No more counting alligators

The journey has begun

One-alligator, two-alligator, three-alligator . . .

Spring into action! Go! There isn’t much time!

Perhaps it wasn’t alligators where you lived as a child. Maybe you counted Mississippis, or big elephants, or Piccadillies. On my street, we counted alligators.

Four-alligator, five-alligator, six-alligator . . .

Is the heart-pounding rush of a twilight game of hide and seek coming back to you? The pressure was intense. When the game was afoot and you were desperately seeking a safe place to hide, the counting felt like a ticking time-bomb. Fortunately, there was one way to extend the clock, at least a little bit. When the seeker reached the agreed-upon number of alligators, a last-chance call would ring out:

Apple, peaches, pumpkin pie, who’s not ready? Holler ‘aye’!

If any of the hiders called out aye, the count would resume. Perhaps ten extra alligators would be added—twenty if the seeker was feeling generous.

Last year about this time, Andy and I set out a goal. May of 2023, we would leave our life behind and hit the road as nomads. I made a colorful paper chain from a stack of glossy magazines and festooned the chain along the long wall of our little apartment. Each morning we held a staff meeting over breakfast—just the two of us in this little start-up company. I unfastened the stretchy band from the gray journal with the Nomadic Midlife logo sticker on the front, slid the purple ribbon bookmark to open it to the current page, and read aloud the previous day’s to-do list. We crossed off the things we had already accomplished, discussed what was still needed for the remaining tasks, and created an agenda for the coming day. Then one of us grabbed the scissors from the pencil can and ceremoniously snipped a link from the chain stretched across the living room.

Seven-alligator, eight-alligator, nine-alligator . . .

May came. The paper chain ran out of links. All the alligators had been counted, but we weren’t anywhere near ready. It’s hard to know how long it will take to do something like build an expedition vehicle from scratch when you’ve never done anything like that before. We hollered aye and reset the clock for some time in the fall of 2023.

But that’s the thing with the apple, peaches, pumpkin pie thing. You only get one extension. After that final count of bonus alligators, there’s no more adding time to the clock or the calendar; it’s ready or not, here I come.

The rig is still not finished, but this Saturday we have a plane to catch. Spurred on by a family wedding in Malaysia later this month, we will spend the winter wandering much of Southeast Asia, where the weather is warm, and the American dollar is strong. In mid-March, we will return to Montana to finish the build so we can hit the road. We’re honestly not sure yet where we will live during that time. We’ve sold our house, moved out of our apartment, and stashed our few remaining belongings with the truck in a storage unit. But we’ll figure it out.

Ready or not, here we come.

Since June, I have been writing here about the physical and emotional process of preparing our home and our hearts for leaving everything behind. Starting this week, the purpose and format of this weekly post changes. We don’t live anywhere anymore. There is no further need to prepare. The journey has begun. We might do this nomad thing for two or three years, or we might do it for twenty.

I won’t bore you each week, though, with a list of places we went and things we did. If you want scenes (photos with captions) from our daily lives as we travel, your best bet is to follow us on Instagram, @nomadic.midlife or on Facebook, @AndyChidwick. If you want to see high-quality videos of our many interesting experiences, follow us on YouTube, @NomadicMidLife. Andy is a great visual storyteller. He has a small arsenal of cameras and a love of filmmaking. But if you like to read well-crafted stories, narratives of the interesting people and things I encounter along the way, and what I have learned from them, you are in the right place, right here. Beauty and Truth Weekly will be where I do my best work.

So, we are officially on the road. We haven’t yet left the country, but that doesn’t mean we can’t start having meaningful travel experiences. Two in particular have already stood out to me on our journey so far.

First, there was breakfast at the McCloy’s

On our way out of Montana Friday morning, we needed to stop at Adina and Dan McCloy’s house to return some books. They offered to feed us “a quick breakfast” before we left town. We gratefully accepted, knowing we would have nothing left in the house to eat by then, other than the two remaining bananas on the counter.

Pulling into their driveway, I anticipated something along the lines of a muffin and tea, such a thoughtful gesture, enough to get us down the road a way. After a round of hugs in the entry way, however, we found the kitchen full of food and the table set for four, with sweet rolls and steaming mugs of chai tea to accompany a deluxe full English breakfast. Wow.

Suddenly, there was no rush after all. Their gracious hospitality cut right through our stress and exhaustion. We relaxed around their table, laughing together and conversing on a wide range of topics.

Breakfast at the McCloy’s, only thirty minutes into our journey, reminded me right at the outset to let go of strict time constraints and choose people over progress. It reminded me to both offer and accept generous hospitality. What a difference it made in our day—in our lives—because someone with no obligation and no agenda said, “Please come; stop here along your journey; we would love to have you. Please sit awhile; relax; set down your burdens, even if just for an hour or two.” Breaking bread together is magical. I don’t know why. Eating is elemental to our very survival as a species, but eating together takes us far beyond survival.

Second was our inaugural trip to IKEA

The second event that stands out to me from our travels so far is our stop at IKEA, later that same day. It was our first time. We were IKEA virgins.

When my husband Andy was a fine furniture maker, the idea of going to IKEA was out of the question. Furniture was made by craftspeople working with their hands, in a dusty shop full of tools and beautiful hardwoods. But when we were driving through Utah, finally hungry for dinner (the McCloy’s breakfast in Montana and a stop at a favorite ice cream place in Idaho had finally worn off), and we passed by the enormous, iconic blue and yellow monolith, we looked at each other and laughed. Should we go to an IKEA cafeteria finally? His active career as a woodworker, after all, is a thing of the past. We have broken up housekeeping, so we will have no temptation to buy any housewares, regardless of how clever or attractively displayed. The timing was ideal.

What stood out to me, though, was the unfamiliarity of it all. Although we were still firmly in the United States, it was almost as if we had crossed into another land. We didn’t know where to find anything. When we finally found the cafeteria area, people were sitting and eating happily, but we didn’t know how they got there or where to go at first. We stood around awkwardly for a moment, studying the scene and watching the “locals” to give us examples to follow. Oh, grab a tray here. Get in line there. Choose from the menu board. Answer the questions. Pay at the register off to that side. Get your beverage over there. Bus your own tray and dishes by that sign.

After dinner, which was actually quite tasty (as a part-time vegetarian, I opted for the “veggie balls” instead of the Swedish meatballs) we decided to go for a brisk stroll through the store. No stopping to examine anything, just a quick gawk walk to stretch our legs before driving a few more hours. But even going for a walk is different at IKEA. There are traffic rules we knew nothing of! Marching upstream earned us a few sideways glances and furrowed brows from fellow shoppers before we learned the laws of the land. Again, slowing down to make careful observation, think, and try to understand made all the difference. It was good to be reminded of these essential skills—even at such a basic level—before boarding our plane.

Between now and then

For now, we’re soaking up family time, spread between three different Southern California homes, and running all the last-minute errands we didn’t get done in Montana after we said aye and then our allotted bonus alligators ran out. Saturday, we fly west until we reach the far east. Don’t ask me how that works; it’s a profound mystery.

But the biggest mystery lies ahead. What will we experience on this journey? Where will we go? Who will we meet? What will we learn about ourselves and others? How will we be changed? What will God do in and through us? Fortunately, we love surprises.

“See, I am doing a new thing!
    Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
    and streams in the wasteland.”

Isaiah 43:19 (New International Version Bible)

I’m so glad you’re here to journey with us, friend. Before you go, allow me to express my gratitude to three of you who have subscribed and faithfully read along.

Special thanks to three faithful readers

I first met Kim Adams in the late 1980s. We were both on staff with the junior high ministry of our church and she was a fireball of energy, silliness, and dedicated love for our students. Kim has been through some tremendous pain in her life—more than I can even comprehend—but she has set an example of how to address, process, and work through the messy waves and stages of grief. Again and again, she has been helpful and inspirational to me, even from afar. Thanks, Kim.

I knew Cindy Carlson’s husband for quite a few years before I met her, but I’m so glad she eventually became part of my life, too. In the kickball game of life, Cindy is someone you always want on your team. Her heart for hospitality and service and her ability to organize all the details and make everything she touches special are unmatched. I haven’t been able to spend nearly enough time with her over the years, and I know there’s more depth there than I’ve even begun to access, but what I have seen and experienced so far blows me away. Thanks, Cindy.

Shelly Hunter was originally a business connection. She and her husband ran a bed and breakfast near our home, and we ran a destination woodworking school. Our students needed lodging and consistently raved about staying at her place. It was a solid symbiotic relationship. Those years are long gone, but Shelly’s quiet friendship remains. Thanks, Shelly. We really should get together, all four of us, one of these days.

Turbulence ahead

I will warn you all, friends, that I may be a little loopy when I write the next post. We’ll be fresh off of several back-to-back days of travel with very little of it spent sleeping in an actual bed. It should be an interesting scene, and I’m entirely unsure of what my head space will look like thanks to that anticipated level of fatigue. Here’s hoping we keep our sense of humor about us!

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. If you are coming up short for gift ideas for people who really don’t need more “stuff,” check out the enormous gift guide for all ages, stages, and budgets that I made last week by clicking here!