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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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Off The Grid

Unplanned blogs that don’t fit anywhere else!

I’m breaking tradition and posting this now instead of Sunday – for obvious reasons. Enjoy this post from my friend Sarah’s blog! ~Amy

sarahcotchaleovitch's avatarFull-Time Writer Mom

It was a childhood joke with my mom and her sisters. After returning from a big shopping trip with their mother, they would say, “Look, Daddy! See how much money we saved!” Then my grandfather would groan and view the purchases and all the “savings.”

I can’t tell you how many times I go to one store or another, where the cashier makes a point to show me how much I saved. Yeah, but what about that other number–the amount I spent? What I save doesn’t actually put money in the bank, although many people shop like it does.

While retailers look forward to moving from the red to the black this weekend (and I understand that they depend on Christmas shoppers to turn a profit), I wonder how many of their shoppers will do just the opposite, putting themselves into debt to kick off the holiday season. There’s nothing…

View original post 1,071 more words

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Gratitudes

1. I’m grateful to be alive. I could so easily not be. I’m one of the few individuals that’s been given a second chance at life.

2. I’m grateful for my mind. Just as the surgeon was millimeters away from life-giving functions, it’s also miraculous that my words and memories were not affected. They fuel my writing. The physical damage was great, but I’d rather write than walk.

3. I’m grateful to be able to communicate. Sure, I sound like a drunk E.T., but it’s nice to smile and exchange even the most mundane pleasantries with neighbors on Frankie’s walks.

4. I’m grateful for all the family in my life, but particularly for my mom. She made a great sacrifice — twice. Once, when I was born and a second time, six years ago, when she gave up life as she knew it in Miami to come to Jacksonville.

5. I’m grateful to Brooks. The rehabilitation hospital, the Adaptive Sports and Recreation Program, the Clubhouse, the outpatient therapy and the Neuro Gym. For everything they do to improve the quality of life for those of us in the community living with a disability.

6. I’m grateful to have a purpose. Find one. Go within. I think it’s something internal, something that can give you hope on dark days, regardless of external forces.

7. I’m grateful to have friends. Old and new. You can’t have too many. They make life sweeter. They’re the electives in a heavy courseload. I’m especially thankful to have one friend/physical therapist (she knows who she is) who keeps me moving!

8. I’m grateful to have Frankie and Bella. And yes, even my mom’s insane cat, Carlito. Animals are wonderful. They have such emotional lives. And not just cats and dogs. Consider — just consider — not eating them. You don’t have to start breaking holiday traditions if you’re not ready. Start next year. Start with red meat. It’s not all or nothing. I’m still unable or unwilling, despite repeated attempts, to give up seafood. Do what you can. Just think about it.

9. I’m grateful for my social security. Fortunately, the government pays me Social Security Disability Income. With it, I can afford the basics of food, clothing, shelter and then some.

10. I’m grateful to live in Florida. I can see the sunrise over the ocean every morning if I want to. It’s sad that I know this (hey, I don’t have cable!) but on Family Feud when Steve Harvey (who’s funny, that’s another excuse) said, “Name a state with the best beaches,” Florida was a top answer.

Keeping a list of things you’re grateful for can help you cultivate a more positive outlook on life which can improve your emotional well-being and reduce stress!

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Unplugging

I defy you to try to completely rid yourself of cable. It can’t be done. I’ve tried in the past. I tried again last week. A month ago they let me keep some movie channels for free. Great, right? Wrong. I have no willpower. I end up watching The Italian Job for the billionth time and eating a pint of Pralines ‘n Cream.

And why? Because it’s there. And I want to get on the couch and out of the wheelchair for awhile. I could be reading on that couch. If I didn’t have television, I would be.

I’ve determined that TV is the source of all my problems. Problem losing weight? Sitting in front of the TV is a known trigger for me. I eat even when I’m not hungry. Who watches TV without snacks? Problem  #2: I haven’t finished my book. It weighs heavily on me. I’m so close! What if I get hit by a Mack truck before my masterpiece is out in the world? So much time would be freed up for writing if I didn’t get sucked in to two hour movies on cable. And money. Money’s always an issue. Particularly, when you don’t make any. I’ve already whittled my monthly bill, with Internet, from $150 down to $65. I gave up everything but local channels. And movies. Last week, I decided to axe it all.

Yeah, right. Continue reading “Unplugging” →

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Day at the Dentist

Most people hate going to the dentist. They don’t like the picking, the drilling, the probing. No one’s crazy about gloved hands in your mouth or a masked face inches from your own. All while being expected not to move. I get it. But, I’ve never had the real phobia that many people seem to have. Maybe, I have a high tolerance for pain. Maybe as a kid, I was a sucker for the giant smiling tooth filled with the sugar-free treats and glittery stickers I always got when it was over. Or maybe, I’ve never had the kind of experience I had last week.

My usual hygienist had disappeared, gone to work in some other office, presumably where the patients all owned Water Piks and had minty fresh breath. I missed her. I like it when people get to know me. The wheelchair has a tendency to throw some people off. They are clueless — either speaking to me like I’m a child or hard of hearing. Besides, I had finally figured out a way to floss despite having only one good hand. I was ready to show off my healthy gums. The woman who entered didn’t care about my gums, only in assigning them a numerical value.

“Two, three, two. One, two, four,” she called out with lightening speed to another woman with a clipboard (who obviously could never come to work with a hangover.) While I marveled at this note-taking process and imagined the chaos that would ensue if a single number was mumbled out of earshot, Dental Hygienist (or Assistant to the Dental Hygienist?) began to look like the most stressful job ever.

The new woman, the one with the hook that deftly pushed at my gums, moved quickly. She had a brusque, all-business manner and a thick European accent. French? German? I didn’t catch her name so I’ll just call her Fraulein Clean Teeth. First, Fraulein Clean Teeth picked and scraped. I knew better than to try and make small talk and fortunately she didn’t bother. She just kept instructing me, “Chin up. Chin up.” Was I being lazy about my chin? Did I keep letting it fall into a relaxed position? I tried to be as compliant as possible. She was moving along at a brisk pace (were they paid per patient?) when she hit a bit of a snag. The snag was my chin on the end of her sharp picking instrument. She dropped it and hooked me like a fish when she tried to catch it. Have you ever been gouged with one of those things? It’s almost literally like taking a needle to the face. Fraulein mumbled a quick apology.

Next there was the toothpaste, rinsed out with such haste I would feel I was crunching on sand all day. Then Fraulein spoke to the clipboard woman. “Ask Mom if we’re doing Fluoride.” Was I 12? She must have seen my face as I imagined my mother’s shrugged response because then she asked me, “Are you paying or her?”

“I’m paying.”

“Do you want Fluoride?”

“How much is it?”

“22 dollars.”

“No.”

Mom thinks this happened because I look young, but I don’t look that young. I think it’s the wheelchair.

Then I was left alone, laying straight back to stare at the florissant lights as if on an operating table, for at least 15 minutes.

Just when I began to think I couldn’t take it anymore, feeling claustrophobic under the weight of my paper bib, the doctor came in. During all of about two minutes (in which time he probably made 200 dollars) he briefly inspected my mouth and declared it healthy. Did I have any questions? I wanted to throw him a curve ball, a real stumper. Make him earn his exorbitant salary. But alas, I had nothing. I was free to go. And without a giant tooth filled with prizes to make it all better. Kids get all the fun.

4

Slumdog Opening

You can count on one hand the number of things that impressed me about London’s opening ceremony of the Olympics. The rings that rained gold were pretty. The Queen parachuted Bond-style into the arena. That was definitely cool. And who doesn’t like a bit of Beckham on a boat? The rest (that I stayed up for) left me feeling back in school, without the answer and about to be called on.

I had one overwhelming thought as I watched Friday night’s display: What on earth is going on? My confusion began shortly after the madcap, dizzying montage opening and lasted all the way through to the start of the Parade of Countries. (I gave up and went to bed with a headache after Australia.)

I loved Slumdog Millionaire, but personally, I’d call this a miss for British director, Danny Boyle. Unless the point was to entertain Brits only (even though the whole world was watching.) There were lots of inside jokes and cultural references that only a local audience would understand. But I have to wonder how much of all that history even the English knew. In a performance that was supposed to represent England’s Industrial Revolution, but looked more like a scene from Les Miserables, dirty, ragamuffin actors  were miming some kind of manual labor (shoveling?) while hoards of other actors with top hats and beards joined them. I still haven’t figured out who the bearded men were supposed to be.

And I know I risk standing alone on this one and outing myself as a real stick-in-the-mud, but I don’t think Mr. Bean (Rowan Atkinson) is that funny. I would’ve rather watched the musicians play “Chariots of Fire” than him make fun of it.

There were some brief moments of clarity for me when classic children’s characters created by British authors took center stage. Everyone could recognize Mary Poppins, Captain Hook and Cruella de Vil. It was less clear, however, why the Mary Poppins were tucking a giant baby (think Toy Story 3) into bed. I’m with the announcer who said, “I’m not sure if that’s cute or just creepy.” Oh, it’s creepy all right.

All this really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Boyle is known for being complex and often dark. My mother probably loved it. As did most of England. As for me, I’ll be looking to the Games themselves for my dramatic storytelling. No Cliff’s Notes needed.

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The Secret to Happy

If you’ve ever watched a child on a swing or running in the sand at the beach, you know. That simple, wild abandon. The sheer joy. How are they so able to enjoy life and the little things? To be so … happy? “Well,” you grumble, “…they don’t have to work 9-5, …they don’t have a horrible boss, …they don’t have bills to pay.” But the answer is easier. They live in the present.

You know how it goes. “Five more minutes!” you holler. Then, when five minutes are up and you announce it’s time to go, they are shocked and hurt. As if you’d never warned them at all. They didn’t spend their last five minutes being miserable. They happily resumed playing.

Now, you may have some adult-like child who’s different, but in general they forget the bad news that it’s all drawing to a close and soak up the remaining fun.

I have a friend who ruins the last half-hour of her massage thinking how it’s about to be over. “Oh, he’s on my legs. Then it’ll be my arms and then it’s over. Oh, he’s on my left arm. Then it’ll be my right arm and then it’s over.” And so on.

The secret to being happy is being positive in the present. The way we think, the way all of society operates, is that if x happens (we get the promotion, buy the new house, make the bonus,) then we’ll be happy. We delay our own gratification, always changing the goal, thereby putting happiness out of reach. It should work in reverse. A brain that is happy performs at a higher level, making all those other things possible. Listen to this TED talk on the subject. (Make sure you’ve got your thinking cap on. This guy talks at warp speed.)

To train your brain to be more positive, try the following. (It’s suggested for 21 days in a row, but that’s a little daunting to me. I say anything’s better than nothing.)

~ 3 Gratitudes

~Journaling

~Exercise

~Meditation

~Random Acts of Kindness

Personally, I think I’ve got this positive brain stuff down. I’m happier than most. Particularly, given my situation. You know, the wheelchair and all. That’s why I tend to get annoyed when someone starts positive thinking me to death. “Keep working hard! Never give up! Never say never and you’ll walk again.” The problem with this thinking is that it makes my happiness dependent on a particular outcome (walking again) that may never happen. I need to be happy today. With what I’ve got right now. Right this second. If I never walk again.

And you know what? I am.

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Ode to a French Fry

I love food.

I love McDonald’s french fries, covered in salt and greasy, hot out of the bag before you can even get home. I love mussels from Carrabba’s swimming in sauce that drips down your chin, sopped up by warm, crusty bread. Chilled Chardonnay on the side, of course. And I never met a dessert I didn’t like. I prefer the ones with morbid names like Death by Chocolate or Raspberry Suicide. So, can you tell I’m on a diet?

Yup, the same one I was on after the holidays when I wrote my “Winter Weight” post. So, you see, it’s been going well. Six months later and I’ve decided to get serious.  Well, as serious as I get about diets which is not very. In fact, I don’t like to use the term “diet.” I prefer instead to say I’m “being good.” Then, I haven’t failed. I’m just “being bad” temporarily.

And no, I’m not doing it because bathing suit season is upon us. I couldn’t care less about bathing suit season. I can’t even swim. I long ago traded in my bikini for a tankini and I’m considering trading in my tankini for some men’s board shorts and an old t-shirt. No, I’m doing it because I can’t zip up my pants and I don’t want to spend money on new ones.

I have two friends (I’ll call them Mr. and Mrs. Hard Body) that are always “being good.” For them, it’s not a diet, it’s a way of life. And it shows. They look like Ken and Barbie, if Ken and Barbie lived in the gym instead of a dream house. Now, I love my friends, but they’re no fun. A day at the beach entails not the potato chips and cold beer that I crave, but a baggie full of chickpeas and some coconut water. You know, the kind of people that spend fifteen minutes questioning the waiter before ordering the special served dry and a salad with the dressing on the side, hold the croutons. My friends recently met up with another couple who (gasp!) chose a French restaurant for the foursome to eat at. A real problem for my friends. A dream come true for me.

In fact, going out to eat is probably my favorite thing to do. Sure, it’d be nice to wear a two-piece again. Or even a sleeveless top. To have toned arms and a flat stomach. But, I’ve decided it’s just not worth it. So, I’m embracing my rolls. And the garlic ones.

Another friend and I discovered a great Greek restaurant the other night. I had Shrimp Mykonos and she had the lamb (tender — like butter!) We saved room for dessert — cappuccinos, tiramisu and Baklava cheesecake. It’s nice spending time with someone who appreciates food as much as me. We’re both in wheelchairs, maybe that’s it. Life experience has taught us only too well — life’s too short to skip dessert.

I’m sorry, I realize this post isn’t going to inspire anyone to stick to their own healthy eating plan. I, myself, am not breaking any records for weight loss. I think I’m losing at the lightning speed of a pound a week. Maybe less. So if you need motivation, I’ll be happy to get you in touch with The Hard Body’s. But I’ll have to leave a message. I hear they’re out training for a marathon.

8

Personal History

Photo by Pat Hazouri

When I was little I thought the ferry that went from the parking lot of Disney World  to the much anticipated main gates rode on tracks. I don’t remember if a family member teasingly told me this or I came up with it myself. It seems a natural deduction for a small child to make — all the other rides are on tracks.

The idea carried over to adulthood, when I tricked an old boyfriend into believing this about the St. John’s River Ferry. I figured a Midwestern boy who hadn’t seen the ocean till he was 27 just might be gullible enough. He was.

The boyfriend’s long gone, a brief part of my history. A much longer and, dare I say it, more important part– the ferry — remains. For now.

The Jacksonville Port Authority has voted to stop supporting ferry operations. Closing the St. John’s River Ferry Service will bring all sorts of problems. Unemployment to ferry workers and the community of Mayport, loss of income to businesses along the A1A route, decreased property values in neighboring communities, loss of eco-tourism and decreased attendance to all the City, State and National Parks along the way, just to name a few.

The Manadnock, 1948

The fight to preserve the ferry is, like all debates of its kind, an effort steeped in politics and money. But to us locals, you can’t put a price on what we stand to lose. The St. John’s River Ferry has been operating here since 1948. On the Keep the Ferry website (where you can sign the petition, donate or volunteer) someone said it best when they wrote “the ferry is so entwined in the history of Mayport that Mayport literally wouldn’t be Mayport without the ferry.” I would extend that to Jacksonville.

Jacksonville will lose a lot of its appeal if the route along its scenic waterway closes. I’ve taken every out of town guest who ever visited for a ferry ride, showing off our beautiful marshes and coastline. I’ve stood with my mom at the ferry rail and watched dolphins roll by. Rode my bike north across A1A and camped at Ft. Clinch. And munched on fried shrimp at Singleton’s while watching the pelicans on ferry pilings.

Riding the ferry, 2004

For myself and every other local, whether boater, cyclist, kayaker or wildlife photographer, it’s about more than unemployment numbers or loss of revenue. It’s personal.

0

Change

A few days ago, I found out that one of Frankie’s favorite humans had suffered a stroke. Probably, when I was writing in a recent post the cautionary words that tragedy could strike at any moment.

Jim and his wife, Virginia, would walk First Street nearly every morning. Frankie and I would always see them. Jim would carry two dog biscuits in his pocket just for Frankie. I’ve been around when other dogs and their owners stopped and Jim came up empty-handed. It’s not like he had a pocketful of dog treats to befriend all the neighborhood dogs. Just two. Just Frankie.

It crosses your mind when you haven’t seen some people in a while. I wondered, but had no way of knowing. Until another “regular” we pass told me Jim was in the hospital. They’re just neighbors I met with Frankie. And yet, they’d become a part of our routine I looked forward to. I don’t like change. Nobody does.

Jim carried an old golf club turned makeshift walking stick. Frankie would hear the tell-tale clacks long before I would. By the time they approached, Frankie was jumping for joy. He even let out a couple of excited yips once in awhile. Then he’d receive his treats. But just two. Jim and Virginia don’t have a dog. Did they buy dog biscuits at the store just for Frankie?

Virginia and James Keys

I always intended to write about them, though not in this way. I learned some time ago that they were local celebrities. Virginia (Atter Keys)  had been a radio and television icon in the ’50s through ’80s. I just knew she remembered Frankie’s name because of Frankie Valli. And then she would start singing.

I don’t know that we’ll see them out walking again, though I do plan to stop by their house. With Frankie. He’ll be excited even without the treats. I don’t know how bad a stroke it was. Maybe we can all sit in the driveway.

So, I’m sad. I miss seeing them out walking. I miss our exchange and Frankie’s enthusiasm. I miss the routine. Remember, things can change in an instant. Soak up the now.

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