Pandemic Stress

I spent the pandemic year writing a novel, Jack’s Gift. Now, firecrackers started exploding in my brain, searing synapses, and leaving stale, hollow echoes of thought behind. Words slithered off my screen, unable to connect then drowning in darkness. An internal, wild force compelled me to breakout of tihs pandemic prison. Now I stood stuck, cornered, and blocked in my head. Like a school crossing guard, I shoved the STOP sign into my face. I ceased book drafting, blog posting, all social media musings and turned to the physical world. 

“I’m antsy. Let’s finally retire and move to Florida.” I said to my husband.

“Why? Can’t we just take a trip or two to scratch your itch?” His head was down as he scrolled through email, not looking at me.

“Listen. Travel is hardly an adventure after all the continents and countries we’ve been to over the past 30 years. And, I know it was my idea to explore the Atlantic coast and the Bahamas in the sailboat for a year, but I’ve learned my lesson. There’s no place like home and I’m ready for a house, a place to take care of, a place of our own.”

His scrolling motion slowed. I pressed further. “We talked about moving to Florida before all this pandemic stuff hit. You said you liked St. Pete both times we visited. No hurricanes since 1921. You said more than just a few times that life on a beach with a bottle of scotch watching the sunset was your idea of heaven. And there’s a long string of Gulf beaches just minutes away from anywhere in St. Pete.” He looked up from the screen, put down his mobile, and smiled at me. I had his attention.

It was a mind blowing quest, uprooting ourselves from the ease and simplicity of city apartment living. We were in Virgina, our realtor was in North Carolina and our house hunt in St. Pete. In the mix were daily searches on Zillow and Realtor.com, trying to catch a listing before it fly off-the-screen. I percevered. On aThursday morning (that’s when most listings first get posted) I found one on the northern edge of town. A recently renovated (aka flipped) and sweetly landscaped 1958 concrete block rambler painted a soft sage green with space in the backyard for a pool. I jumped! My husband, still skeptical, was willing to take a look. For me, it was perfect. Madeira Beach was only five minutes away; just over the causeway. And the house was, miraculously, affordable, in an old established neighborhhood, and not in a flood zone. I promised we’d buy flood insurance, just in case. It was a proposal he couldn’t refuse.

I had visions of being completely settled and relaxed by Christimas. Maybe I could return to writing in the new yeaar. What happened threatened everything.