Wizard or Hermit?

As the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon noted:
          What's in a name? that which we call a rose
          By any other name would smell as sweet...

All the same, I wager Stratford's wordsmith would agree that, "With a name like Smuckers, it has to be good." And, too, "With a name like Rocky, you gotta be a fighter."

My full name, John Roquemore Floyd, is a copy of my father's with a "Jr." at the end. Just as my son's name is a copy of mine appended with "III". What's in our name? Our heritage, muddled as it is–Welsh, French, and Scots-Irish. Our middle name recalls my paternal grandmother, Maude Roquemore.

My father was called John or Johnny and to avoid confusion, I was given the nickname, Rocky, which I never felt I lived up to. A short and skinny kid, for a time I was given a daily tonic for anemia. Though I eventually grew to 5 ft - 10 inches and 205 lbs, on my first driver's license at 16, I was listed as a puny 5 ft - 6 inches and 149 lbs.

Though I abandoned the nickname after high school, it did serve me well on one occasion. I played trumpet in the band. After a road trip during which I laid some heavy petting on one of the majorettes in the back of the bus, her boyfriend met with me after school. In the middle of my junior year my family had moved to Charlotte, NC from Atlanta, GA. My new best friend Woody, a drummer in the band, told me the boyfriend was looking for me and that he had told the guy that I had been a "Golden Gloves" champion in Atlanta.

With the sound of Rocky Floyd evoking images of Rocky Marciano, Rocky Graziano, and Floyd Patterson, the boyfriend took the bait and I got off with a discussion instead of a concussion. Thank you, Woody! End of story.

To the present... As noted in a previous post, I have moved my home on wheels back to Arizona and no longer hang out in Waxhaw. I live alone here on my secluded homestead, so perhaps I should change the name of this blog from "The Wizard of Waxhaw" to "The Hermit of Hereford". But then, What's in a name?

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Pyrite in the sky

       Would that I could mine the sky
             I'd be a wealthy man.
          There's gold up there aplenty
             Enough for many a man.

          Once each day at evening
             Sun and cloud conspire,
          To spin in truest alchemy
             The metal of my desire.

          No want for pick and shovel
             Though a ladder I'd surely need
          To join the fiddler on the roof
              And satisfy my greed.

          Truly I am not the fool
             I may appear to be.
           No more could mine the sky
            Than could I make a tree.

          Yet–shall I be wealthy
              So long as there are these:
          Spacious skies and rainbows,
              Sunsets and trees.

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Back in the U.S.S.R.

About a month ago I returned to my retreat in southeastern Arizona. I have named my eight-acre RV home base and wildlife sanctuary, Under Spacious Skies Retreat.  So... with apologies to the Beatles, I'm "Back in the U.S.S.R."

I'm resuming work on a small house here. The pad was poured a week ago and currently there are six stacks of concrete blocks which will form the walls for the first floor and the support columns for the two 8 x 20 ft cargo containers that comprise the second floor.

Other than the pouring of the concrete pad, I'm the only worker–architect, contractor, plumber, carpenter, and chief grunt. I will have the 5,000 lb containers lifted in place by forklift and will get help with the metalwork–cutting window openings and welding the containers together.

Difficult as the work can be, watching plans on paper morph into physical living space can be very rewarding. I should be working today. Bright sunshine, sixty-two degrees. But a mean wind is sweeping up the San Pedro River valley between the Huachuca and Mule Mountains. Thirty mph sustained winds with gusts up to fifty. The wind is so foul it's blown down my weather station!

So, there's nothing to do but remain inside, observe & honor the vernal equinox–do some ironing, scrub the shower, clean the windows (interior only), and write for this blog.

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Nunc est bibendum!

The Latin scholars among you will understand the above phrase to mean, "Now is the time for drinking!" At least that's how my Sigma Chi fraternity brothers and I translated it. We were very fond of short phrases loaded with layers of meaning particular to our circumstances. During the second half of my pledge year, 1959/60, I roomed with two brothers –Ed Summers and Joe Eagles– and my fellow pledge, Ted Kratt. We rented a two-bedroom apartment and always answered the phone, "This is it!" Which was to say, you have connected with the coolest guys on campus.

We were probably pre-hippies, seeking to align ourselves with the wildly hedonistic Black culture. Many of our pet phrases were taken from the Afro-American musicians who played in our basement dance hall on weekends. "Come on, man!" entered our lexicon when the band leader was trying to get his combo together to begin playing. We found a plethora of contexts in which to invoke the phrase. Another, "Tell it! Tell it like it is!" I'm not sure of the exact origin but the flavor is definitely chocolate.

So what in the psychopathology of everyday life brought this to mind? Well... I imbibe a single, measured 3-oz gin and tonic every evening at my retreat in SE Arizona. During the warmer months, I enjoy this end of day ritual from the comforting rhythm of my porch swing and try to coincide the finish with the sunset over the Huachuca mountains to the west. As the sun sets later and later, I must delay each day's toddy by a few more minutes in order that the timing of my buzz synchronizes with the sunset. Ergo, the "time for drinking" is not the same time every day...

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