14 miles northwest of the White House the small town of Garrett Park, MD decided by a vote of 245 to 46 to ban nukes within it’s .26 square miles. As they did this back in 1982 they are certainly not bandwaggoners. I wonder if in the ensuing years, 34 by my count, the yea’s are still shunning the nay’s or the other way around.
It reminds me of the ordnance passed by the fine citizens of Berkely, CA back in the late ’80s. But in 2011 a fellow by the name of Wozniak proposed the ban be struck down because the cold war was over. Should someone tell Garrett Park?
I met a colorful chap by the name of Guillermo in a parking lot the other day. We talked jeeps, traveling and the central american country of Nicaragua. His strongest argument for me to move there was that as a rich american I could snag a much younger woman and have our picture taken. The thought of my ex seeing a picture of me with a young, hot Nicaraguan gal in a spandex mini made me explode in laughter……I may just do it.
I took my wedding band off today and replaced it with a ring with a boatload of diamonds on it for the other hand. I am stylin’ ser shure. It feels much better.
We went to what is described as a dive bar around the corner from Gordon’s house. Now there are dive bars and there are Dive bars. A brief shout out to my buddies at The Cellar in Abington. This is a Dive bar with friendly and competent bartenders, decent bar food, cheap drafts and elbow to elbow townies. You visit with buddies, make new buddies and mingle with the bouncers. If the bouncers decide you a danger to women and children as you crawl up the steps (it is a cellar after all) they arrange for a ride home. It is long on charm with a heap of New England’s hard to detect and not always intended humor. The dive bar we were in last night had none of this….it did have an indifferent bartender with long, too red, dirty hair. The patrons were an odd mix of characters to discordant to carry on even the most elementary form of converation and the juke box was twice as loud as it should have been, blaring out the crappiest songs from the 80’s as if on purpose.
I love visiting Gordon but wish I were further south….all in good time.
Up north we call the panfish with the dark coloring around the gills a bluegill. I the south they call it a brim, spelled bream. I going to start calling it a brim….gotta blend.
Took my first brim out of Lofton Creek the other day. I tossed the little fella back as I usually do but they do make a wonderful fish fry if you catch enough of them.
I love fishing. I enjoy catching too but I always tell people that I fish because I like where they live.
Saddled up and heading back up north to tie up some loose ends. But first I had to load up on Missy’s breakfast buffet. The other day the delightful Tiffany chided me for not mentioning the peach muffins so let me say that they are out of this world. Thanks for reminding me Tiffany!
It was a quiet last night at The Shimmering Pines Motel. The Texans were gone and so was there unmistakable cowboy/trailer park energy. Adios corn fritos I say.
Tiffany had some interesting comments about the nature of the southerner. The accent, the apparent openness and seeming good nature all throw us Yankees off at first. And the Yankee who writes them off as dumb or shiftless does so at their own peril, at least intellectually. This southern culture, which I haven’t even begun the scratch, is as complex or more so than the one I just escaped from.
I’m helping the manager of our little Motel community write a resume. Evidently the owner treats her like crap and that just ain’t right. The Texans next door are moving on and I’m gonna miss them. Having armed cowboys next door is comforting….sort of. The very confused young man shaking the soda machine has been given 24 hours to relocate, My guess is he will be here for a while. I got my fishing license today. Went down to Lofton Creek and made some casts….it felt so good. I always tell people that I fish cause I like where they live.
Amelia Island is at the southernmost tip of a chain of islands that protects the coast from the Carolina’s to Florida. A tiny Island named after the daughter of King George II of Great Britain, it is a huge tourist attraction and come April 30th it will be elbow to elbow to celebrate Shrimpfest. I plan to be elsewhere.
Needing an oil change I pulled into Five Star Quick Lube and met the owner, Dale. Half an hour later, after covering everything from relationships to jeeps he oiled my old beast up. Dale is one of a few born and raised on this 13 mile by 4 mile patch of heaven (except during hurricanes).
I was talking Charles of Walmart about car radios when an old gent walked up to me, Peter of Byrne and said…you look like a fisherman, what should I buy, wisely Charles nodded at me to continue and I proceeded to question the customer about where he planned to fish, what he planned to fish for and what his budget was. Ten minutes later he had a rod and reel, some tackle and a short lesson in fishing….keep the tip up, allow no slack in the line and keep the drag on the loose side. Charles thanked me and then sold me a car radio.
I finally got a laptop. Now I can communicate with my new friends as well as my old friends. My window is an hour or so that I sit in Starbucks because the balky wifi in this old motel room I call home just doesn’t work all the time, although it seems to be working right now.
I was laying in bed trying to sleep but too many thoughts were racing around in my empty head so here I am. A couple of days ago I wrote a rather revealing piece about my marriage. An old friend whom I have not seen in about 45 years, Bill Simpich, wrote something to the effect that it was rather bold to be so open and that good things were going to happen. Well, good things already have happened. And as far as being open…..I have often said that I don’t know what the truth is, but I know if one is not honest one will never find it.
This journey, which I was forced into, started out as an escape. An escape from a broken marriage, from the cold winter winds of New England and became some sort of a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World race to find the truth. I had to slow down and discover my own advice….honestly would lead me there. I found my laugh today, I talked to everyone I passed on the street, I had a long discussion about this poor presidential field with a biker at my motel. And folks, if you want to find out who Trump appeals to get out of the great eastern suburban areas and you will see.
Take some advice from an aging hipster-doofus…it is not the embarrassing things I have said and done that I am the most ashamed of. It is the things that I should have said and should have done when I should have said and done them that shame me the the most…….never again.
All of life’s daily insults are discussed outside the rooms. Tears are shed. Voices raised and issues are settled over ciggies and Budweiser. My next door neighbors, a biker couple from Texas, invited me into their room to show me their colors. Colors are leather vests with the club patches on them. I made the incredible error of touching his patch and was colorfully informed not to do it again….whoops. They are good folk but don’t stand a chance. And by that I mean they will be scratching for money to pay the bills until they don’t have to anymore. Life has ignored them, America has little use for them. They still find a way.
The Pinecrest Motel is a cheap one story cement block building that attracts the occasional traveler but is really a home for local ne’er-do-well’s and drifters looking for the greener grasses that will never be found. I have been here a week and it looks like I’ll be here another waiting for my cargo trailer. The occasional travelers I never meet but I am down with all the rest. This is a side of America that one from Greenwich rarely runs into and it may seem grim but it’s real. And real is what I am looking for.
Apparently Starbucks is a no theft zone. Everyone leaves their electronic communication devices right on their tables as they attend to bathroom chores or take smoke breaks…..I love it.
I went down to the boat landing on Lofton Creek this morning just to see if I could see a gator, no such luck. But I did watch a steady parade of tractor trailers haul loads of pines down to the Rayonier Papermill down in Fernandina. All day, every day….I will never buy a paper product again.