February 28, 2020, my husband officially retired from his job with the railroad. His best friend planned a luncheon followed by cake, heartfelt speeches, and well wishes at the office. I was invited as a surprise guest. It was a wonderful send-off.

We drove off into the afternoon sun, excited about what was to come. Hubby took a deep breath and chuckled as I rattled off a list of tasks to be tackled and checked-off before we embarked on our journey – our Freedom Run – on April 1.

Or, so we thought…

News about the Coronavirus, at that time, was dismissed as something happening “over there”. Beer jokes and cruise ship memes popped up on social media. Folks were recovering from Mardi Gras celebrations, populating their NCAA brackets, and from our home-base in Houston, buying tickets for the rodeo. Beaches all over the country were preparing for the swarms of young people arriving to celebrate Spring Break. Little did we know…

As the Ides of March slowly and painfully crept away, so did our plans. Months of excitedly exchanging thoughts and ideas with our dear friends and travel partners quickly unraveled. Traveling, even in a self-contained RV, became too risky. One of our reservations on a military base was automatically cancelled – Uncle Sam wasn’t taking any chances. We entertained the thought of heading out to hunker down with our friends, but Wilma and Fred were finding it difficult to secure reservations for themselves, much less for us.

We spent the next six weeks of the quarantine in Conroe, TX doing what we’d never been able to do while working – we relaxed. We stayed up late; we slept too long. We read, we played games, we binged movies and tv shows. We talked – to each other and to our neighbors (from a safe distance, of course).

I began experimenting with my Instant Pot and my convection oven. I collected recipes like I’d never tasted food before. Then again, as a full-time mom/wife/grandma/housekeeper/teacher, maybe I hadn’t. Cooking and eating went from necessity to art. To keep the pounds from piling on, hubby and I started walking around the park, 2 to 3 miles per day. It was on those walks, earbuds firmly in place, music of choice acting as a soundtrack to my thoughts, that I began to understand the extent and depth of my circumstances. Life was forcing me to slow down.

“Where are you going, girl?!” I could hear my father’s voice in my head. “Ever since you were a little girl, you’ve been just like a puppy - if someone leaves the door open, you’ll run out!” I always laughed at his all too accurate description of me swirling around life like a top, rarely able to sit still for more than a few moments. He always worried that, like the motor of our swamp cooler in the heat of a West Texas summer, I’d inevitably burn out.

As I lifted my head to observe a scout cloud purposefully sailing across the sky, and as I lifted my arms to welcome a rare, cool, Southeast Texas breeze, I heard the chirp of a mama bird signaling to her babies and the peep-peep-peep of their response. I looked down in time to watch mama scurry off into the grass, her babies double-stepping behind – the dawn of spring. How many of these moments had I missed in my lifetime? How much of my life had been dictated by clocks and calendars, agendas and alarms? I realized then that it made no more sense to lament what I thought I was missing than to regret not having been born in a previous era. 

So, hubby and I gladly sat until, in May, we finally made it to Florida. We are now parked next to our Wilma and Fred, where life is much less of a plan and more of a daily experience. Unbearably boring to some, but meaningful to us. 

I’m not quite sure what’s next but, when the time comes, there will be sights I have never seen, places I have never been, wonders I have never experienced. Just as there are now – from this tiny plot of earth where sits my tiny home on wheels.