For as far back as memory serves me, stories—and the people who told them—have held me captive.
I grew up in Riverview, Florida—the “old” Florida. Although our side of the Alafia River had long been considered Riverview, we still called it Peru (Pee-roo).
I loved plundering through my great-grandmother’s dresser drawers and cedar chest, where I discovered what, to a little boy, felt like a treasure chest of old family photographs, Bibles, letters, military uniforms, and documents dating back hundreds of years. While my friends were playing with G.I. Joe or reading comic books, I was collecting those treasures along with the stories that gave them life—asking questions, making notes, and hanging on every word.
“Years and years ago, Papa would…”
I was fortunate enough to catch the last of the old-timers, those born at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. It wasn’t simply the stories they told that captivated me—it was the way they told them. They had a remarkable gift for storytelling. I hung on every word, hoping the story would never end.
As they spoke, something remarkable happened. Their stories weren’t simply words—they became places I could walk, people I could know, and moments I could almost touch.
Dear Daughter,
I will send you my picture with love and best wishes to you all. Your dear mama.
— S. A. Rowell
Dear Daughter,
I will send you my picture with love and best wishes to you all. Your dear mama.
— S. A. Rowell
Before I knew it, I wasn’t listening to their stories anymore. I was living them.
Even as a ten-year-old boy, I sensed those moments were fragile. One day the storytellers would be gone, and unless someone remembered, their stories might disappear with them. I suppose that’s when I began trying to preserve them.
At the time, I thought I was documenting the past—my past. I wanted to understand where I came from. Maybe, without realizing it, I was trying to understand my place in the world.
Now, at fifty-two, that lens has changed.
I’ve come to realize I wasn’t simply preserving the past. In the process, those stories shaped the way I see the world—or at least my small corner of it.
History books are full of fascinating stories about remarkable people who accomplished extraordinary things. I value those. But the stories that have stayed with me are found in ordinary moments—over morning coffee, learning to roll out biscuits with Nana, a walk through the cemetery with Granny, long conversations on the front porch with Great-Aunt Thelma, or fellowship around the supper table with my extended family. Those are the moments that matter. They remind me where I’ve been, who I’ve loved, and the values that quietly shaped my life.
My desire to see the world eventually carried me beyond my Florida roots—but Riverview remains the foundation on which my world has been built.
Today I call Atenas, Costa Rica, home. The scenery is different, the seasons arrive in another rhythm, and many of the faces around me speak a different language. Yet I’ve found that the things which matter most haven’t changed at all. Family, friendship, kindness, hard work, loss, hope, and gratitude speak a common language all their own.
Somewhere Between Here and Paradise grew from that realization—and from a desire to keep the past alive, one story at a time.
This isn’t a travel journal, nor is it a memoir unfolding one chapter at a time. It’s a collection of essays—reflections about the people, places, and moments that have left their fingerprints on my life. Some stories begin in childhood. Others begin on a mountain road in Costa Rica. And a few have been passed down for so long that time has almost forgotten where they began.
Together, they explore the space between where we’ve been and who we’re still becoming.
When I first began writing, I thought I was simply trying to preserve my own memories and those conversations from long ago.
Over time, I discovered something far more meaningful.
The greatest joy isn’t remembering my own life. It’s hearing from readers who tell me a story reminded them of their grandmother, their hometown, an old friend, or a part of themselves they hadn’t thought about in years.
If these pages accomplish anything, I hope they remind us that our lives are more connected than we sometimes realize. We all have our own path to walk. Old country roads often lead us to similar truths. The details may change, but love, longing, gratitude, loss, belonging, and hope belong to all of us.
So whether you’ve stopped by to read a single story or have decided to sit a spell, welcome.
I’m so proud to have you here.
There’s always room for one more rocking chair on the front porch.
Still becoming.
P.S.
If you happen to have a story of your own, pull up a rocking chair. I’d love to hear it.