Dreams, Moments, Travels
Srujana and John are my mates in the Java 202 class that I’m attending at Paradise Valley Community College. John, his wife Barb, and I took the 101 class last semester. I met Srujana through the extended “Indo Euro Family.” The class is a lot of fun but, of course also tons of work. This was also the first evening I drove myself to and from class!
Outside my window this Monday morning, the sky is glowing orange. Across the street, the Gulf of Mexico lies in near-silence as it gently laps at the shore. To the west, clouds are building into thunderheads for storms expected along the panhandle of Florida later today. Another hotel breakfast, and we are again on the road.
On this return drive through Apalachicola, I took a moment to check out a small corner of the historic district and then stopped along a bayside park where Caroline and I had stopped with my mother-in-law a couple of years earlier. This small town of Apalachicola is one of my favorites in all of Florida. The town has not been commercially invaded yet; no massive new homes and no high-rise condos have crept in. The original charm of its perfect setting is alive and well-maintained.
Making quick time across the southern states was ok but here on these white sand beaches and their clear waters, I want to linger. Thoughts bombard me to take off my shoes and walk barefoot in the sand. I want to kick at the water and drag my toes through the surf before taking a couple of hours to thoroughly inspect all the shells for the best specimens.
Our mission after visiting Jessica was to get to Bradenton, Florida, in order for Grandpa and Auntie to visit some friends. Along the way, we have taken brief moments to see the sights not seen before by these two in all their years of living right here in America. They, too, like so many others, have never bothered to get off the main road.
At times, Grandpa has trouble seeing the road for what it is and is trying to act as the driver from his passenger seat. Auntie, on the other hand, is traveling like a pro with maps in her lap, following the road by staying up with the instructions of my meticulous itinerary. She looks for flowers, plants, birds, and more of the boiled peanuts I so desperately desire.
Morning here on the coast is a lesson in tranquility. Approaching spring, the trees are fresh with new growth that is especially vibrant in the coastal sunshine.
I could drive this road for a thousand years. Make a million stops to inspect anything and everything that comes into view. From the white concrete of this bridge to the dew on leaves, hugging white sands and listening to the light wind rustle the grasses on the soft dunes next to the shore. All of these are moments that should be ingrained into the etchings of my memory, never to be forgotten.
The day rolls along, getting better by the mile. It is a perfect 74 degrees with deep blue skies dotted with the occasional white fluffy cloud. We fall behind with my constant stops for photos; I want it all for memories, for sharing with family, for savoring on a day when I may no longer be able to come and go as easily as I do now.
Thickets line the road. Blackwaters reflect grayish trees growing out of their darkness. Cypress sends up roots like buds emerging to flower, and birds sing. I am mesmerized by all of this and saddened, too, knowing that many a traveler can never see this profound beauty laid out before them. It is free for the taking, but others’ cynicism can create barriers that act as blinders where they follow the broken yellow stripe in the center of the road to the next stop.
Every so often, a town emerges between woodlands. At times, the place is not much more than a gas station or two at an intersection with a few homes visible from the road. Other times, only some remains are off hiding and nearly gone, falling into decay behind the trees. The community church is not much more than a hulking shell with a pew or two left and a broken piano in the corner.
Where boiled peanuts had once been enjoyed along a busy road, the new highway built miles away diverted people away from these places. Without the traffic, they die a slow death, and consequently, everything fades away. The joy of serendipitous finds or stopping for Sunday services and catching the choir was a uniquely different time than the homogenized pop culture we are cultivating today.
Not all is lost yet. There is still the adventurous traveler who takes these roads and the hold-out residents who don’t want to be absorbed into a vanilla world of look-and-act-alike banalities. The rural fish stand, a taxidermist, and a small bar and grill can cling to life with just a trickle of traffic. Florida may have huge insects, high humidity, hurricanes, road kill stew myths, NASCAR, mullets, snowbirds, and the weirdest news this side of Germany but I have yet to meet an unfriendly person here.
Toll roads await us. Here a toll, there a toll, everywhere a toll-toll, the collector takes another dollar and another. The sun peeks through from behind dark clouds that come and go while we fight to make our way through heavy traffic, passing through Tampa to St. Petersburg on our way to Bradenton.
Checked into another motel, we ventured back out for dinner and some supplies. Auntie has been feeling a little “stopped up” and I am introduced to a new type of embarrassment I never could have imagined. I find us a drugstore and start the hunt discreetly. Overhead, I find the description of the product line I seek, Laxatives. OK, where are they? Bingo found the first item, suppositories, not just any old ones but Fleet Suppositories.
The next item isn’t readily visible but ultimately was found with some help. I had to ask where the hot water bottles were. If you wonder what was so embarrassing about things so far, well, it wasn’t anything yet. That happened as I approached the counter, and my tools for unplugging were being rung up.
The young woman at the counter is a gothic tattooed and pierced ‘grrrl.’ As I approach, I’m compelled to blurt out, “You know, I thought it was embarrassing to have to go to a drug store and buy condoms when I was 20 years old. I thought that would be the worst transaction I would ever have to make, but today, I have found a new low. You probably wouldn’t really believe me that these suppositories and enema bag are for my great aunt out in the car would you?”
Back at the car, Auntie is happier than a clam. Her long bout with constipation is about to come to an end this evening. This dialogue about function, bowel, and urinary issues is a common one at any given hour. I have driven three thousand miles and heard, talked about, asked, inquired, and helped get to and will soon be dreaming of bathrooms and the problems old age brings regarding elimination.
Our weather is supposed to take a turn for the worse in the coming days, according to tonight’s forecast. Thunderstorms and tornado warnings north of us loom large, but maybe, like other TV weather forecasts, this one will be as wrong as the others. I wish for continued clear skies and that everything comes out ok for Auntie as I go to sleep at nearly 1:00 a.m. after another great day.
This is one of the blog entries where a photo was discovered dated for this day, but whatever was written and how the entry was lost is not known. What I do know is that this was during the time that I’d taken Auntie and Grandpa on a road trip to Florida, and Caroline was having dinner with Rinku Shah at our place.
Sunday, though it could be any day, as the road trip has made hay of the necessity of knowing which day of the week it is. Up early to meet Jessica for breakfast in the galley – Navy speak for the mess hall – but upon arrival, we learn that no civilians are allowed, so we are turned away. This means that misinformation was given to us yesterday regarding eating dinner here. Hah, this is from the group responsible for information dominance.
The last reference is about Jessica’s job in the Navy, where she is being trained in data interpretation. Jessica did her basic training in Chicago, Illinois, and is quickly approaching the end of her first year of a four-year commitment. Here at Corry Station near Pensacola, Florida, she is in her next phase of training. Today, we had the chance to see Jess in her dress uniform; she donned it, especially for Auntie and Grandpa. She is too tired to change into her civilian clothes after hanging out until four in the morning, so we leave the base to get some breakfast.
Without a lot of dining options, we resign ourselves to the only choice in town, Waffle House. Afterward, Pensacola Naval Air Station and the National Museum of Naval Aviation await our visit. The air station couldn’t be better kempt; like any military installation I have ever visited, it is immaculate. With this station here on the Florida coast and its own wide stretch of white sandy beaches, this looks like an ideal assignment for any sailor. Getting on the installation was easy enough; Jessica simply waved her badge; for anyone else, you will only need proof of insurance, vehicle registration, and identification for everyone in the car.
The Museum opened at 9:00 a.m., and we were nearly the first visitors there. Auntie opted for the guided tour, so we got her a wheelchair. She and Jessica headed off on their own while Grandpa and I meandered amongst the more than 100 aircraft on display in this large facility. Our first stop is at a Blue Angels jet and I goad Grandpa into crawling up the ladder and shimmying into the pilot’s seat. Grandpa sends me a wave from the cockpit; I snap it and nearly need a can opener to pry him back out of the cramped quarters.
I asked a staff member if a P-38 might be found here, and while the Navy never used the P-38, the Museum does have one on display anyway. This plane is important to Grandpa as it is the one he was helping build while working for Curtis Aircraft in Buffalo, New York, before the war.
Occasionally, I see Jessica pushing Auntie between aircraft as they take their own path through the museum. After the P-38, we look at amphibious aircraft, a bi-plane, various old and modern fighters, helicopters, fighters brought back from watery graves, some old rare examples from an early flight, along with a good amount of photos that show the times when some of the craft were in service.
After an hour and a half and Grandpa tiring, we leave the museum.
It is a 50-mile drive northwest to the outskirts of Mobile, Alabama, where we head to walk the decks of the World War II-era battleship U.S.S. Alabama. Auntie has never been on a battleship. She had enquired in her more youthful days about the possibility of finding employment doing something on a large seacraft but came up empty-handed. So today, at 93 years old, Auntie has her first opportunity to spend time on a battleship.
Being a great sport, Auntie poses with the big guns on the front of the ship as we are both amazed at the size and weight of everything around us. We read the plaques along the way, and we both wonder out loud what it must have been like out on war-torn waters with guns blazing and aircraft attacking.
Jessica and Grandpa wander off to inspect the decks below and the tower above. An hour passes here at the memorial park before we start on our way back to the car. Grandpa was supposed to take a look at a submarine on display here, but after walking the ship and the air museum, he decided he’d had enough walking and let Jessica go on her own.
By the time we get back to Pensacola, it is already time to drop off Jessica so we can resume our trek southeast. Goodbye is too quick. I gave her some words of encouragement and told her to be determined to maintain pride in herself, her family, and her family name by remaining upstanding and doing the right thing no matter the difficulty. I hug her, telling her how great the short amount of time I have had with her, but regrettably, I forget to tell my daughter how much I love her.
Although I hope she knows just how much I love her as I am here with family just to say hello and spend time with her, I still feel that I lost an opportunity to tell her in person. So, I am taking the time here to let my daughter, Jessica Nicole Wise, know that her father loves her and is happy to see her making the best out of what she has undertaken. Good luck, Jess!
It is later than we planned for in leaving Pensacola, so the drive to Apalachicola is expedient and without fanfare. Maybe two stops for a photo, a bathroom stop or two, a quick snack at McDonald’s, and it’s drive, drive, drive.
Outside of Port St. Joe, we move into Eastern Standard Time, arriving at our Best Western Hotel in Apalachicola near 8:30 p.m. Another unloading of the car, situating the folks in their room, and then running over to my room to do the same. Dinner tonight is fast food from Burger King – our junk food day. The King is the only place opened this late, Apalachicola is a small town.
I made the post office on Greenway and 29th Street my first self-driving destination that I had not ever been to before. I’ve been wanting to send a package to my mother for so long, this was going to be the day. Things went smoothly enough except for holding up folks trying to make a left turn into the Albertson’s parking lot (I needed packaging tape, sorry!) and missing the correct turn into the post office parking lot. However, the post office person was extremely friendly and the package is now finally on its merry way.
After all of this excitement, I drove over to Indo Euro for some R & R. I spent way too much time just relaxing and chatting with everybody (well, everybody except Raenu, who was busy elsewhere today). Then Rinku treated me to some mehndi (on the back of my hand so I could drive home), and I managed to smudge it only the tiniest bit on my index finger. At home, I dug into homework and uploaded photos from India that our friend Jay sent over.
It is Saturday in Pensacola, Florida, and we decide to sleep in. This worked out for Jessica, too, as she was on call until 6:00 a.m. Arriving in the evening, we weren’t able to see the damage lingering here until we were on our drive to pick up my daughter at Corry Station, where she is taking her Naval training for the job she will be performing while enlisted with the United States Navy.
Her facility is, like all other military installations, immaculate. I have often wished that cities would organize themselves as well as these posts and keep the landscape clean and in order. We get a brief tour of the grounds and are just as quickly on our way to get some breakfast.
Being here in the south Waffle House seemed like the obvious choice. Even finding an open restaurant is a challenge in Pensacola post-Hurricane Ivan, but Waffle House turns out to be a great choice. Auntie loves grits, Grandpa didn’t much like the waffle, Jessica had a wrap, and I had a waffle, hash browns, and sausage.
Stomachs full and without much of a plan we drive west along the coast. Mile after mile of devastation is all we see. We are all caught off guard as none of us thought the damage was so great or that it was lingering so long after Ivan hit the U.S. back in September. From Pensacola to Fort Pickens in Alabama, we drive through a ghost town.
A few people have come out for the beach; mostly, they are fishing. Some sit on porches in buildings that are largely vacant. The majority of people in the area are construction workers. Everything is damaged.
Beachfront homes lean on their stilts. Foundations of million-dollar homes have buckled, and their raised floors have fallen away, draining their contents and leaving empty shells. Some homes have lost walls, while others had their roofs torn off. In one home, we see through a hole in the wall a dresser with most drawers missing; the closet still has shoes in it. The couch is growing mold, as are the walls. A blade from a ceiling fan is missing, and an old purse, notebook, half-burned candle, and a still-standing open bottle of wine sit on the floor surrounded by sand.
High-rise condo owners weren’t spared either; it appears that most if not all, are closed. Facades are torn off; entire corners are gone. Cranes dot the landscape as things are being rebuilt. Resorts and luxury beachfront hotels are all closed. Debris lines the streets and parking lots. Plants, trees, and tennis courts look as though they were abandoned years ago.
The day is gloriously blue-skied, and the weather is perfect. The beaches are crystalline white, with the Gulf waters gently rolling in. A few feet away, a dishwasher sits in the sand, ripped from the home it once belonged to. Across the street, a couch is upended, sitting with other household things scattered willy-nilly.
Bizarrely, a built-in swimming pool floated away from its home and was redeposited where the driveway used to be. Some places have already been pulled out with no further sign of its existence besides some pilings, while others look like they may be salvageable.
Instead of chatting about military life the four of us can’t help but stand in awe at the power of the storm and shock at the tragedy of how life and property were cast aside by the heavy hand of nature.
As far west as we can travel on the 182, the picture is much the same. Time to head a bit north over to Fort Morgan, where we’ll catch a ferry to Dauphin Island. Almost immediately, a sign brings our attention to the fact that the ferry is not open but will reopen soon, another victim of the hurricane.
Although much havoc has been wrought upon these communities, there is still much beauty to be found here. Everything is recovering. The beaches are so very pristine. The forest continues on. Birds still sing, and here and there are the intrepid tourists riding bikes, walking, and playing golf.
At Fort Morgan, we pay a small fee to view this historic site. The large fortified structure came through the storm without a scratch. The massive walls stood much the same way they have for the past 150 years. What is broken and looking beyond repair is the dock where the ferry to Dauphin Island once stood. Crumpled, folded, battered, this dock we drove off with my mother-in-law just a year and a half ago is in dire need of some tender loving care.
Sadly, Alabama is in dire need of some cold, hard cash. Fort Morgan is run now by a skeleton crew due to budget cuts. I just want to scream at President Bush: yeah, go ahead and give more tax breaks to the rich and just have the states shut down our state historic sites and close the state parks too to finance changes in Medicare, whose costs will have to be absorbed by the states. Send troops into Iran with bags of cash so we leave our roads potholed. Don’t develop alternative energy; we can export suitcases of cash to the Middle East for oil and move to close down or limit access to our national parks. No child left behind means no cash for forests; log them out of here.
Sorry, but you can’t drive across this country seeing the decay, and ignore it. Of course, you can sit at home in a city that’s doing well and not have a clue any of this is happening, but I’m out here seeing it, hearing about it, and not being able to do a thing about it. America the Beautiful is going to need a Band-Aid.
Fort Morgan, though, is still here, and we don’t have a lot of time to visit it. The grounds are beautiful; the bunkers are mossy and wet, with stalactites forming from the minerals oozing through the old brick structures. Displays within the fort walls are well presented, but I wish the glass was cleaned a little more frequently. Old cannons dot the grounds, and darkened passages lend a mystery to the history this fort exemplifies.
A small museum helps tell the story of the coming and goings of this facility that had originally been built to protect Mobile Bay. Do your research before arriving, as the gift store is being starved out of existence due to those budget cuts.
Auntie and Jessica had a great time walking and talking here today. Later, Jessica told me of her respect for Auntie’s enthusiasm and genuine excitement at being at this historic site.
Grandpa had originally been a little reluctant to join us in the fort but ultimately joined the party. Due to the blood thinners he takes, Grandpa is most of the time quite cold; here on the open coast with a good wind, it was a bit chilly, but he overcame that to catch a glimpse of things and visit the museum with us.
I know Jessica appreciates getting to know these two a little better during the past year and a half. Often, she blurts out how funny or cute these two are, how sweet Auntie is, and how Grandpa says some surprising and laughable lines that seemingly come out of nowhere.
It would be nice if Jessica could join us for the next week, but the Navy has plans for her, and what the government wants, the government gets. Even these few short hours spent here she has been able to accumulate memories that will surely leave a positive impact on her and her future.
At 4:30, we are driving east and decided we should try to make the galley before closing time. Jessica calls a buddy and finds that the closing time is 5:30; it’ll be close but we try.
Not a chance; it is 5:27 as we enter Pensacola. Before going on a wild goose chase, we call information to find a Po-Folks, but while on the phone we pull into Barnhill’s. Wow, we were lucky. This is a buffet-style restaurant serving up southern cooking.
The menu includes fried shrimp, catfish, pulled pork, fried chicken, ribs, greens, yams, rutabagas, cabbage, green beans, and at least 25 other dishes. For dessert, we can choose from peach, berry, or apple cobbler, bread pudding, banana pudding with Nilla wafers, and another half dozen items. I am so happy this place doesn’t franchise and open in the southwest; I would weigh 400 pounds before Christmas.
With dinner finished, we went to the hotel and set up Grandpa and Auntie in their room. Jessica comes to my room to read the story of the road trip so far. With tears in her eyes, she smudges her mascara into a fright mask. Next, she views the photos we’ve taken after leaving Arizona and driving through New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida, and Alabama.
Just as we finish, a humongous man-eating Florida-style cockroach crawls across the wall. I open the door while Jessica, with Samurai-like moves, lunges at the roach and gently but firmly siphons the hand-sized mutating insect from its clutch on the wall and hurls it outside. Hey, Go Navy! That’s some training. I am impressed with the skill and dexterity that have developed in my offspring.
A friend drops by the hotel to pick up Jessica, saving me the drive back to the base and allowing me to sit down to relate another day on the road with family.