Touring Across North Carolina. The Good. The Bad. And the Ugly.

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As the year draws to an end, as I realize I’ve been somewhat amiss with my blogging for which I apologize in advance, I suppose now is as good a time as any to share with you what I’ve been up to for the past two months.

October 11th I was deployed to North Carolina to help the survivors of Hurricane Matthew. Like all deployments before there is a heightened sense of adrenaline making myself ready to dig in for a big job. But that pumped up feeling is now gone. I feel drained from top to bottom, happy to be back home where I’ve put my game face back on the shelf until the next time. While I love what I do, it’s hard, hard work.

At the beginning of each deployment while everything is still in critical mode, we’re working twelve hour days. Seven days a week. We’re up before the sun. And once the waters have crested and subsided (if it’s a flood disaster), we’re out there in the field knocking on doors, in the mud, in the heat, in the rain, fighting flies, and sometimes you’re even up against folks who are not at all happy to see you. These are people who live so far off the grid, along back dirt roads with their guard dogs, “No Trespassing” signs and KKK flags flying high that you’d be an idiot not to think twice before stepping onto their turf, especially me with my “Levine” badge roped around my neck for all to see.

But this is the job. This is what I signed up for. And even though I’m aware of the danger every time I knock on a door, my thoughts are much more focused on helping someone who might have otherwise fallen through the cracks. That is why I do what I do. I want to make a difference to someone because it makes me feel good. Makes me feel like I am doing something important. Something authentic while living each day congruently with the values I hold dear.

For me working with FEMA has been a dream fulfilled. And beyond the hard days and pockets of devastation that penetrates the experience, I know each and every time I will come home with a new treasure trove of life lessons that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

I get to travel to places and see things I wouldn’t normally.

This was my first trip to North Carolina. For the time of year, it was unusually warm and yet Fall somehow showed its face. And what a glorious face it was. Cotton never felt softer than it does when still young and bursting from its pod. Streams teaming with trout and glittering like diamonds against the afternoon sun just as I caught this shot. And the frying pan and ice cream truck … well those were just added bonuses. Perked up my day like you wouldn’t believe!

 

 

 

I get to meet new friends.

 

Some might just be passing through, but some are more. Much more. With each deployment, like an old woman gathering acorns in her basket, I have found the most remarkable people I now call “friends.” People who have enriched my life and under different circumstances I might never have spoken to for one reason or another.

A James Cromwell (Green Mile movie) tall wisp of a man who shared my passion for writing. A tiny redhead from Puerto Rico I met during Hurricane Sandy who became my voice of reason. A guy with the last name Jimenez that didn’t speak a lick of Spanish and made me laugh at moments when I wanted to cry. A bald as a cue ball, ex-biker with an earring and tattoos up the yin yang who held me captive in the car every day forcing me to work by his side while he talked about the paranormal and whatever else he felt like discussing for the day. The list of those people who have come into my life through FEMA goes on and on. I am so grateful that our paths have crossed. That they dared to open their hearts to me. And never moreso grateful that I had enough sense to pay attention to that old adage, “Never judge a book by its cover.”

Shit happens.

I’ve been fortunate when I go out on deployment. Other than falling here and there, I’ve never gotten hurt on the job. And I’ve never been in an accident of any kind. Well, this deployment certainly changed all that for me. Less than two weeks into it, while driving, I was hit by an 18-wheeler. The front left side of their car was crushed like a pancake. And four weeks after that, the second rental was again demolished when I hit a dog on the highway. I can’t begin to express all the things going through my mind during that two-second clip from the time I saw the dog stopping in the middle of the road as I came barreling down upon it at 75 miles per hour, other than I broke in two.

Patience is a virtue I’ve yet to master.

I’m constantly reminded of this. And sometimes I wonder if I ever will.

My first month of deployment I was saddled with a crew lead who not only didn’t know what the hell she was doing, she like many aging people, kept repeating herself. Oh my God. Talk about torture. But I kept thinking about my mother. I kept thinking about the fact she’s losing her words, she’s no longer connected to a chain of conversation for any length of time and I must do better. For her. And for me I suppose knowing it’s only a matter of time before I too ride that choo-choo into La La Land.

Your health is all you’ve got.

I’m not one to make resolutions, but for 2017 I’m making an exception. When deployed, I tend to do all the wrong things. Eat the wrong things and not take care of myself like I should. Not because I want to. But because the job forces the situation. That and I think we get lazy riding around a car all day, out in the boonies where we’re lucky to find a McDonald’s or Hardees. So we grab what we can, when we can.

Which was my exact thought when I found this little kiosk. Was this luck or what?

As I look back on my time in North Carolina, there were many days my heart was heavy. For the families who’d lost everything, and their whole world was left piled out on the street in one soggy heap for all to see. For the animals left abandoned, abused, their limbs quivering as we drew near wondering if we were going to pet them or beat them. I can’t wipe those images from my mind. But I can counting my blessings. Every single one of them. Especially this beautiful one I know is waiting for me when I get home.

As I push through all these thoughts, I can’t help but wonder are the choices we make in our lives fated. Are we truly the masters of our domain? I like to think we are. That nothing in this crazy world of ours is set in stone. And that the best has yet to happen.

On that note, I will end with much thanks. Thanks for reading. And thanks for letting me share my thoughts with all of you.

Peace and love.

 

 

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Book Club Tour Challenge Progress Report. Week Two. And Going Nuts.

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In a word. Oy. I can’t believe it’s two weeks in, and I’m already pulling my hair out. I knew this thing wouldn’t be easy. I knew as a virtual unknown with little following in the literary world, that I had my work cut out for me. And I might not succeed at all in meeting my goal, getting all fifty states on board and visited within a year’s time. But I also knew I had the state of New Jersey in my back pocket right from the get-go, so I refused to let anything faze me. I approached this like I approach any other challenge I set for myself. With wide-eyed optimism and dummy donuts for breakfast.

donut girl

The idea for the video to get the ball rolling, came out of the blue. Like one of those lightbulb moments. And I loved it from the start. It was a project unto itself where I spent hours upon hours of time and putting on make-up that I wouldn’t normally bother with, while trying to have this mumbo jumbo two-minute script memorized so I wouldn’t keep looking off to the side every other second at my cheat sheet, like an bleepin’ idiot. But once I finally had it down pat, once I felt that it was as good as it was going to get, I released it. Again I was under no great illusion here that this would be my ticket to ride. That after a reasonable amount of time and people spreading the gospel that this cute little old lady author was available for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs . . . that the other forty-nine other states that I did not have in my back pocket, would come banging down my door. Let alone knock.

Yes, I had a lot of shares, a lot of buzz and plenty of views over these past two weeks. But that’s it. And with time ticking (remember this challenge has a shelf life of 50 weeks), I immediately turned to Plan B: Meetup.com. In case you’re not yet familiar, this is the go-to website for anyone, anywhere looking for every conceivable type of social club or activity. A group to go hiking with, people to have drinks with, go to the movies with. Seriously, it’s great! When I moved to California not knowing a soul, it was a perfect way for me to meet new friends. And I did.

And now I believed it would also be a perfect way for me to go from state to state, introducing myself and my little book to as many clubs as I could find; all without ever leaving the house or changing my jammies.

In my mind, it couldn’t be any easier. Having so many opportunities right there at my fingertips, in such a centralized spot. It reminded me of the good ole days when I sold insurance for a living. Wow. Talk about pounding the pavement. Jesus. Un-believable. I would drive around for hours looking for business parks and literally go from door-to-door, in the hot Florida sun, all decked out in my professional skin: suit and heels. Just praying to God that someone would eventually feel sorry for me and buy something.

Anyway, I’m getting off track here a bit. I think the point I was trying to make is that I was so hungry to be successful, that I was willing to do anything. To put up with anything to get the job done. And despite the passage of time, I’m still that tenacious girl, and this job for me would be no different.

So I stuck to the plan. I created what I believed to be the perfect email. (I’m the writer, remember?) And day by day, in those spare clips of moments between editing my next book and helping take care of my granddaughter, I began to work my way through the website. Starting off though with the state of Florida for the simple reason that’s where I live. And as luck would have it, I found over ten clubs within a twenty-mile radius of my house. Wow. Another bonus, I remember thinking as I sent off the emails, as I waited and waited for a single reply. One day, three days past without hearing a word from any of the organizers. And when the fifth day came and went I began to get a little panicky. Thinking oh boy, something’s definitely wrong here. Maybe the emails didn’t go through. Maybe they got deleted somehow. And just as I was about to repeat the entire process all over again, because what else could I do, I finally received a response. A response I had not expected.

“Our club is meant for serious readers ONLY. Do not bother us again!”

Wow. If that didn’t burst my bubble, the next email that came a day later, sure as hell did.

“It is our club policy not to allow authors to attend our meetings. It’s too disruptive. I’m sorry.”

Too disruptive? Is she f**cking kidding me?

Needless to say, as much as I wanted to argue with the wall, I had no time or choice but to plow on. This was after all still my Plan B. A plan I still felt confident would work, complete with good odds, forty-eight other states to try, and a fresh batch of dummy donuts waiting for me on the table.

So on I went. Back to the computer. Doing an Internet search for the biggest cities in Alabama before proceeding once again over to the Meetup.com site. There I managed to locate one club in Birmingham, one in Mobile, and nothing, I mean nothing in Huntsville, Tuscaloosa, Montgomery and Dothan. This didn’t make me at all happy. But I shot off my whopping two emails anyway and repeated the process for Alaska and Arizona.

As you can imagine, Alaska isn’t exactly the book club capital of the world either, but Arizona certainly made up for the first two states, and in spades. Yielding over fifteen clubs. I was thrilled. And after I shot off all those emails, after I noted each club into the excel spreadsheet I’d created to keep track of all my doings, I began to feel as if the door was finally opening up, and things were heading in the right direction.

Yes, that was me yesterday afternoon at around 3:30 pm. All hopped up on those dummy donuts and giddy throughout the day and into the night. Right up until 8:00 pm when things went seriously south faster than Superman and a speeding bullet after I received an email from Meetup.com advising me that I could no longer use their site. My account was now shut down, locked out, and in other words sista, here’s the boot, screw you and go figure out another damn plan. Because this one . . . ain’t gonna fly.

I felt like crap. I could not believe this was the attitude and the perception I was now forced to face. How did I go from a million opportunities to zero in a blink? From easy peasy to what the hell do I do now to find all these clubs? I wanted to scream. Because honestly, nothing else seemed suitable for the occasion. Yes, perhaps I was having one of those melt-down, kick in the ass moments reminding me that nothing from nothing in this life ever comes easy. Especially those things worth having. Only I couldn’t concentrate on that. I couldn’t because I was still blinded and too caught up in my own small world of frustration to allow this wonderful message of resiliency to wrap itself around me.

But . . . that was yesterday. And today, well, like they say: it’s a whole new day. Another opportunity. Another chance to shine and make this thing happen. The only problem for me right now is, I seem to be coming up a little short on my next course of action. Plan C.

Any suggestions? I’m all ears.

 

 

 

 

Photo credit: Flickr themanwho66

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Greetings From South Carolina!

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The land of pecan trees, cotton fields, peanut farms, Hell Hole Swamp, fried green tomatoes and all those lost and forgotten sparsely populated towns where the oh-so-many “for rent” signs in the equally lost and forgotten storefront windows tell that all too familiar story of hard times. And if that shit wasn’t enough, it’s also where for the past thirty days the world of puddles and mo-squitoes has taken on a whole different meaning for me and anyone else that dares to brave it.

FEMA photo

As a FEMA Reservist, I came here as a visitor. Someone whose time and care is limited. I can look around at all that’s good and all that’s distressing with a certain detached yet observing eye because I know my stay is temporary. I don’t have to endure this life. I’m only passing through.

But in no way do I not feel impacted by it.

Trust me when I say there’s nothing quite like standing in the middle of someone’s house, seeing what used to be the entire contents stacked high in one massive moldy pile of wood and fabric, completely destroyed, while contaminated water trickles down from a shanty roof barely holding its own, to make things crystal fucking clear in your head—if they weren’t already. That and doing a job which requires ten hours a day, seven days a week of tramping across mud, plowing through thigh-high grass embedded with fire ant hills, knocking on doors, passing out flyers, talking to people faster than the speed of light for fear that if you don’t, the friggin’ mosquitos swarming around you will make their way into your mouth before you have a chance to close it.

Welcome to the life of a DSA Reservist. Glory job this isn’t. That’s for make-sure-you’re-wearing-lots-of-bug-spray damn sure.

I’ve been asked numerous times why I do this work. And, you know, the answer’s always the same. I love what I do. It keeps me grounded, gives me purpose, makes me feel as if I’m actually helping someone in some way and given all that, I honestly believe, if come the end of my deployment I’ve made a difference in just one person’s life, well then . . . I know I’ve done my job.

And well.

Giving without any sense of expectation is so much more joyfully rewarding. I didn’t always understand that. I didn’t always realize the true prize was in the small miracle of a smile, of a simple thank you. But now I do. And like most things, there are those learning curves you either take or throw away by choice and as I ease into humility mode in the face of nature’s destructive force in South Carolina I carry with me my bucket of life tools hearing the echo of my FEMA brothers’ and sisters’ words ring in my ears: “whether it’s one disaster or a hundred, the goal is always the same. Go in, do your best, reach out any way you can, to as many as you can. And you’ll see, the people you encounter will change your life far more radically than you’ll ever change theirs.”

Hurricane Sandy brought that message home to me. It tore me up, then consumed with the kind of gut-wrenching emotions I’d once felt myself incapable of. And when I walked away, I was forever transformed in a way I’m not sure how to explain other than to say it was illuminatingly profound. There would never be any going back to whoever I was before that step into the light. And while my deployment here has been an altogether different experience for me, the people are not any less needy, or the mayhem surrounding them any less jarring.

So I know when my time is up here, I will once again leave renewed by it. By the absoluteness of its reminder just how thankful I am for all that I have. There are no regrets (well not anymore), no looking back wondering about all the decisions I didn’t make, along with the should haves and the could haves, because to wish upon all that pointless stuff, would simply negate the beautiful blessings that happened to me somewhere in between.

A friend recently told me: “There are no wrong decisions.” And, of course, he’s right. But, this too, isn’t something one readily wraps their brain around since it’s the kind of knowing that comes with falling and peeling your face off the floor one too many mornings before it hits you over the head. Granted some of us might not need to go off the deep end to figure these things out, while others do for the simple reason it’s in their genetic make-up. My younger hippy self free-floating aimlessly like tumbleweed, would never have listened then as she felt turning on and tuning out was the cool thing to do before being forced to join that much-dreaded establishment she knew awaited her. Therefore she missed the boat on so many things. Many critical choices that went hand-in-hand to a future landscape she couldn’t possibly envision. Not then. Not stoned or straight. She simply never saw them.

So all we can do is push on. Accept ourselves and all our perfect imperfections with loving grace. And after a lifetime of much soul-searching I feel I finally have done that. Well, at least enough to say out loud: I like who I am (wobbly bits and all). I like my life and this thrilling place I’ve finally arrived at. That I have been fortunate to live long enough to see my children grow, to hold a granddaughter, to travel to all those magnificent places I’ve dreamed about, to write a book, to stand up and be counted.

What more can any of us really ask for, then that?

They say when you reach a certain age you come to realize that despite all the crazy twists and turns you take along the journey of life, that all roads still lead you to exactly where you are now.

cotton fields of south carolina

Well, if that’s true . . . then I guess I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Here. Traveling on my road, one both rural and favored by God’s green earth that I can easily imagine someone like Woody Guthrie singing about or Jack Kerouac writing about (on a new roll of toilet paper, hopefully) at some point. But should Woody or Jack not step up to the plate to do their stuff, no worries, I will. I’m told I can’t carry a tune worth a shit, but I do have some potential with a pen.

We shall see.

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