LIFE IN A SINGLE SUITCASE

WRITING PROMPT

CONTEST # 286

January 23, 2025

LIFE IN A SINGLE SUITCASE

In worldwide news, Donald Trump has been sworn in as the 47^th President of the United States. In local news, five inches of snow has fallen on the city of Gulfport, Mississippi, the first snow since 2014. In other current news, I, Wyvonne Page, am living out of a suitcase at Aunt Vi’s.  

The first time I found myself living out of a suitcase, it was 1972, right after graduating from high school. All my belongings fit into one 24-inch, pink, hard shell Samsonite suitcase (minus the wheels). Plus, through the eyes and mind of a naive 18-year-old, I was pumped by the valedictorian speech and eager to explore the endless possibilities of my future.

Fifty-three years later, I’m brushing back tears as I pack my essentials and three outfits in my new Louie Vuitton carry-on. I barely recall the excitement that surged through my body after tearing open the wrapping to discover my new LV luggage – an extravagant Christmas gift from my two adult children. I wished its first use would have been for a happier occasion, but I packed it with a bittersweet heart. For months, I’d been struggling with desiderium at being forced to sell my 2-year-old condo in Southwest Florida. Leaving was the last thing I wanted to do.

Let’s take the story back to 2016, when I first retired after 35 years of service with Ohio’s state government. I began the second chapter of my life after moving to a brand-new home in South Carolina. I will never forget the ‘Freedom’ I felt and the new friends who embraced me in my new community, Sun City Carolina Lakes. I sought unique words that would better express my feelings of renewal and rebirth. I came up with Regenesis, Emancipation, and Metamorphosis. In more common words, I was simply elated with my newfound freedom.

Cliché or not, there’s none more fitting than, All good things come to an end. For me it took three short years, then I made the decision to move on to Southwest Florida. I followed an Ohio friend who had just retired and relocated to Fort Myers.  She ended up moving on to Tampa, but I found my new community at Babcock Ranch, America’s first solar powered town. As the salesman drove me around in the golf cart, pointing out the designated locations for the tiki bar, pools, fitness center, tennis and pickleball courts, I found myself conjuring up those feelings of rebirth when I first retired. As if I wasn’t already sold with the amenities, my mind was already creating a flyer to start a Rummikub Club with my new neighbors.  

Back at the sales office, I shook hands with the salesman claiming Babcock Ranch as my new ‘dream home’ community.

Construction for my condo took nine months. During that time, I toured the community observing the progress of the construction. I enjoyed monthly lunches on the patio restaurant across the lake where the views included my condo. I’d stretch my hand pointing for God to see the unit I was praying for. Talk about high anticipation, words can hardly express.

Finally, move in date arrived. I was ecstatic and extremely grateful, even telling God that this was my forever home until he took my last breath. I befriended new neighbors and participated in Water Aerobics. Even organizing the Rummikub Club on Sunday afternoons became a fun reality.

I’d chosen a third-floor unit overlooking Lake Babcock. My neighbor and I often claimed the lake as our piece of the Gulf. On any sunny afternoon, it shimmered like diamonds, and I’d find myself singing, Rihanna’s “Shine Bright Like A Diamond.” By contrast, the waves capped with suds whenever a tropical storm caused the waves to rock.

Sounds great, right? But hold, on. Two years later, I stumbled across a YouTube channel and a realtor announcing the condo-crisis in Southwest Florida. I watched the entire eight-minute video with my mouth open in shock.  I was captivated as the realtor provided the staggering number of seniors leaving the state. He interviewed seniors with tears streaming down their faces – saddened at being forced out by overwhelming increases in HOA fees and insurance costs resulting from Hurricanes Ian, Helene and Milton. I turned to my neighbors who, like me, were oblivious to the travesty going on around us.  

It really hit home, (punt intended) when the notice arrived in my mailbox announcing the increase in HOA fees, effective at the new year. Now don’t get me wrong, living in America has taught me to expect an annual increase on practically everything. I would have been shocked had there not been an increase in such a prominent community. However, the increase I was staring at, in black and white, was more than anticipated.  Being from Ohio, I felt blessed to retire with an annual COLA. What I would come to learn is the annual cola was an amount appropriate for the cost of living in Ohio. It certainly would not sustain me for the increases I was witnessing in Florida.  And, my point of view was shared by many others. Soon, for sale signs were popping up throughout the community. The buzz on You Tube escalated. At one point during the summer of 2024, the number of condos on the market in Florida had reached an astounding 60,000, in the third quarter alone. Acknowledging this harsh reality, I contacted a realtor and my condo was added to the inventory reflecting Southwest Florida’s condo crisis.   

Another move was in store for me, even though moving from Babcock Ranch was the last thing I wanted to do.  The flood gates of my tears came at random hours. Sleepless nights and daily prayers went up to Heaven asking, “Where will I go now, Lord?”

If I were to follow the leads of the You Tube realtors tracking the seniors leaving Florida, my likely choices would be Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, and Houston, Texas. The state of Mississippi was not on the radar until I became distressed and sought answers from a local Psychic. She gingerly held my hand turning it over and back. Then she read my palm lines. Her interpretation, “You’re done with Florida.” I gulped and waited wide eyes for her to continue. Then I asked, “Where do you see me going?”

 “I see you living in a state that begins with an ‘M,” she said. My hand suddenly clapped over my mouth in surprise, as it suddenly dawned on me that both my parents were born and raised in the state of Mississippi. It was my birth state, as well. Even though we migrated to Ohio back in the 50s, I spent the summers of my growing years in Mississippi. During my adult years, it was a rare occasion when I returned and only then for the funerals of my grandparents.

My parents have since passed away and neither left instructions in their last will and testament to be buried in the graveyard with their ancestors.  As morbid as it sounds, I wish they could be reincarnated, just long enough for me to see the look on their faces, when I tell them I’m moving back to Mississippi. As mentioned earlier, Mississippi was not mentioned by the realtors tracking the seniors moving out of Florida. So, to explain how the stars aligned to get me near the state to consider it, I must introduce, Annette, my girlfriend since sixth grade. We were spending our 70^th birthday with other classmates in Ohio when she received news that she inherited a home in Tupelo, Mississippi. It was August, a very humid month in Florida, and I was in no hurry to get back. Out of the blue, I found myself offering to assist her with clearing out the house and preparing it for sale. Following ten days of cleaning, spackling and painting, we accomplished our goal.

After checking the flights to return to Florida, finding a feasible schedule became an ordeal. As an alternative, renting a car and driving back became more realistic. By now, my cousin, Carole from New York, called to wish me a belated happy birthday. I brought her up to date with the latest and my location. As it turned out, she was en-route to visit our Aunt Vi who, to my surprise, had moved to Gulfport, Mississippi. Immediately, I checked the map and learned Aunt Vi was four hours south by car. I called Aunt Vi and she invited me to come for a visit. Annette dropped me off at Enterprise Rent-A-Car where I rented a vehicle and drove four hours South to Gulfport.  

Reuniting with Aunt Vi after ten long years, was absolutely wonderful. Like many Southern women, her hospitality was outstanding. During my drive down, she turned that kitchen into a culinary circus, juggling pots and pans while cooking one of my favorite meals: Crisp fried catfish, savory collard greens, sweet potato casserole, and home-made corn bread. Not Jiffy, as I’m accustomed to. For dessert, she baked me a yellow birthday cake with coconut icing. Um um delicious.

Aunt Vi was genuinely happy to see me. Eventually, her other niece Carole arrived and together we enjoyed Aunt Vi’s childhood tales about her sisters, my mother, and Carole’s mother.  Amid much laughter and even a few tears, we revealed family secrets, and a deeper bond was formed from that visit.

In October, approximately thirty days after visiting Aunt Vi, my realtor called. “Ms. Page, I’m calling with some exciting news. Your condo is under contract. Congratulations!” Her voice was filled with excitement. I was speechless, as the pang of joy and sorrow overtook me. My realtor assumed I needed a moment to digest the ‘good’ news and suggested I call her back. I rushed to the lanai to conjure up ‘peace and comfort’ from my piece of the Gulf. The tears resumed.

Days later, I paced myself packing at least two boxes per day. I sold my unit furnished. My personal belongings were  packed into boxes and loaded into an 8-foot pod container.

  As it turned out, all three of us, Aunt Vi, Carole, and I, were on the cusp of starting over. With a renewed sense of hope, I returned to Gulfport on a Delta flight with my pod to follow. Together, Aunt Vi and I searched for a home where we could live together, including Carole when she arrives.

Two weeks have passed since moving with Aunt Vi. The constant unpacking and repacking to keep clothes organized in my suitcase is a chore and a constant reminder of my temporary situation. However, at the moment, I'm unsure what to do with the boxes stored in the nearest pod facility, twenty miles away. The thought of facing each box and releasing memories and some regrets feels dreadful. Besides, the temperatures are too cold to stand outside and sort through it. Perhaps my mind will clear when the weather thaws.

For now, the temporary nature of living out of a suitcase remains a constant companion.

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