Adventures with Geannii

                                      The "Hired Help": "The $1.00 security guard on high alert. Years ago, when my grandson Captain Chaos was little, I wasn’t feeling well. Achy, tired. I thought: “Hot bath. That’ll fix me right up.” The problem? The bathroom was on the third floor . My daughter was in the basement doing… who knows. Exercising, watching TV, maybe using that Virtual Headset I’m not allowed to touch unless supervised. So naturally, my brain went here: “If I faint in the tub, no one’s gonna hear me.” And then came the bright idea. (Which, for the record, is always dangerous. My bright ideas never end well.)

  I was on my way home from my friend's house two hours away. Van always drove us, now I use my GPS.    I called my sister to visit while driving home, as I talked to her, I mentioned, I don't remember Road construction on the way down here.     My GPS was strangely silent, not saying a word, like she was gagged and thrown in the trunk I poked the button... Apparently someone forgot to put in an address... no wonder she wasn't yelling at me!    Valerie: "Sounds like you're lost."

 Just when the Tybee trip was hitting its stride, the universe (and some questionable seafood) decided to intervene. Pam went down with food poisoning — the kind that makes you want to negotiate with a higher power just to stop the room from spinning. Her selfless advice? “If you want food and fun, you better go with John and Calvin.” I had two choices, neither one my kind of fun:

                                                        Tybee Island Light house   The Lighthouse in Heels Pam wasn’t feeling great that morning, so John, Calvin, and I went off in search of breakfast. The line was long, but worth it. Calvin ordered a burrito the size of a football, with some mysterious brown blob on the side that looked suspiciously like… well, not food. Neither of us knew what it was until Calvin braved a bite. Salsa. He smeared it on what was left of the burrito and made a show of loving it. I had my doubts, but hey—more power to him. When we got back, Pam was feeling better, so off we went exploring. I was feeling mighty stylish—new white shorts, new sandals with a one-inch clog heel. I don’t do heels, but this was a golf cart vacation. It’s not like I planned on walking anywhere. Famous last words.

   The Quest for White Shorts “You need white shorts,” Pam declared, giving my outfit the kind of side-eye usually reserved for fashion emergencies. Black yoga pants. Black shirt with white flowers. Yes, technically tropical. But also… “Woman in Black” vibes. On a sunny island, I looked less like vacation and more like I was attending a beach funeral. So began The Quest. Every souvenir shop had shorts—tie-dye, camouflage, hibiscus flowers the size of dinner plates. Twenty-four bucks a pair, and not a single plain white option in sight. Then we learned the secret: the thrift store would be open Wednesday, 10 a.m. to noon. Two hours only. That was our window. We rolled up in our golf cart right at opening. An elderly woman waved. “Headed to the thrift store?” she asked. “Why yes, we are,” I said, full of hope. Pam asked, “Why such short hours?” The woman smiled. “Well, our volunteers average eighty-five. Youngest is eighty. Oldest is ninety-five.” Mystery solved.

       Our official first day at Tybee Island meant one thing—golf cart time! We checked in at the rental office: “Your cart is T258. Make sure you know your golf cart’s number. You don’t want to drive off in someone else’s cart.” (Actually, that sounded like more fun. Oh well, maybe not.) “You’ll need a map with the No-No Route in red. DO NOT drive on that road. The penalty is $1,000. Only cross at traffic lights. Seatbelts on—police do seatbelt checks.”

Going to the beach at Tybee Island, one thing was clear—we needed hats. Wrinkles and laugh lines are fine, but no need to invite new family members to the reunion. At a flea market in Anderson, IN, I bought a huge floppy monstrosity of a hat. Not my style, but it would keep the sun at bay. Then, on the very first day at Tybee, I realized I hadn’t packed enough shorts. Off I went in search of new ones and instead discovered it— the perfect hat. White straw, black band, just the right shape.  This was me. Twenty dollars later, I was the happiest Professional Tourist on the island. The only problem? A little loose. No worries—I had a sewing kit… somewhere. (Key word: somewhere.) Pam, ever prepared, came to the rescue with hers. A few stitches inside the lining, a few experiments with the breeze, a few more stitches—success! Proof? I never lost that hat, even riding in the golf cart. Fast forward to our last morning on the beach. Coffee in hand, sundress flowing, faithful hat snug on ...

  Royal Palms Resort  We have arrived! It’s dark, so the real exploring will have to wait until tomorrow morning. For now—we settle into our very unique motel. The first thing I notice? The TV is hung over the sofa. Interesting angle for watching TV—you’ve got to tilt your head just right, like you’re birdwatching. Then I see it: a turquoise refrigerator with a matching microwave, next to a little sink. This place doesn’t just whisper “retro”—it screams it.      The layout is… creative. One queen bed sits right in the living room, while the other queen bed is in the bedroom, which also happens to contain the only door to the bathroom. Translation: anyone sleeping in the living room has to tiptoe through the “master suite” in the middle of the night if nature calls. It could get interesting, but hey—we’ll survive.         Calvin popped the sofa out into a bed, piled cushions around like his own private fort facing the tv on the wall. Out ...

    Driving past Dollywood, the Maze of Mirrors, Beyond the Lens, Pirate Cruise Dinner Show, Dolly’s Stampede, Pit Stop Go Carts, Ice Cream Palace, Crave Miniature Golf, live sharks, live alligators, amusement parks, and bumper boats… We ignored them all. Why? Because we had one mission. One very serious, very festive goal: The sign said it plain as day: “Santa is in for pictures today.” Well, you can’t come to Christmas Square and NOT see Santa. It’s like going to Paris and skipping the Eiffel Tower. I plopped down next to him and—ouch! I’d sat on a set of really long, old-fashioned keys. I shifted, laughed, and said:

The Professional Tourist (and the Back Seat Bellyacher) I’ve only met Pam and her family a few times over the years. She and I actually started out as pen pals — a mutual friend asked if I’d write to a girl in Indiana. Pam had asthma so bad, they didn’t think she would live very long. “Sure, why not?” I said. Well, here we are 50 years later — and she’s still living. (Miracles are alive.) When her kids heard the story, they instantly nicknamed her “the pity friend.” Can you believe that? Fifty years of letters, laughter, and friendship, and she’s still the pity friend. We tossed all our bags into the back of a pickup. The tonneau cover had blown off previously, so everything was riding naked in the open air. Our stuff had better hang on for dear life. John, ever the planner, brought along trash bags in case it rained. (Classy luggage covers, right?) Calvin climbed behind the wheel, John took shotgun, and announced, “I’ll be the back seat bellyacher.” Shouldn’t he be in the back se...

      Mom said “No more watermelon for Jacob. He’s had watermelon the past three days and it will give him diarrhea,” (or maybe he already had a bad case of it, I wasn’t paying much attention. You know how young mom’s can be slightly overprotective of their young.)    Two year old Jacob had a bowl full of cut up watermelon. I went to take it away when I looked at this kid's face. His eyes are closed in ectasy, his head is swaying back and forth gently as he enjoys the sweet watermelon juice sliding down his throat, his fingers strumming an imaginary guitar or whatever it was that went along with his pure enjoyment of watermelon.    I grabbed my camera, looked around for mom to pounce and jerk the fruit of happiness from the child. No mom in sight. Camera rolling.    He popped another piece of watermelon into his mouth, eyes closed, hand strumming as he chewed slowly head swaying to imaginary music.  Chewed swallowed.  No mom. C...

  Spring Break. I thought I’d be working—bummer. Then my coworker goes, “Hey, if you wanna see your grandsons, I’ll cover things.” That was all I needed. I grabbed my pre-packed bag—because yes, I keep one ready like I’m in the witness protection program—and hit the road. On the way, I called my daughter. “Hey, surprise! I’m coming for the weekend!” Now, in my head, she was going to squeal with joy… instead, there was a long pause followed by: “…

   So my friend Pamela asked me, “Have you ever been to Tybee Island?” I said, “No, what’s that?” She goes, “Wanna go?” And of course—I said yes. I’m up for any adventure. But here’s the thing: it’s not just a weekend. Oh no. This is a full week with her family. I’m excited… but I’m also quietly praying we’re still friends when we get back. You guys remember Oprah and Gayle’s road trip, right? Yeah—besties when they left, but by the time they got home… awkward silence. Gayle wanted the radio ON, Oprah wanted it OFF. Next thing you know—two separate cars, two separate hotel rooms. I’m just saying—if Oprah can’t survive a road trip with her best friend, what chance do I have? Now—this trip lands on my birthday week. it beats crying into my Dr. Pepper because Van isn't here to celebrate it with me. I won't be alone, I'll be hitting the Beach, thrift stores, Gatlinburg, and… a Christmas shop. Nothing says “Happy Birthday” like buying a Christmas Ornament in Augu...

Hi, I’m Geannii . For 44 years, I was married to my best friend, Van. He went home to be with the Lord in 2022, and I found myself at a crossroads: I could either pull the covers over my head and declare myself done with life, or… I could strap on my bra, lift my chin, and carry him with me in my heart while I keep on adventuring. I chose the latter. That’s how I ended up with a shiny new car that talks to me, grandkids who keep me laughing until I cry, sisters who can turn any day into a circus, and memories so wild they demand to be written down. This blog is my kitchen table — where the coffee’s hot, the stories are real, and sometimes the laughter sneaks in where you least expect it (usually right after the tears). Pull up a chair. I’ve got plenty to tell you.