Happy Birthday Ryan

Welcome to the world Anna...

Congratulations Kristen and Adam.

2011

2011, just around the corner. The years march on... double time, so it seems.

It seems to me that traveling around the country as we have these past, going on 4 years, has added new facets to the passage of time... new dimensions... certainly new thinking. I like it that now, when a memory pops into my head unbidden, it is often of some unique location or adventure, some interesting person or landscape, sometimes something profound and bizarre. Sure, the memories of standing on a rocky mountaintop in Zion, or at the base of a giant Redwood in Humbolt County or of paddling through Cypress swamps in the Okefenokee make for great memories. I cherish them above material things. But there are also treasures to be found among the flotsam and jetsam of the everyday, in the little backwaters of the great flow of Life. For instance, at Walmart...

We have shopped at Walmarts and Dollar Stores across America. If you pay attention, there's much to be learned wandering around the aisles of “Every day low prices”. You will always find a fascinating diversity of humanity. Diversity in ethnicity, age, dress, speech, behavior. It's always an experience of the great mixing bowl of Americana, each region with it's own distinct flavor. In Collier County, Florida you see a lot of Q-Tips, that is, white haired Seniors, pushing carts through the home goods section. In Palm Springs, it's Latinos with a uniquely California flair in dress and body art. In San Francisco, it's Asian; Chinle, Arizona, Native American; Heber City, Utah, White Mormons. And in Glynn County Georgia, Black.

One day while in a Dollar Store in Louisiana, I overheard two women talking in their distinct Cajun accent. The first woman said, “I do love de Dollah Stoah. It be real convenient... and casual.” The second woman said, “ Dat be for sure. And I don't have to get all dress up like going to Walmart or somethin.” Now there's an endorsement to build a advertising campaign around...

Brunswick, Georgia is the Glynn County seat, an eclectic cultural and socio-economic mixture of humankind. a gritty, declining manufacturing/fishing industry, a vibrant local and federal government sector, an aggressive and unhealthy legal community. It is the gateway to the Golden Isles, the resort communities of Saint Simons Island and Jekyll Island, earlier in history slave plantations, later the private refuge of the insanely wealthy; the Rockefellers, the Morgans, the Pulitzers, none of whom would every have shopped in Walmart.

In the Brunswick Walmart, the majority of dolls in the toy section and peoples images on greeting cards are dark skinned, the canned goods; turnip greens, okra, black eyed peas with snaps... and hair products selections; relaxers, straighteners, glosses, are not typical to a Walmart in, say... Waterville, Maine. The sense for me is always, as it is in every location across the country, a distinct ”You're not in Kansas anymore Dorothy.” feeling. And I love it. “New experience” as my Azeri son-in-law often says.

Walmart is aggressive in affiliating with other businesses in their stores. Banks, Credit Unions, Tax Services, Nail and Hair Salons, Eye Glass shops, Photo Studios, Urgent Care Medical Clinics, and, of course, food vendors. Where else can you get your oil changed, your toenails polished, your portfolio tweaked and a 12 inch Subway, turkey on honey oat bread with spinach, tomatoes and onions...

I was walking out of the Brunswick Walmart when I spied the empty sandwich shop. The Subway gift card that my thoughtful sister had sent me for my birthday had been burning a hole in my pocket. It was an “impulse purchase” for sure, but my impulse at that moment was hunger.... mmmm.

The young, white girl behind the counter was pleasant, a half smile on her face. “Welcome to Subway. How can I help yewww?” Georgia girl fer sure... She had dyed purple hair under her Subway cap and a barbed wire tattoo around her neck above her Subway shirt collar. The metal hoop rings in her nose and lip were not unattractive.

“Hi. May I have a $5, 12 inch, oven roasted chicken, on Honey Oat, toasted with Swiss, please?” I recited. Connie had taught me well. We would split the sandwich when I picked her up at Belks in a few minutes.

I watched her build the sandwich. Tattooed on the knuckles of her right hand were the letters L-O-V-E, one letter on each finger. This was not a professional tattoo. This was a jail house tat. Skin ripped with a sharp object and ink from an ink pen rubbed into the wound. She pursed her lips and concentrated as she added the veggies. “Yeww want sum sauce on thay-at?” She asked. Yes, please, sweet onion...

She cut, wrapped and bagged the footlong and I passed her my gift card. She looked puzzled as she swiped the card and started pushing buttons. Finally, the computer prompted her to enter the date. She gazed at me. “What's today?” she asked. “Wednesday” I answered. She blinked twice. “No, no... what's today's date?” she asked. “ I don't know,” I responded.

She raised her voice and called to someone unseen. “Mayhelen,” it sounded like one word, “What's today?” A voice responded “Wednesday...” She smiled, the deja vu humor not lost on her. “What's the date” she called back. Mary Helen announced “It's the 21^st...”

The counter girl turned to me and made eye contact. There was wonder on her face. “ The 21^st.” she repeated, “Where has time went... ?”

2011, just around the corner... Where has time went, indeed?

Profound and bizarre.

Happy New Year, folks.

Merry Christmas!

Thanks for the pics Mike and Amy!! Perfect!

Pearl Jam Song

"Off He Goes"

Okefenokee Swamp

Just back from a kayak trip for a couple incredible days in the swamp. The Okeefenokee is an almost 500,000 acre National Wildlife Refuge located on the southern Georgia border with Florida and is unlike anything I have ever seen across the country. Okefenokee is a vast bog inside a huge sauce- shaped depression that was once part of the ocean floor. The word, Okeefenokee, is Native American for "land of the trembling earth". Peat deposits up to 15 feet deep will quake when walked upon.



It wasn't an "easy" trip. David, Beaver and the crazy Yankee paddled around 15 miles a day, at times in shallow streams, dragging our loaded kayaks through the thick swamp vegetation; marsh grass and water lily, struggling over downed trees of cypress and pine. The water level was very low, as low as David had ever seen it, but the upside was that we had the swamp entirely to ourselves.



The slow moving waters are tea colored due to the tanic acid released from decaying plants and is acidic, about the level of a carbonated cola drink, not good to drink. Perhaps, as a result of this and also the cool, windy nights, there were no bugs to speak of. But there were plenty of other critters; egrets, heron, turtles, piliated woodpeckers, ibis, sandhill cranes, hawks, bow fish, owls... and gators! Hundreds of them, from one foot babies to huge 12 footers, sunning themselves lazily on the banks or skulking in the water. Impressive, instinctually threatening, the hair on the back of your neck standing up on end when one swims toward you and submerges under your boat. In the backwater creek I bumped one (not on purpose) and it came up behind the boat hissing. Motivating!



The reflectivity of the water made for some great photos.

We limped into the "chickie" around dinner time... just in time. The raised sleeping platform was named "Round Top". God knows why, because it is located in the "praries"; flat, swamp for 20 miles in any direction. Truly desolate. Truly beautiful.
The sky was huge, the clouds were jaw dropping, and the stars that night were spectacular.

We set up tents and enjoyed some great steaks from Beaver's restaurant and a fine container of box wine from Winn Dixie, before some serious relaxing. A gator lived under the chickie and we named him "One-Eyed Jack". I tied a chunk of steak on a 3 foot piece of rope and got to meet him up close and personal. They are not too bright, but make up for it with ferocity. Here's a shot of Jack through my binoculars.


We hit the sack, enjoying the cries of the Sandhill Cranes, just down for the winter from Minnesota or Canada. An erie sound. Around midnight we were all awakened to another sound, the sound of wind... lots of it. The intensity of the coming storm built for about an hour and we scrambled to lash things down as the temperature dropped from 80 degrees into the 40's. The force of the wind was so great that our tents collapsed on us and we huddled waiting for what was to come. The rain exploded on the metal roof top and blew sideways into our tents soaking clothes and sleeping bags. And we three fools lay in the dark, howling with laughter, hysterically happy.

By 2:00 AM things had dialed back a bit and we lay in our tents, cold and wet, waiting for the light of dawn. Beaver was introspective as he spoke into the darkness. "You know, this is great. Now when stories are told, I can say "You think THAT was bad, well let me tell you about..." And we laughed for another 15 minutes. Awesome...

We rose before the dawn and got busy getting warm. Coffee, beef stew and a hibachi full of charcoal lifted our soggy moods even as we put on all of our clothes against the hand numbing coldness. Lacking orange juice, we took mega doses of Tylenol with the rest of the red wine further lifting our moods.





We attacked the 3 miles of shallow water paddling against a heavy head wind with stoic abandon... and more red wine. And by the time we reentered the main canal, the sun was bright, the temperature was up 20 degrees and the wind shifted to our backs. The Universe is good...

The vegetation was spectacular. Carnivorous Pitcher Plants in the bog, towering Cypress dressed in Spanish Moss, Cypress "knees" (root extensions) clumped like monks in prayer, yellow Swamp Dasie's, green floating rafts of Duck Weed, even the pond scum was beautiful.






Our shoulders were sore and our hands blistered as we loaded the kayaks for the drive back to civilization. But the smiles didn't leave our faces for days. Great trip David. You're my man. And Beaver... "You think THAT was bad...?" LOL!!!

Letter to Stephen King

Dear Steve,

I just finished “On Writing”. Thanks. My favorite Stephen King book to date.From your book, I have gleaned the following information. I find it quite remarkable.

My grandmother's name was Nellie Pillsbury, from Shapleigh (Stephen's mother's name was Nellie Pillsbury). I grew up in southern Maine, SPHS class of 1969 (Stephen King grew up in Topsham, Brunswick High School, 20 miles from South Portland) . I attended UMO from 69 to 73 and remember you well (SK graduated from UMO in 1970 and doesn't remember me at all.) . You're "Study Dammit" picture was on my wall for 4 years and we both attended a Kent State “gathering” on the Fogler Library steps in the spring of 1970...). I taught high school, science, for two years in Waterville (SK taught high school, english, in Hampden). I drove a 1960 Ford Galaxy with a blown rear main seal (so did SK). I worked in an old paper mill in Madison Maine with rats as big as cats (SK worked at an old paper mill in Pejepscott with huge rats, the subject for one of his books). I married a girl from Penobscot County;Brewer... she lived on Grove Street (SK married Tabitha from Penobscot County; Old Town... and they lived on Grove Street). I met her at UMO (same with SK). She is my best friend (ditto SK). My mother died of cancer (ditto SK). We have 3 children (ditto SK). Our son, Ryan, a Mech Eng. from UMO, broke his tibia in 30 pieces in 2008 and has battled back from infection, depression and pain med addiction (ditto SK). My daughter, Katie, has a BA in English from UMO (ditto SK). I play guitar (ditto...). I like to write (duhhhh....).

Three and a half years ago, we sold our house in Waterville, quit our jobs and hit the road, coast to coast four times and about to strike out again. It's been a mind expanding adventure. So now, I'm dabbling in your craft of writing. No idea what I am doing, have tried to stop more than once, but seem to be addicted to this solitary obsession.

You may never read this letter (though I mailed it to you...). If you do, thanks for who you are and what you do, not just the writing, the philanthropic stuff, too. We're not that different, you and me; just a couple of Maine boys doing our best. Your best inspires me.

Best regards,

Glen

A day in the marsh

David bought a 12 foot inflatable zodiac with a 90HP, 4 stroke Johnson outboard at a yard sale. He is the king of yard sales, knows the value of stuff, buys and sells, but he kept second guessing himself on this boat. We worked on it for a few hours and then he worked on it for another week. And the day finally came to take it out for a trial run.

We fueled it up, packed the survival kit and the beer and put into the marsh at mid-island. The engine started right at the turn of the key and soon we were flying through the creeks and rivers. Before we knew it we were 25 miles up the coast to Darien.

The boat handled pretty well at first and we experimented with air pressure in the pontoons. Throughout the day, steerage got stiffer and stiffer and it took longer and longer to plane out. By the time we got back, it was clear that something was going on. David discovered a hole in the hard under hull and drained off a barrel of water, 400 or 500 extra pounds.. Hmmm.

But, still and all, it was a great day to be out in the marsh. even in a leaky boat...

Veteran's Day

Check this out!



Liberty Belle (WWII B17 bomber) at Malcolm McKinnon Airport, St. Simons.

The B-17, dubbed the “Flying Fortress” as a result of her amount of defensive firepower, underwent a number of improvements over its ten-year production run. B-17 Models ranged from the YB-17 to the B-17G model. Throughout the war the B-17 was refined and improved as the combat experience showed the Boeing designers where improvements could be made. The Final B-17 production model, the B-17G was produced in the largest quantities (8,680) than any other previous model and is considered the definitive “Flying Fortress”. With its 13 .50-caliber machine guns, Chin, top, ball and tail turrets; waist and cheek guns the B-17 was indeed an airplane that earned the respect of its combatants. In addition, the flight crews loved the B-17 for her ability to take and withstand heavy combat damage and return safely home.

During WWII, the B-17 saw service in every theater of operation, but was operated primarily by the 8th Air force in Europe and participated in countless missions from bases in England. A typical B-17 Mission often lasted for more than eight hours and struck targets deep within enemy territory. During the war, B-17’s dropped 640,036 tons of bombs on European targets in daylight raids. This compares to the 452,508 tons dropped by the B-24 and 464,544 tons dropped by all other U.S. aircraft. The B-17 also downed 23 enemy aircraft per 1,000 raid as compared with 11 by B-24’s and 11 by fighters and three by all U.S. medium and light bombers.

There were a total of 12,732 B-17’s that were produced between 1935 and May 1945. Of these 4,735 were lost in combat. Following WWII, the B-17 saw service in three more wars. B-17’s were used in Korea, Israel used them in the war of 1948 and they were even used during Vietnam.

Today, fewer than 100 B-17 airframes exist and fewer still are in airworthy condition. At one time, more than 1000 B-17’s could be assembled for mass combat missions, now less than 15 of Boeings famous bombers can still take to the sky.

RTE 17

Dropped Connie off at Jacksonville Airport and drove back to Georgia on the back roads. North to Yulee, on to the Saint Marys River and into Kingsland where I started collecting political signs in Camden County. Put em up, take em down

Through Woodbine, across the Satilla River and to White Oak. Great names... Tarboro, the Folkson State Prison, Hickox, Winokur, Nahunta. I suppose visitors to Maine find our town names curious, too. Norridgewock, Passadumkeag, Ogunquit...

This is paper country. Lots of pulp trucks on the roads, stands of pine, clearcuts, at times the foul smell of digesters.


I met a man at a campaign meeting named Bob Torres. The causeway from the mainland is named after his father. Small world... his brother Joe, whom I know from my time in the paper industry in Maine, owned and operated Linclon Pulp and Paper Company. He provided a lot of good jobs to the area. Did a lot of good things in the state. Bob said Joe was very ill. Best wishes, Joe.


And then a picture worth a thousand words...

Birds, tides and tugboats

The choices were to watch the annual Florida-Georgia football game at Hazels Cafe, complete with copious quantities of alcohol, red shirts and "GO DAWGS" banners... or to boat out to a deserted barrier island to visit a shipwreck. No brainer...

Georgia's 100 mile coast accounts for around three quarters of all the undeveloped salt marsh on the East coast. The water is brackish, unappealing to this blue water Northern boy, but the abundance of fish and wildlife that inhabit the ecosystem is jaw dropping.

We left at high tide from a little private dock on a creek that is accessed by a 500 foot long walkway through the march. It's right next to an historic pre-revolutionary war battle site called "Bloody Marsh" where the British repelled the invading Spanish. Some history here... At low tide the creek is navigable only to the experts who know the channels and the location of the shell rakes. David is one of those guys...

We loaded the 14 foot McKee (like a side console Boston Whaler... ) with picnic stuff, dogs and womenfolk and headed through Village Creek, across Gould's Inlet and under the bridge to Sea Island. Things got rough at the confluence of the Atlantic and the Hamilton River. We found ourselves surrounded by several dozen Bottlenose Dolphins, some surfacing within 20 feet of the boat. After fighting the waves for awhile, we opted to pull into a little side water and anchor on the bank, hopeful that the boat would stay afloat and not go aground while we walked the 5 miles of deserted beach.

There was a small amount of flotsam and jetsam probably washed down the coast from the New York garbage skows, evidence of the non-biodegradability of plastic products, but, for the most part, it was a magnificent, untracked beach. No houses, no people, no boats, no footprints. Sand, shells, crabs, welks, huge sand dollars and dunes. In one of the backwater swamps, a small alligator. And birds. Literally millions of what David called Waxwings in an incredible aerial display, flying in a huge tornado-like funnel, suddenly breaking into flashing squadrons that wheeled and turned into each other, a mind bending display of birds in an aerial dogfight.( Huh?)

We came around the point to the sight of a shipwreck rising out of the sand. It reminded me of the movie Planet of the Apes. Remember the scene with Charlton Heston and the Statue of Liberty? "You Bastards!"... I tried to do some research and find the history on this particular wreck only to discover that there are LOTs of wrecks off the coast and that the divers and the fishermen love them. This one being high and dry evidently wasn't deemed worthy of a public record. David said in the late 90s while being towed up the coast, heavy seas rolled it and it was abandoned. He said that within 4 days it was stripped of everything of value (He has a couple brass portholes).
We carefully climbed through the rusting superstructure before heading back to our picnic. Pretty neat.


We got back to find the boat high and dry... thought we would be spending the night... but with some superhuman motivation (the girls would have KILLED us) we muscled it back in the water. The sun was getting low and the sand gnats were beginning to swarm so we moved out into the river to eat our picnic of fried chicken, bree, crab dip, toast points and 2 buck chuck. Awesome.

David couldn't resist heading out to Pelican Spit in the open water to visit the 10 thousand pelicans sitting on the sand like bald headed druids in prayer and, as we approached, they lifted into the sky blotting out the sunset. Hard to convey the emotion...

The sun was dipping below the horizon as we sped through the marsh trying to beat the darkness and the tide... when the motor died. The adrenalin was pumping when, 30 minutes later, after wearing the battery dangerously low, after changing fuel tanks, after flooding the engine with no tools to clean fouled plugs, the engine started on one cylinder. We limped out of the marsh holding our breath until the motor suddenly burst into full speed. When we tried to throttle it down, it would begin to die... so David did what David does best... He drove through the twisting, turning creeks and shell rakes, at full speed, in the dark all the while, with Connie clutching the dogs, screaming in the back of the boat, me perched on the bow as ballast, Mary Helen laughing hysterically. What a great adventure! But it will be awhile before I get Connie and the dogs back in a boat! LOL!

Thanks David and Mary Helen! Good times!

Here's a neat little YouTube video of where we were that ya'll might enjoy...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a2cu_8bPKjY&feature=player_embedded