirus spread, across the globe taking its terrible toll, he was worried for his patients and concerned that the health care system, would be overwhelmed, should the disease spread to New Zealand. Whakatane Hospital prepared and braced for the worst.
The first case of COVID19 in New Zealand, was reported on February 28th. In the beginning, all cases were related to overseas travel. Contact tracing was implemented and the virus was ‘contained’- not spreading beyond close family members. Arriving passengers, were asked to self isolate for two weeks. By mid March, however, community transmission had occurred, with clusters of cases on both islands. The borders were closed and the country entered into the strictest lockdown, Level 4, on March 25th. Returning Kiwis were placed in supervised quarantine, in Auckland hotels for two weeks. Everyone stayed home, unless they were an essential worker and to the relief of Kiwi Kids, the Easter Bunny was deemed an essential worker. We all tuned in at 1 pm, to Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern’s and Director of Health, Ashley Bloomfield’s daily briefings, which ended with the reassuring words, “be kind”. New Zealand mourned its first death on March 29, that of an elderly West Coast woman, with no known exposure to the virus. Not being able to determine, the source of her infection was alarming. At Whakatane Hospital, strict protocols were implemented to protect patients and staff alike. Temporary walls went up in the wards, Emergency Department and Intensive Care Unit. Portable outdoor showers were installed, for staff leaving the hospital, to protect the public, from possible exposure. Admissions were processed in the parking lot and visitors to the hospital, were banned. All elective surgeries were cancelled, in anticipation of beds being needed for COVID 19 patients. Only emergency operations and cancer procedures were being performed. Yet, incredibly, no cases were admitted to Whakatane Hospital, not one. By working together, everyone throughout New Zealand, had stopped the spread of the disease. On April 28, the country stepped down to Alert Level 3; elective surgeries were allowed once more. Mr. Bill was back in the operating theatre, relieved that he could tackle, the backlog of delayed cases.
Our last days living in Ohope were interesting, to say the least. Like everyone else, suddenly experiencing the restrictions imposed under lockdown, we mourned the loss of all we once took for granted. Our children and grandchildren’s visits were cancelled. Plans were scrapped and life slowed down. The gentle pace of Ohope ground to a halt, on the day that everything stopped. Life, however, didn’t come to a complete standstill. Soon a new rhythm established itself. In the absence of commerce and cars, cyclists took over the empty streets. Walkers and runners easily shared the footpaths, the latter stepping into the road, to maintain a safe social distance. Children went on bear hunts, as they searched for Teddy Bears in the windows. The birds seemed to sing louder, but maybe it was the absence of vehicles, making it easier to hear them. Without the Boy Racers tearing up Ohope Hill at night, we could hear the call of the nocturnal kiwi birds, in the bush behind us. Even the cows enjoyed new delights, when they discovered construction equipment, sidelined in their Pohutukawa paddock. With no workers to stop them, they examined the idle machines, to their heart’s content.
“Stay Home. Save Lives”, was the message but everyone was urged to go outside for fresh air and exercise; just as long as you stayed in your own bubble and kept it local. Unable to go further than my feet or bike could carry me, I came to experience Ohope in a more intimate way. My bike rides took longer and longer, as I stopped to chat (from a safe distance- always) with friends both new and old. I took the time to introduce myself to people, who I had only waved to, when I had cycled by, the past seven years. I must admit, that it was always a hoot, when I would explain that they would know who my husband was, by his distinctive running gait. Sure enough, they always did! Staying home on weekends, meant that Mr. Bill could accompany me on my route. I felt like a teenager, showing off that I did indeed, have a boyfriend. When we peddled by Greg on Ocean Road, I could not contain myself and hollered out, “look who is with me”! To that, Greg shouted back, “the man”!
We missed our mates, Linda and Gavin, over the hill in Whakatane. Video calls, emails and texts were poor substitutes for our play dates but were a Godsend, none the less. Yet life wasn’t lonely in lockdown, thanks to our Balcony Buddies. Living once again at Beachpoint, we found ourselves situated in a row of ex-pats, delightfully positioned between an English couple and an English/Aussie couple. In the mornings, neighbour Janis, on the left, neighbour Vicky on the right and I would chat across our balconies, as we hung the day’s washing. In case of a sudden shower, one of us (usually eagle eyed Janis) would give a warning shout, to save the day. In the afternoons, I could always count on getting a bit of stick, from lefty neighbour, David. In the evenings Mr. Bill and I looked forward to hearing Trevor’s cheery ,”Cheers”, when our right hand-side neighbour, raised a glass of red at day’s end. When we all gathered on our respective balconies for happy hour, somehow, I became the ‘monkey in the middle’; running from one side to the other, repeating what had been said on the left to the ones on the right and vice versa, until I was breathless. Returning home from the hospital each day, Mr. Bill would step out onto the balcony and report the news from the world beyond, to our friends. One afternoon, I was surprised by Mr. Bill’s unexpected arrival and I remarked that he was home early. His reply was, “get used to it”. (Ah the 24/7 togetherness of retirement, would soon be ours). One day, information came from on high, thanks to our friend Julia, who rang from her house on the hill. Julia alerted us to the pod of orcas swimming past; we in turn called out to the neighbours and we all watched the whales, from our balconies. Life was simple. We treasured the little things. We knew how fortunate we were, to be quarantining in paradise. However, the BIG question always loomed large, in our conversations over the railings – how would we all travel safely back, to our respective homes? All of our flights had been cancelled. Options for safe passages home, looked dubious at best. Re-booking flights, was easier said than done, as airlines dropped routes around the world, without warning. Trevor and Vicky were the first to leave, securing seats on a repatriation flight to the UK, after Emirates cancelled their tickets. They are now home in Cornwall, safe and sound. Janis and David are leaving next week. Godspeed Gladwins.
As safe as we were in New Zealand, where they first flattened, then smashed the curve of the pandemic’s transmission and are now free of COVID 19 (Good on you New Zealand!), it was still an anxious time to be separated from family and friends, back home in America. We worried and we prayed for our loved ones. We were especially concerned for our daughter-in-law, Mandy, who is a nurse and had volunteered to go, “wherever needed”. Mandy was working long shifts, in a COVID 19 testing tent, in the hard hit state of Connecticut. Soon it was time to leave. Mr. Bill’s contract had ended. Too soon, rather than too late, but apparently with time enough, to take the long way home. Flying on Air New Zealand internationally and on United Airlines domestically, our original itinerary had us booked to Florida, via Houston. However, our way home was constantly changing, as the world’s aviation industry, adapted to the new normal. With the number of global travellers down by 95%, Air New Zealand dropped 85% of its long-haul flights and United Airlines cut domestic routes by 50%. We were rerouted through Los Angeles, then up to Chicago and down to Florida, with long layovers in Auckland, LAX and O’Hare airports. Our trip which usually takes one day, was extended to 41 hours, from door to door. Just a tad longer than the 19 hours it took the astronauts riding on Space X , to travel from Florida, to the International Space Station. But who’s counting?
Now in our new bubble, I am listening to Mr. Bill strum his guitar and sing, while I write these words. Life is good. May it be so, for all of you dear readers. Stay well. Kia kaha (stay strong). Be kind.
COVID 19 precautions at Whakatane Hospital- outdoor admissions & showers
Cows in lockdown
Final ride in Ohope, before our bikes went to a good home
Last lunch before lockdown, with our mates, Linda and Gavin
A royal send off from David & Janis
Trevor & Vicky, home in Cornwall -safe & sound
Teddy Bears in lockdown and words to live by~
A super hero, artist Teddy Bear captures a likeness
Annie’s Teddy Bear, sporting a poppy for remembrance, on Anzac Day
I spy Mr. Bill driving up Ohope Hill Road, between the old postal workers’ bach and Froglands.
Caught out. It was bound to happen, sooner or later. This is what comes of playing Juliet to my Romeo.
With a kiss and an embrace, Mr. Bill and I part in sweet sorrow, when he leaves for Whakatane Hospital, every work day morning. Desperate for one last glimpse of my beloved as he drives away, I have thrown social conventions to the wind, and stepped out in my bathrobe onto the balconies, of our various Beachpoint apartments, to wave goodbye. Until this year.
Ensconced in unit 36, we are now in the rear section, set back from the road and nestled into the bush.The balcony on this third floor flat, overlooks the Beachpoint courtyard pool and commands an expansive view of the sea, but alas, not of West End Road. When we lived in #23, we were street side and I could watch Mr. Bill enter the rotary from Villis Glade, sweep past the public toilets, drive to the end of West End Road and turn right onto Ohope Road: where I would lose sight of him, until he returned at day’s end. When neighbours Rae and Don, were breakfasting on their balcony, they would cheerily wave goodbye as well. When residing in #31, a corner apartment above the garage, I could hear the creak of the roll up gate, announcing Mr. Bill’s eminent departure. From the balcony, I would watch Mr. Bill’s car shoot out onto the ramp, with the window down and his arm extended in adieu. I would then track him, as he traversed the short distance of Villis Glade, entered the roundabout and passed the toilet block. When watching from #39, the fourth floor apartment on the third level, I lost Mr. Bill at the toilets. (If wondering how a fourth floor apartment is on the third level, please read the, “New Horizons” posted, June 2016. It will explain all.)
It was a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, when we moved into #36 in January, and I realised, that I could no longer experience, the latter part of our farewell ritual. I was bereft. How would I cope in the intervening hours, until Mr. Bill’s return? Love would find a way! The third floor apartments, open unto an outside corridor, which abuts the bush clad, Ohope Hill, and while exploring our new digs, we discovered a ‘secret’ stairway at one end of the passageway. At the bottom, it connects with a footpath leading to West End Road. Would I have to pursue Mr. Bill like the Furies, down the steps and out onto the street, to wave goodbye? Thankfully not. At the top of the stairwell there is a vantage point, with a view of Ohope Road. That’s the sweet spot, where I spy Mr. Bill. Every morning, when his car appears in the gap between the bachs next door and Froglands, we wave one last time, as he travels up Ohope Hill.
Birds serenade us when Mr. Bill takes his leave. Only the fantails, tui, blackbirds and the skittish, flightless weka, witness a quick peck on the cheek and a goodbye hug. When Mr. Bill descends to street level and disappears around the corner, my feathered friends linger, keeping me company, while I wait for Mr. Bill’s car to appear, heading up Ohope Road. I’m in my own little world each morning, as I stand sentinel with a cup of coffee, unconcerned that I haven’t yet dressed for the day. There is never anyone else about, all’s quiet, peaceful and private early in the morning. But never say never. There was that one morning, when a young tradie materialised, bounding up the steps, two at a time. I am not sure who was more alarmed, me or him. Me, for being caught out in a state of undress or him, for stumbling upon the ‘Wreck of the Hesperus’, standing like the figure head, of that ill fated ship. Poor dear, I could only feel sorry for him. I quickly explained, that I was waving goodbye to my husband. “That’s awesome”, he said with great enthusiasm, as he opened the gate, of the end unit patio. Then, being a true romantic, he gallantly stepped aside, offering to let me into my next door neighbour’s outdoor space, for an even better outlook. Suddenly shy, I demurred and off he went, across the neighbour’s wrap around deck, to access the roof- which would have been the ultimate viewing platform. But I lacked the courage to follow him. After all, how would I explain that to Mr. Bill?
Stepping outside in the mornings, just the two of us, Mr. Bill and I felt like we were living in our own romantic bubble. Little did we know, that come midnight on March 25th, our bubble would become our, COVID 19-Alert Level 4, lockdown bubble. Now we count down the days, until we can burst our bubble. I’ll even dress for the occasion.
Mr. Bill’s view of where I wait and watch for him.
We can see the ocean but not the road from #36.
Mr. Bill at the top of the ‘secret’ stairway.
The bush behind our apartments
Overlooking the bach next door and Froglands
Beachpoint garage entrances- where Mr. Bill’s commute begins and ends.
West End Road, begins at the bottom of Ohope Hill, joins the rotary in front of Beachpoint and continues on the far side, to the end of West End Beach.
No merging traffic in lockdown
The rotary connecting West End Road and Villis Glade, with the public toilets on the left and the entrance to the beach parking lot.
Fantails are cheeky, friendly little birds.
I was lucky to snap this picture of the weka, they may be flightless birds but they are fleet of foot.
Be strong. Be kind. No matter where we are in this world, we are all in this pandemic together.
This will be a serious post for Travels with Mr. Bill. Please let me extend a heartfelt thank you, to everyone who has written to enquire after Bill and I. Your kind words and prayers are much appreciated and please know, that we hold all of you close in our hearts.
We are well and are presently living in New Zealand, under the Corvid- 19, Alert Level 4, lockdown; which was implemented at 11:59 pm, on Tuesday, March 24th. It was a bold and wise move by the New Zealand government, to stop the community transmission of the disease and ‘flatten the curve’ of cases. In the words of Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern, “we must go hard and we must go early”. New Zealand learned a sobering lesson, from Italy’s delayed response to outbreaks and imposed strict social distancing, sooner rather than later.
A national emergency alert was issued last Tuesday, March 24, at 6:30 pm, stating: “From 11:59 tonight, the whole of New Zealand moves to Covid-19 Alert Level 4. This message is for all of New Zealand. We are depending on you. Follow the rules and STAY HOME. Act as if you have Covid-19. This will save lives. Remember: * Where you stay tonight is where you must stay from now on. * You must only be in physical contact with those you are living with It is likely Level 4 measures will stay in place for a number of weeks. Let’s all do our bit to unite against Covid-19. Kia kaha”.
The borders have now been closed to all but returning NZ citizens and medical workers, coming to help. All domestic travel is banned, except for essential services. All businesses, shops, schools, child care centers, libraries, museums, churches, restaurants-including all take away, parks, playgrounds, farm stands etc., are all shuttered. Online shopping is only allowed for essential goods. If you are not working in an industry deemed essential, you may only drive to Doctors’ offices, hospitals, grocery stores and gas stations.
On Saturday, March 21, New Zealand was at level 2 with56 cases of Corvid-19. All churches were closed and large gatherings were banned. people over 70 were told to self isolate and keep a safe social distance.
On Sunday, March 22 there were 70 cases.
On Monday morning, March 23, there were 102 cases. The country went to Alert Level 2-3. Sadly, the disease was following the same trajectory of other affected countries. It was a stark reminder, when the Prime Minister said, “We currently have 102 cases. But so did Italy once; now the virus has overwhelmed their health care system and hundreds of people are dying every day. The situation is moving at pace and so must we”. When Mr. Bill left for work that morning, he had an all day theatre list (scheduled operations). When he arrived at Whakatane Hospital, he was told that all elective surgeries were cancelled, in order to make beds available, for the expected cases of Corvid-19. Currently, he is only doing emergency operations and procedures for cancer patients. He still makes daily ward rounds on his patients in the hospital. When possible, his clinic patients and his post-op, follow up, visits are done over the phone, to lessen their risk of exposure .
On Monday afternoon, March 23it was announcedthat the country would go to Alert level 3 for 48 hours, in order to give people time to prepare for Level 4 lockdown. Kiwis rushed home, from around the world and across the country, to beat Tuesday’s midnight deadline. There were long lines for the Cook Strait Ferries, as travellers queued to get to either the North or South Island, for their period of isolation. There was much panic buying of groceries and toilet paper, despite the government’s assurances, that New Zealand has more than enough of life’s necessities to go around.
On Tuesday, March 24, there were 205 cases and the country’s lockdown began.
Everyone is expected to be sheltering in place, inside their designated bubble. Going outside for fresh air and exercise is encouraged, as long as one keeps it local and maintains a safe two-meter distance. Walkers, runners and cyclists, now rule the roads, while keeping a healthy distance. Mr. Bill and I are blessed to have beautiful Ohope Beach on our front doorstep. Mr. Bill runs, while I prefer peddle power. Most everyone is doing their bit. Wash Your Hands. Stay Home-Save a Life. It’s that’s simple. Sadly, there are always some who will flout the rules. To help stop that, the police have set up a website, where you can report those not in compliance; it crashed on day one. You may not drive to exercise, outside of your neighbourhood and the Minister of Health, was dobed in to authorities, when he drove to a mountain bike trail. Just one person per household, is allowed to grocery shop. Numbers into stores are limited and once that has reached the maximum allowed, it’s strictly one out, one in. Shoppers wait outside, two meters apart in line. Before entering, your hands are sprayed with sanitiser, as well as the handle on your trolley. People are urged to only touch when they intend to buy and shop as quickly as possible. Prepared foods are no longer on offer. To prevent panic buying, purchases are limited to two of the same item. Check out queues are kept a safe distance from cashiers, who are behind plexiglass barriers. You bag your own groceries and cash as payment is discouraged.
It was a sobering choice to remain in New Zealand, when the travel bans were announced. My instinct, like that of the ladybug, was, “to fly away home”. The US Consulate closed in Auckland on March 20th. The State Department sent an email stating, “…in countries where commercial departure options remain available, US citizens who live in the United States should arrange for immediate return to the United States, unless they are prepared to remain abroad for an indefinite period”. At the end of the day, Mr. Bill could not abandon his patients and I’m stuck like glue to Mr. Bill. We do hope however, that by the end of Mr. Bill’s contract, travel restrictions will be eased and we will be able to leave. The Bay of Plenty DHB would be happy for Mr. Bill to stay on and his work visa would allow that but unfortunately, Simurgh, the Kiwi insurance company, that we have our medical coverage with, will not renew our policy beyond the original exit date. Not to have medical coverage would be reckless. As visitors, we are not entitled (nor should we be) to use the NZ health care system and our American policies, do not cover us over here. Since 2013 we have purchased our medical insurance from Simurgh, for when we are in New Zealand and happily have never needed it. The irony of a doctor being unable to get medical insurance, despite working in the health care system, is not lost on us. So do please say a prayer, that we will be able to leave, before our coverage ends.
To end a serious post on a happy note, our next door neighbours, Janis and David, have informed us, that on Friday evenings at 5:10, they will be on their balcony and along with Kiwis, all over New Zealand, will be raising a glass, to toast all medical workers.
Cheers, Mr. Bill. This one’s for you!
The 5:10 salute to medical workersKia kaha Be strong There are X’s painted 2 meters apart, on the footpath to keep waiting shoppers a safe distance apart.
Travels with Mr. Bill 