710 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
710 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 18:46:48 1991
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To: wordy@Corp
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Subject: chapter-40
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AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT...
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#40 in the second online CAA series
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by
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Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
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Titusville, FL; 15,382 miles.
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December 27, 1987
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copyright 1987, Steven K. Roberts
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AUGH!! Slow down, reality (or speed up, fingers). I keep adding to both
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ends of this chapter from different cities, scrambling it beyond all
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recognition, trying in vain to keep some kind of perspective. Impossible.
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What looms as a major event one day is vague history the next, and so many such
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cycles have occurred that any attempt to fill the gap between Whiteville and
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Titusville is doomed to confusion. And so... let confusion reign!
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>From Anastasia State Park, near St. Augustine:
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Oh, my. It seems a time warp, a flashback, a vaporous vignette of vague
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vacations. Florida? Are we really in Florida, lying around naked in a
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palmetto jungle while surf and laughter thunderflash through the dense foliage
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like 42nd street through hotel windows on a summer Saturday night?
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There's sand on my skin and the sun flickers through leaves; smells are of
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last night's fire and this afternoon's low tide. Maggie smiles at me, glad I'm
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finally writing. She's been worried lately -- both A-muse and B-muse have been
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off on sabbatical, leaving me floundering as the events fly by. And there have
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been many.
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My last tale was of another epoch, way back in North Carolina where a
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pickup-truck door invaded my personal space and crunched everything from
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vertebra to Equinox. Since then we've pedaled three states, gobbled steamed
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Belize lobster tails and sandwiches of buttered Swiss chocolate on
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raisin-studded pumpernickel, played flute duets with a solo transatlantic
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sailor, clambered about on a Navy frigate fresh from gunning down Caribbean
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drugrunners, cut a deal with 73 Magazine, heard a dozen hounds referred to as
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"twelve head o' dog," slept in a treehouse, done a clumsy bit of late-December
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waterskiing near Cape Canaveral, driven a 20-year-old schoolbus, and been
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serenaded in Savannah by twenty tonette-tooting tots. The usual.
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And the only way to summarize it is with random teases...
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* * *
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McClellanville, South Carolina... a wet time. Baths in the rain, castille
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soap and candlewax scenting air already heavy-laden with Miles Davis and steam.
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Vines and rust, tea and mustiness. Dripsounds on the tin roof, shoes steaming
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by the woodstove. The bikes behind a curtain of runoff in the woodshed, a
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murky Gothic seen through streaked windowpanes across a puddled farmyard of
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microsplashes.
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The South Carolina coast was sodden, Highway 17 a white corridor of mist
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le waterfall in the monsoon; even the cotton in
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my codeine bottle hanging heavy and dejected.
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She caught us at the Crab Pot. She took us home, sent me to the
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ironstained bathtub, spoke of kids and dance, then left. Now we live in a
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cabin and drive to town in Susan's rusty old boat of a pickup, steering along
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rainslicked sandy roads hungover haglike with Spanish moss. Roofleaks splash
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in old pots; books everywhere of kidstuff, boating, hippiedom, homesteading,
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poetry, quilting, everything. Chickens out back, Maggie serving them food
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scraps as I watch heavy- lidded from bed. Puddles like ponds, ponds like
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lakes, the ocean tickling my nose despite the scrubbing of a billion
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intervening raindrops.
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This is the opposite of Eric's place. Through 40 miles of the Myrtle
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Beach "Grand Strand," an exhaustion of tedious commercial beachfront catering
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to retirees and generic family vacationers, I chatted on the radio... a dozen
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hams on turkey day. They'd drive out for an "eyeball," pull over, wish us
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luck, and go back to their families, keeping me pleasant verbal company as the
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clutter rolled by. Finally an invitation: retired Eric talked us in at sunset,
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served us drinks, introduced his fragile wife, and showed us around... then we
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sat in idle conversation spanning two generations until I thought I'd better
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confirm the precise extent of his invitation.
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"Oh, no, I'm afraid that won't be possible," he said with a smile, turning
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us out into the rain and the dark. "But wait, let me get my camera." Forced
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smiles, cold politeness, Maggie's eyes meeting mine then darting heavenward.
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They were nice, but couldn't relate to our position. Though an interesting
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curiosity, we were much too alien to welcome into a relationship as intimate as
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spending the night. Back on the highway, helmet lights probing the rainy dark,
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we promised each other on the radio that we'd never become paranoid and
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inflexible... even if our heads DO turn blue-white someday.
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Grumbling into the only motel, a Quality Inn 6 miles down the road, we
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paid a bargain $29 and stowed the bikes... only to be surprised a moment later
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by the opposite extreme of Thanksgiving Day behavior when the manager's wife
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brought two fresh turkey dinners to our room!
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* *
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Onward. We left Susan's and aimed ourselves south, looking forward to our
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Sullivan's Island hosts... GEnie subscriber L.GREENE (Lenny) and his wife
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Tessa. I pedaled in stiff discomfort, tensely fighting back pain -- for the
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weekend at Susan's had been a worsening ordeal of accident-related vertebra
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damage (minor compression fractures of T5 and T6, I later discovered). I was
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in a cottonmouthed haze of codeine leftover from previous incidents, and now
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pedaled carefully, trying not to turn my head or sneeze or do much of ANYTHING
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but crank out those 350-400 pedal strokes per mile. But the road was as flat
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and boring as most in this state; by late afternoon we were on Sullivan's
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Island, watching Charleston across the water slide golden into dusk while
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beachwalking with new friends.
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The visit was a warm one. I spent most of it in our third-floor bed,
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groggily struggling down steep steps for meals and conversation. Sullivan's
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Island is an 80's extrapolation of an old east-coast counterculture colony, a
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sharp contrast with the neighboring Isle of Palms which attracts the devotees
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of party yachts and expensive golf courses. The week with the Greenes was one
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of comfort and delight: an oyster feast atop an old door, parties of diverse
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intellects, a sunset 73 photo session with his sister Karen on the golden
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marsh, and no end of playful conversation. By the time my back healed enough
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to pedal painlessly, new online friends had developed into yet another branch
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of our extended American family -- a wild and diverse clan stretched out along
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the convoluted 15,000-mile line of my wanderings like a chain of mini-epidemics
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in every town kissed by our wheels.
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* * *
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A motorized discontinuity. Sawhorses in the sun, sweetgrass and
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marshland, orange-sticky fingers and smells of fiberglass goo. Before me,
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moored to a dock, floated a 26-foot shrimper undergoing heavy renovation -- an
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ex-smuggler with a dramatic flair for first-rate carpentry is rebuilding her
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into a dream of a pleasure craft. Rising from the old hull is a cabin of
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smoothly sculpted plywood, in the process of being covered over with fiberglass
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and decked out with maritime accoutrements. It was an inspiring sight, partly
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because I always delight in creativity at work and partly because it reinforced
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one of my favorite current fantasies...
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The Winneboato. Fatigued with a full-time life on the highway
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interspersed with an endless quest for temporary office space, I've had
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daydreams of building a "mother ship" for this whole affair (less traffic, no
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hills, etc.). But my accountant says I'd have to float a loan... and I'd
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rather do it with Maggie. Maybe a bus instead...
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* * *
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South Carolina's inland coastal plains are boring -- we skirted Charleston
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to avoid traffic and found ourselves in a massive detour to Savannah... by way
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of Monck's Corner. For 180 miles we pedaled in a sort of stupor, distracted
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only by major appliances in the ditch and waves of greeting from shacks and
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trailers. Friendly, simple folk through here: survival has less to do with
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diplomacy than simply staying awake.
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Of course, that's an impression gleaned from passing quickly through and
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staying only in motels. Hardly the way to get to know a place... but Florida
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beckoned, its mystique very much alive even though I learned otherwise during
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my first trip -- now a remote but intense memory about to be freshened by book
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publication. How I remember the growing anticipation, the mental images of
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bikini-clad beauties arrayed at the state line like the welcoming committee in
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philanderer's paradise. Back in 1983 I pedaled south in solo excitement,
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accepting the sameness of the coastal plains as a sort of cleansing period for
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the erotic excesses that I knew lay just ahead.
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But now I knew better, so simply fought to remain sane.
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* * *
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And so Georgia happened. We slid wetly into Savannah, bound for
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Wilmington Island and the home of old Louisville friends Tom and Bunny Rouse,
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battling through afternoon traffic on the shoulderless commute routes.
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Everywhere, it seems, there is frenzy and frustration as the population
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outpaces the reasonable physical limits of its origin. Even Savannah, with its
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languid Old-South image and quiet marshy surroundings, is now crime-ridden and
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frightening -- a complex layer of overdevelopment choking a place once graceful
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and charming.
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But our hosts were a pleasure, and we found ourselves at an energetic
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private school called St. Andrews on the Marsh, doing the demo/presentation for
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grades K-12. As always, a few bright exceptions stood out from the crowd -- a
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supernova here, a nebula there, the differences between brains already deeply
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apparent even in early childhood. For them I had a subliminal message: "If
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you have a dream, young friend, nurture and develop it... it's a helluva lot
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more important than any static curriculum."
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* * *
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Oh, but all that seems vague from here. More time has passed... we're in
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Titusville with still more old friends now, sharing the Christmas season,
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working in the midst of traditional decorations while all the world outside
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seems sunny and green. Nylon shorts and sweaty T-shirts seem odd garb amidst
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red and green party napkins, giant felt stockings dangling from the
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mantlepiece, Santa motifs, and touching seasonal sitcoms on TV. "It's supposed
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to be snowy," dictates my midwestern mythos, so Christmas in Florida seems even
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more of a bizarre cultural aberration than usual.
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But in the recent past are strange and refreshing events -- odd
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occurrences of decadence, humor, or insight against a generally uninteresting
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backdrop. One of them happened in Brunswick, Georgia.
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This was a Holy Grail of sorts -- a return visit to the famed Hostel in
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the Forest that held me for a week during my first journey around the US.
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Staying there is a special and unique experience... in the guest book, I found
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a note from a European traveler that read simply: "This place is not like the
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USA." Digging further through hundreds of pages of handwritten elegies,
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rhapsodies, and impassioned commentary, I found my own entry from four years
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ago:
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To the Hostel in the Forest
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-- by Steve Roberts
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12/1/83
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(To Tom, Sean, and all travelers who give life to this place...)
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Pedaling the planet, living on the "Winnebiko," my 3- bedroom ranch
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in suburbia drifts hazily into memory. And with it (I thought) fades the
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notion of "home" -- at least until journey's end, whatever THAT is.
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But no! Home materializes in special places, places like this where
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the fire is not a fire but a hearth, where people who yesterday had never met
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are today a family. It's an intriguing notion, this idea of a rapid-turnover
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home -- for it suggets the presence of magic. It can't be expressed as the
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simple synthesis of gentle wilderness, supremely appropriate domes, starlight,
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and chickens. Even the rare spark of Tom Dennard, though obviously the
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critical catalyst, cannot account fully for this ambience. It IS all of this,
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but one thing more: the countless echoes of the people who have built upon
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this foundation with their very presence, forming a living monument to travel,
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sharing, humanity, peace, and yes, the pure wonder of living. Perhaps this
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explains it.
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Then again, perhaps not. Maybe it's just magic. But whatever it is,
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it feels good, and I tap away freely on the bicycle-borne solar-powered word
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processor with nary a thought for the madness of the outside world. This is
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the kind of home that can't be bought. To all who have touched this place, I
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give my love; to all who ever will, I join with the others in a warm embrace of
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welcome.
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Of this, are legends born.
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Maggie and I bedded down in a treehouse that night, drifting off in the
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dark forest canopy with our ears tickled by windsounds, chitterings, and
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accents seldom heard anywhere else in Glynn County, Georgia. This Hostel draws
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people from all over -- it's an oasis of calm intelligence in the vast cultural
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wasteland of the American southeast. Despite the suspicions of locals who
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have, over the years, accused the place of harboring devil worshipers,
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communists, hippies, druggies, and <gasp> even nudists, the Hostel thrives,
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grows, and -- unlike the blight of generic motels across the land -- gives to
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both community and guests more than it takes away.
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We had a bit of culture shock in Brunswick, not through encounters with
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Irish hitchikers or Japanese cyclists but through ham radio. Crunching softly
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on a mat of pine needles I bikesat, scanning the 2-meter band while watching
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Maggie trying to erase her highway tan lines amidst peacocks strutting about in
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pompous brainlessness. I stumbled casually into conversation about the local
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ham club Christmas party a few hours off, and, in a quick exchange, found
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myself invited.
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Just as in that old irrational time when I could perceive nothing to lose
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-- back when I would venture out in electric darkness to hop a freight or ride
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a drawbridge -- I made a snap decision. After conjuring a Mexican feast for
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the international assemblage we hauled our trappings precariously down
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treehouse steps, packed trailers by teeth-gripped flashlights, and set out
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through dark, quiet woods on the 13-mile ride to town. Suddenly... A bright
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Victorian livingroom swirling with humans! Tables of food and presents! We
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blinked in puzzlement and shifted modes, answering questions, swilling Scotch,
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and adjusting to society after weeks of woods, motels, rural hosts, and long,
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long roads. Amazing how easy it was to ease into it... and how hard it was to
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leave two days later.
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* * *
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OK. Some big changes are happening. Florida hit fast and furious, with a
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rapid succession of entertaining events...
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The Lormands in Fernandina Beach -- he soloed across the Atlantic in a wisp of
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a sailboat and joined his wife in writing a book about it. Now he teaches
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music in Atlanta and vacations on the coast, and we tossed about nearly
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identical impressions of the wandering spirit in an oddly delightful encounter
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of parallel differences... punctuated by a bit of shared Handel and Bach on our
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flutes.
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The Fahrneys in Jacksonville Beach -- he's a Navy officer with a rare spark of
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unmilitary humor; she's lovely, Swiss, and possessed of exquisite tastes in
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food. My mouth still tingles at the memory of chocolate, cheeses, pepper
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jellies, wines, and Kirsch-filled wonders of gustatory bliss that could never
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appear on the American market (they're illegal here, as well as too delicious
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to emerge from the cost-cutting food mills that compete for space on
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supermarket shelves).
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The Greiffs in Daytona Beach -- cyclists, bear collectors, jacuzzi- loungers --
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a night of insights into the culture of this place so strongly associated with
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summer and the pursuit of the opposite sex. The general community verdict
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surprised me: The spring break crowd is the most obnoxious, consisting largely
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of drunken teenagers who thrive on grossness and destruction. The race crowd
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is next, largely redneck. The preferred guests are those who flock to
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motorcycle week, believe it or not -- for beneath all the leather and grime are
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weekend bikers who tip well and keep themselves pretty much under control. I
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was glad we missed all three, however, for holiday traffic was quite relentless
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enough.
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So far, all this sounds more or less like my usual attempt to catch up
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after failing to write for a month. But here comes a shocker...
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* * *
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It's the weekend after Christmas, 85 degrees and mostly sunny. I've been
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out floundering happily through my first attempt at water- skiing, a pursuit
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that can make a beginner feel as weak and incompetent as being chosen as the
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dummy in a beginner's Judo class. Now I'm reclining in the bus with a cup of
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coffee, listening to Schubert, and pausing in my keytapping every now and then
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to ponder the unfamiliar problem of efficiently utilizing 1,260 cubic feet of
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space.
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OK, here's the scam. I'm sure you've detected from my ramblings over the
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last year or so that I am tiring -- burning out, if you will. Over 5 million
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pedal strokes, 500 different beds, 25 flat tires, and a quarter-million
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questions. 1.2 million calories. 7 mountain passes, 26 states, a few minor
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wrecks, and the too-close whooshes of God- knows-how-many cars. I think I've
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tempted the Road Demons long enough, and find myself groaning at the thought of
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more headwinds, more traffic, more hills, more teeth-clattering roads, more
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places I've already been, more narrow motel room doors, more after-dark quests
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for a place to sleep, more sudden honks of unknown intent, more sore knees,
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more sweat. But there's one problem: I don't want to settle down, and have no
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idea where I would if I did. Besides, I still love the Winnebiko and so does
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everyone who sees it... and my book comes out next month. This is no time to
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deed it over to the Smithsonian.
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So now what?
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Well, I've been tempted off and on by RV's over the years, but have always
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stopped short because of the RV culture -- which is not the most stimulating
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social setting for a hedonistic technoid nomadic literary generalist and his
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sensual lifestyle-maintenance and sensory- enhancement manager. It would seem
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a sort of death, lined up with all the other Elkhart rigs in the boring end of
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a campground, smelling Onans and perfume and charcoal grilles, trying to
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glimpse the stars through the 60 Hertz flicker of video phosphor and the
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glaring overkill of Coleman lanterns. "Howdy neighbor! Quite a rig ya got
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there... say, isn't that a Kwikee electric step? Ya know, the wife and I were
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thinkin' about installin' one of those... mind if I have a look?"
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The other problem with RV's is that they are made for the usual needs --
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which are about as appealing as a furnished apartment to one who needs a
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computer room, electronics lab, darkroom, shop, and general frolicking area.
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Where would we stash bikes, computers, telescopes, book inventory, lasers, and
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other random toys?
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So a motorhome won't do it. But consider this: we need to do a media
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tour for the book and wander all over the place to make speaking engagements,
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trade shows, flea markets, hamfests, and (for all I know) an evening at your
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house. So, assuming all goes well this week, I'm buying a 1968 semi-converted
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school bus, installing office, kitchen, storage, and bike garage, and hitting
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the road with a mother ship. I'm glad I designed the Winnebiko control system
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with a bus architecture in mind...
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I've learned not to predict too much in print, so I'll leave it at that
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for now. Chapter 41 should have a completely different flavor. Cheers, and
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another happy new year to ya!
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-- Steve
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