Today’s the day (or, rather, night) to savor last night’s work. I joined friends for pani puri night at Rinku’s house. You can see the dish with the green pani in the foreground. I bet John is a bit jealous that he couldn’t join us.
Auntie and Grandpa Going to Florida – Day 10
Thursday brings new life and new fun. The sun is shining after some lingering clouds gave way during the early morning. Our first stop is to catch a long-distance glimpse of the Space Shuttle Hangar out on Cape Canaveral and the Kennedy Space Center. Nobody other than myself has any real interest in walking around this corner of history and so we continue our drive north.
Merritt National Wildlife Refuge is the next place of interest, so we stop. This is home to a diverse collection of plants, birds, alligators, and insects, populating the many waterways and probably a lot of other stuff we can’t see. Blue herons and egrets are the most abundant birds we readily see. A couple of cormorants sun themselves while other smaller birds flitter by.
Over in the grass, a small alligator, or maybe it’s a big lizard, a very large lizard. The gator is about 4 or 5 feet long and poses while we gawk. This gator will be the only one we see today, which is unfortunate as Auntie was hoping to see a capital specimen.
Crawling along at five mph, we see more birds, admire the thistles, and get lost in the ripples of water scattering sunlight across its surface. The road through the refuge is a short one with just a few interpretive signs along the way.
We passed a manatee viewing area, but from previous experience, I have learned that these sea cows need more heat than the frigid winter waters can deliver. The manatees go inland to find those warmer waters. What we don’t pass is a gas station for replenishing our water supply and Grandpa relieving his own. Time to go find some of the essentials for continued comfortable travels.
On the main road again we pass a few boat launch areas and quickly are at the end of this road and joining another where we find a gas station.
Leaving the gas station, a guy on a bicycle sits waiting for us to pass. A Vietnam Veteran with strong feelings for Jesus, he is Mr. Tougher T. Woodpeckerlips, T stands for Than. Not being able to pass this sight up, I ask to take a photo, which he obliges.
He asks where we are from; we ask him the same. He offers up some excellent information about the forest here with panthers and other wildlife that can be seen in the wild. Sadly, we are short on time and have to leave, but not before he tells us how he rows, standing up on his 16-foot flat-bottom fishing boat, rides his bike everywhere, and was recently hit by a car from which he is still recovering. It was after the list of battles that he adopted the description of being “tougher than woodpecker lips.”
That’s it, we are as northeast as this trip takes us. I point the car west, and we are now truly on our way home. Luck shines like the sun today. Not far down the road, we spot a man selling boiled peanuts. I have been looking for fresh boiled peanuts for more than a thousand miles now and need to stop.
I wanted the real thing and not some plastic-wrapped, made yesterday, boiled peanuts that are some garden variety, boring kind. I had to have the cooking-on-the-side-of-the-road, out-of-a-pickup-truck-trailer variety. Better yet, they need to be served up by someone out of Dukes of Hazard, and that’s what I got. Cajun-flavored boiled peanuts served up by the bearded old man sitting with his dog on the roadside, waiting for probably anyone but us Yankees.
The back roads of Florida and America, in general, are only back roads to us city dwellers. These roads are not freeways; hence, they must be back roads, is what one would say. In reality, though, they are major thoroughfares connecting small towns to larger ones. Even smaller than these are the roads that cross communities, and then you finally reach the real back roads. These back roads are typically dirt, though quite often, you’ll find them paved. However, it can happen that these roads were last paved 50 or more years ago, and much of their edges are crumbling into the dirt.
So, although I call this trip a back road tour of the South, it is much more accurately described as getting as far off the freeway as possible while still maintaining all the creature comforts that support my traveling companions.
We are out far enough, though, that the character of the land comes shining through. On the freeways, much of America looks the same. The trees may be different, the hills might roll higher or lower, and fields of various crops can line the road, but the generic franchised icons of civilization repeat over and over again as though America’s four million miles of roads were one long homogeneous continuity of the same gas stations, fast food restaurants, hotels, and various other services.
Out on the back roads you have the chance to randomly stop here or there. You can look at the things that lend character to a place. Check out a dilapidated cabin that might be the fifth one of these you have seen, but each will have an absolute uniqueness to it. Rail bridges, small streams, and driving along tree-lined roads all share a beauty and intimacy out here that it doesn’t matter if you have seen one or a hundred; their shape, color, height, smell, and other characteristics are all different.
It is the back roads where you find great boiled peanuts and rusting relics of an age that has been left behind. Generally, the pace is slower out here, but you still will find the impatient fool on your bumper as you move like a sloth crawling along particularly scenic stretches of road. The longer I am out here, the more enamored I find myself with the characters, landscape, and ruin.
Give me a broken-down hotel sign that hasn’t attracted a patron in decades to a McDonald’s any day of the week. There are still waters reflecting trees, flowers, sky, and grasses. Roadside attractions don’t have to be the world’s largest ball of twine; I find the chipped paint next to a rusting door handle to hold stories of the last occupants, while even a burned roadside tells you of those less careless and appreciative of what the world around them is to those like me.
I drive these American roads in search of our country. I look for markers from our past so I might glimpse our future, which is very much like the cycle of life: a place is born, and it dies, either from neglect, abandonment, or decrepitude. Our natural world and its biotas recede from the weight of man’s heavy hand; my journey into its domain allows me to witness what increasingly feels to be a rare sight.
Through it all, I love our country even more. The more you can appreciate all the elements, from the anthills, moss, broken windows, fences needing mending, lonely farm animals in the rain, to thistles, thorns, bugs, roadkill skunks, early closing hours, toothless merchants, and even a policeman hiding around the corner, the more you arrive at a near-constant state of wonderment.
Florida gives way to Georgia late in the afternoon. Our trek across Georgia will be a short one, with our destination being Alabama. The first town we pass through is Valdosta, as opposed to the three small communities we passed on road number 41. Places with a few homes, a lot of farms, and maybe an equipment shop are hard to call towns; they are more like communities in my eyes.
Valdosta is one of those small towns you wished someone had told you about earlier in life. It is one of the places you add to your list of returns, such as North Hero, Vermont, Apalachicola, Florida, Monterey, California, Ruidoso, or New Mexico. All too frequently, cities across America have given away any hope for maintaining their historical integrity. The old is bulldozed for the new, and soon, a clone city with Circuit City, Office Max, Red Lobster, Walmart, and Dollar Stores has taken over.
In Valdosta, at least from the view offered to these travelers entering the city from the south, this place packs in the small-town charm. Main Street is vibrant, with as much traffic as there are stores open, and it appears that all the shops have tenants. Awnings hang over sidewalks that have park benches for resting your feet before making your way through this shopping district. The alleys are as clean as the sidewalks; this place couldn’t be more inviting.
We are just passing through. Auntie and Grandpa are sightseeing; I’m scouting a future road trip for Caroline and me. On the way out of town, we pass a Carnegie Library, the first I have consciously seen, although I’m certain I must have passed hundreds over the years. Not much further down the road, and we enter Quitman.
This is becoming a trend, Georgia is a downright all-around beautiful state with gorgeous cities. Brunswick, in the southeast, was the first city in Georgia that Caroline and I visited a couple of years ago, quickly followed by Savannah, both of which we were enamored with, while today it is Valdosta and Quitman.
Again, Main Street sets the tempo with two-story brick-built structures lining a divided road marking the downtown area. On either end of the main street are the churches; Baptist, Methodist, and Episcopal are the dominant beliefs. Branching off of downtown are southern-style and Victorian-style homes that these small communities have so far been able to maintain.
Well-kept yards, multi-colored azaleas, Spanish-moss-draped trees lining small streets, a gazebo, and a local cemetery give the eyes and senses plenty to take in as you begin to realize you are falling in love and start to wonder how you could move into a town like this?
Whigham down the road, on the other hand, shows you firsthand how most of these small towns cannot hold on. The shops are closed, boarded up, broken into, falling apart, and falling down. The homes are no longer well kept, and age will take its toll to ensure that without revitalization, the town will someday become but a memory.
Before crossing into Alabama, we pass through Donalsonville. This town is in the middle of becoming a has-been and reflects what Quitman worked to save. The shops, for the most part, are still open. They are rough around the edges, wear and tear, and the passing of years are hurting the charm they once held. The main road skirts the old town so many a visitor will never see this little corner, further depressing its chances of rediscovering its glory days. Tourism amongst these types of small towns would be a lifesaver, but little to no money exists to help rescue them. So, these towns will gradually disappear, and we all lose a great part of America because of it.
It’s near dark crossing the border, and not a long drive to the hotel. It is apparent that Dothan is a larger city than the three of us had imagined. Caroline helped guide us to our lodging via long-distance help.
Seeing the hotel, I spot a billboard for Pofolk’s, which, while still active here in the south, has disappeared out west. Grandpa and I make the short drive around the corner to sit down for some dinner and pick up Auntie something to go as she stayed in the room.
Caroline gets Cooking
Can you tell who I was thinking of when I prepared the pani for tomorrow’s pani puri night (little hint)?
Well, the cooking really starts tomorrow, but for a while, I was sweating in the kitchen, blending mint and cilantro with jalapenos and spices to create the dipping sauce (pani) for tomorrow’s feast. John will probably post a recipe and a better description of this delicious Indian dish at some later time. Meanwhile, thank you, John, for providing support and advice lovingly over the phone while I was worrying over every detail. Wish you were home!
Auntie and Grandpa Going to Florida – Day 9
Wednesday turns out to be a rather dull day. We started on a good footing with breakfast with the Densfords. By the time we dropped them off back home, it was raining. From here, we began our push more or less back to Phoenix. On the 70 East, it rains, it rains in Arcadia, and it’s raining in Okeechobee. Rain comes down at Fort Pierce on the Atlantic Ocean. Going north in the rain, it continues to rain. When we arrive at the hotel, it’s raining. Delivering dinner to Auntie and Grandpa, it was raining. What a wet, dull day.
To be clear about the quality of this dullness, I blame it on the low, heavy gray skies pouring rain down upon us. The rain had the effect of moving our moods in the wrong direction, but maybe it was also the fact that all of the important stuff is now done. The environment itself added to my own negativity as I was looking at the horrific urban sprawl of McMansions taking over forest land being turned into pseudo farmland for the sake of people’s egos to have it all. The Tampa/St. Petersburg / Bradenton / Sarasota Megalopolis is growing into the ‘boring’ flat nothingness lands that exist between the other cities and this corner of Florida.
Passing through Arcadia, a note was made to revisit this small town; it is still authentically small and not modernized by branded commercialism. As for the eastern seaboard here on the Atlantic, what a waste of time this coast is. Everything is privately owned; thanks to California for showing us how the coast should be available to all. Million-dollar luxury beachfront hurricane targets and view obstructions line up like row housing in any urban setting from a big city across America.
There is no ocean to see, no beach to walk, only private signs warning you to keep out. Mile after mile of inhospitable homes acts as a private gate to bar Joe Citizen from the Atlantic Ocean. So, if you are one of the ten million Americans who belong to the club of isolation, then you will probably enjoy your stay here in Snoberita-Ville.
As for our tour of Cape Canaveral that was to take place in the afternoon, the rain slowed us down so much that we were quite late. Even so, with so much rain, I didn’t feel we would get our money’s worth scooting between facilities while Auntie and Grandpa got colder and wetter.
So you see, if it hadn’t been raining cats and dogs and city planners hadn’t allowed the building of forest-destroying super homes with impenetrable iron walls blocking the view of the entire ocean, then things might have been hunky-dory and I wouldn’t have had a dull day.
Comfort food to the rescue, as there’s nothing like eating BBQ to soothe the soul. Tomorrow will surely be better.
Caroline is Invited
Sonal invited me for dinner again, and this time, I remembered to take a photo. Only too bad the two youngest members of this all-female household declined to be in the picture… We had a delicious moong bean dish and bakhri-type bread, plus mango for dessert. I will have to ask John to ask for the moong bean recipe. Very yummy, thanks, Sonal and Ba!
Auntie and Grandpa Going to Florida – Day 8
Thunder wakes me before dawn. I roll over and go back to sleep, only to wake on my own minutes before the alarm was supposed to rouse me. Our breakfast will be at IHOP followed by getting onto the next of the three main reasons for this trip. First was seeing Jessica, the second was Grandpa going to Camp Shelby, and now the third visiting the Densfords.
At breakfast, Auntie reminisces about this neighborhood she knows so well. We had no problem finding our way; we even traced the roads Auntie would take when riding her bicycle from her villa to the Days Inn, which used to have a different restaurant than the IHOP we’re at now. Before arriving for breakfast, we stopped at her old place so I could see the house of which I received many photos, along with Auntie and her husband, Ken Burke, while I lived in Germany for ten years.
Auntie tells me the story of how she ultimately came to reside in Florida and the Bradenton area, in particular, following her retirement. She had gone to visit Lillydale, New York, with a friend one day, and one of the psychics asked if she would like a reading. For $10, Auntie agreed to have her fortune read and sat down.
The psychic told her she had to go to the St. Petersburg, Florida, area and that she saw the letter K as having significance, along with something about chicken. Without a lot going on, Auntie called on Grandpa’s wife, my grandmother Hazel, to help her drive down to Florida. On arrival, Auntie picked up a paper and found a real estate listing of a villa she would soon be buying.
Fast forward to a dinner engagement with friends that began with a lady embracing one of the guests named Ken with the exclamation, “K, we have missed you so.” Auntie had just learned Ken’s nickname. After dating for a while, Auntie found that Ken’s favorite food was chicken. So all the pieces the psychic had told Auntie about had come together, and she was astounded to this day that this lady in Lily Dale so accurately had foretold my aunt’s future. What the psychic hadn’t shared with Auntie was that Ken would ultimately be my great-aunt’s first husband: she married him at the age of 69.
Breakfast done we head to our destination, the Densford residence. Grandpa knocks on the door, and after a couple of minutes, a frail, wispy lady answers the door: it is Virginia, and right behind her is her sister Marion. Stepping into the living room, Auntie grabbed both women and hugged them with tears in her eyes; she choked me up, and this wouldn’t be the only time this day she would do that.
It has been three years since last these old ladies had seen each other. For many years they had been neighbors here in Bradenton, but also back in Angola, New York. They have been lifelong friends and today is one more precious moment to revisit one another. Marion is the younger sister of Virginia, who recently celebrated her 90 birthday. I have been told that I met Marion many a time but the memory of a 4-year-old is not so robust, nor is the memory of the 41-year-old writing this.
Auntie’s hearing is normally bad, really bad. Listening to Marion and Virginia, it seems her hearing is as acute as it has ever been. They swap stories fast, catch up on who’s sick and passed away, coming alive in a way I had never witnessed before. Running through events, Auntie was actually riled up about the treatment Martha Stewart received, and she demanded with vocal authority that if her health and legs were not in such poor shape she and the girls would go out to women’s groups across America and demand equal treatment of Ken Lay of Enron and Bernie Ebbers of Worldcom.
I am asked to recount our trip across the country so far and tell of driving out of Arizona, New Mexico, and into the Pecos Hills of Texas. I talked of the Bayou Coast of southern Louisiana, our detour to Camp Shelby, and our arrival in Pensacola to visit Jessica.
I also have a rather funny anecdote to share with them about passing wind. I do so with Auntie’s permission. Traveling near Biloxi, we stopped for catfish a few nights before. Typically, the noise in busy restaurants bothers Auntie due to her hearing aids picking up too many sounds. As we leave the restaurant, Auntie tugs at my arm to tell me, “I am so happy this restaurant was so loud tonight; I passed gas the entire meal.” Oh God, Auntie, too much info. I told her I’ll be calling her Farts Burke for the remainder of our trip.
Auntie gets a side cramp laughing at this today; she had forgotten about this episode and was tickled to hear it retold. If nothing else can be said as far as body functions go, old people have no shame left.
Ninety minutes after arriving I ask everyone to step outside as the gray clouds have given way to blue skies. Sitting in the front yard, I snap a photo that I would swear Auntie’s smile erased years of aging from her face.
Before walking back inside, we knocked on the door of a neighbor whom Auntie had known while she lived around the corner in the same development. Bill, a now slight man, answers the door. Auntie and Bill exchange greetings, determine who has died, and Bill begins to tell Auntie about his cancer. He begins with that his testicles and prostate have been removed, which has him having to urinate all the time now.
Not just that, but when he has to go, it is right now. He said he almost lives next to the toilet now, sleeps with a bedpan, but still manages to wake at 3:00 a.m. all wet. If he goes to the bank he has to put on a catheter and wear a bag so he doesn’t wet his pants in line. This is told straight-faced and deadpan, as I said above.
Back inside, I ask to be forgiven as I would like to excuse myself and use the turning of the weather to make my way towards the beach to see if I can snap a few pix before the clouds move back in. With a promise to return in an hour, they encouraged me to take my time. I do.
Driving away, I was considering returning right away instead of fighting traffic on a road under construction, which is the road I need to take to the beach. Plus, clouds are to the south, to the north, and behind me in the east. I am struck with the fact that this is my first time alone outside of sleeping, so I turn on the music and turn it up. Now motivated, I take the chance that I can get to the coast for a photo of the Gulf of Mexico with some blue sky. It is not long before I am on the bridge, crossing over to Anna Maria Key.
The sea is green; the blue sky opens as clouds dissipate. The sun sparkles in the crashing surf, and couples walk along the water’s edge barefoot, enjoying the absence of the forecasted rain and winds.
Measuring the beauty quotient multiplied by the weather potential divided by the relaxation-driven retirement population in addition to the throngs who descend on the area for spring training, this place has the potential to be overrun. It isn’t, though; it is pleasant, with relatively light traffic and easy parking right next to the beach. Anyone who’s been to Maine or the coast of Belgium in summer can tell horror stories about traffic snarls and overcrowding.
From one beach access point to the next, I have to stop at nearly everyone for another photo so Caroline can see this place and demand that I bring her here. Gulf Drive is the two-lane road taking me to the northern end of this small island. On that end is a small park with a fantastic view.
A little boy is throwing bread or chips to the birds who are lining up for the treats. His equally little sister is laughing and yelling while chasing the birds, who are startled and take flight only to hover just out of her reach until they sense a moment of quiet. They quickly land to finish picking up the meal strewn over the white sand.
Pelicans fly by, shorebirds walk along, while others fly directly at me. On a nearby pier, fishermen can be seen casting a line into the clear green water. In the grasses, wildflowers are blooming bright yellow. It is no wonder this part of Florida has become a draw for retirees.
Having my fill of picture taking and being aware that Grandpa will need more meds and maybe some lunch or early dinner, it is time to return to the villas. The four of them were just talking away, and for a short time, I re-entered the conversation. I asked if anyone was hungry, and Grandpa said, “We just ate,” well, Grandpa, that was about 7 hours ago. Marion declines, but Virginia says yes, which changes Marion’s mind. Auntie is hungry, as am I.
Bob Evans restaurant was the choice for the group. Grandpa finds out that he is hungry and has a meal with the rest of us. A nearby table starts a conversation with me, asking what I’m doing with the old people. Is this really such an uncommon sight? This isn’t the first time this has happened; it happened in Van Horn, Texas, Lafayette, Louisiana, and Apalachicola, Florida. I explain that I have brought my great-aunt and grandfather out for a cross-country road trip, and they are so impressed that I am nearly embarrassed.
Some have told me that this is one of the most important things I will do in my lifetime. Others have said that I am the greatest nephew/grandson for making such a wonderful gesture. A lady from Illinois told me that I was acting in such an honorable manner that I should be proud of. At tonight’s table, the couple at the other table went on about how nice this was and how they wished other young people would take an interest in their elderly relatives’ happiness.
At the end of our meal, another couple who had been sitting in earshot of the earlier conversation stopped at our table as they were leaving and congratulated me for taking the time to spend a vacation with such wonderful people and hoped others could be so inspired. Almost awkwardly, I start feeling like the celebrated example of a legend who, at the tender age of 41, sacrifices his selfish interests for the enjoyment of his elderly family to take them across the country through hardship and poor weather just to see their family more than two thousand miles away.
In reality, they help me afford the luxury of taking yet more photos of our stunning countryside, and we are traveling fairly comfortably in our minivan to the Days Inns, Best Westerns, and a few random lodgings at the in-between locations.
After dinner, I deliver the Densfords back home. We agree to meet at 8:30 for breakfast and I take Grandpa and Auntie back to our hotel. I head out again, this time going north and then west, trying to capture a nice sunset photo.
I see many nice shots of the setting sun but no opportunity to pull over and frame it. Behind trees, homes, and businesses, I try to grab a spot but the sun is falling out of the sky like the proverbial lead balloon. I manage a couple of snaps, but nothing that comes close to capturing what I had been seeing moments earlier.