My Future on the Porch
As a child living in Ohio, my world consisted of car rides through Pennsylvania for visits with relatives in New York during the holidays. These three states were my boundaries. I was predisposed to living life as a Northerner, to never venture south of the Mason-Dixon line. My paternal grandparents were the first people I knew who breached that barrier by traveling all the way to Florida for a vacation. To me, this was on par with the moon landing. Such an accomplishment in my eyes.
On the steps of their back porch were conch shells, souvenirs of their trip to the Sunshine State. I was transfixed by these shells. I’d gaze at their beauty, amazed an animal could sculpt such intricacies. I couldn’t believe they were found while you walked on a beach (although these may have been purchased at a roadside tourist trap). Plus, I personally knew who collected (or bought) them. I was proud of my grandparents’ proof they touched down in Florida.
These treasures piqued my curiosity, representing an exotic land beyond my realm, experienced only through books or my grandparents’ vacation slides and postcards. I imagined strolling along the ocean’s edge, picking up seashells like someone picks out oranges at the grocery store. I daydreamed of sporting a bronze tan in December; wondered how salty salt water tasted. The more I looked at the shells, the more they fueled my yearning to visit Florida. I didn’t know how or when I’d do it, but I was going to Florida. My grandparents were both the inspiration for this pipe dream and the role models for turning it into a reality.
When I was fourteen, an adult asked what I wanted to be doing in ten years. Instead of answering with an expected response centered around raising a family or pursuing a professional career, I said, “Walking barefoot on a Florida beach.” Not a very lofty aspiration. And not a reply that offers the inquiring person a chance to give me sage advice on how I go about reaching this objective based on his life experiences. This reply was just another manifestation of my desire to head south, following my grandparents’ trailblazing journey. I held firm that this prediction would come true.
And it did. I attended the University of Miami long enough to toss my tasseled cap in the air at graduation. I spent four years gathering shells on Miami Beach while building a solid base tan between studying the bare minimum needed to earn a degree. I can testify that salt water is salty enough to warrant that adjective.
I proved to myself that Florida was attainable. Less than two years after getting my diploma and with the confidence I can thrive there, I returned to become a full-time resident. This meant as a 24-year-old, taking off my shoes to walk on the beach whenever I wanted was a viable option. My dream was actualized. My ten-year-old prophecy was fulfilled.
Florida was home almost exclusively for three decades before I traded its ocean views and scorching heat for Virginia’s scenic beauty and seasonal changes. Although at times I miss being a Floridian, I very much enjoy living in the Shenandoah Valley.
As an appreciative homage to my grandparents for expanding my world, in every room of my house there is a conch shell that I found during my life in Florida. Thinking back on how I ended up there, it all started on my grandparents’ porch steps with me looking at their shells, unaware I was actually looking at my future.