Our nation's capital

Our stay in Fayetteville, NC, did not prepare us for our nation's capital.

The Fayetteville KOA campground (I refuse to spell it kampground with a k like they do because they are ruining English for our kids) was an excellent choice by the navigator and logistician.

Each morning, once underway, Bernie makes the choice of our destination campground for that night.

Clean and well-kept do not adequately describe the place.

We stayed there only a few hours, so we didn't even unhitch from the truck and set up. We dallied too long in the morning, and got on the road about noon. Somewhere along the way I heard a deep thump. I could see nowhere in sight to pull over so I used the berm of I-95. After a quick check, and finding nothing untoward, no blowouts, I got back in the truck. Total time outside: maybe 20 seconds, 30 at the most. That's far too long to be parked alongside the interstate and out of the truck. Two tractor-trailers abreast, roaring by at what seems like 150 miles an hour convinced me to get back in the truck and move on. Quickly. At least out among them I felt less vulnerable.

Safety demanded that I slow for the rain, hard rain.

A couple stops along the way, and a 45 minute nap (ain't RVs wonderful?) and we were among them at three miles an hour. Three, count 'em, three.

That was near our nation's capital. Good ole Washington, DC. I had forgotten about the traffic here. Year's back we were leaving after a visit here, and I told Bernie I was going to dust off the resume once I got home. This place was wonderful, and with all its free things to do it was a place I must live. As we headed north on the interstate, commuters were going into the city and almost bumper to bumper for 60 miles. I decided that I would stay put.

We saw a five-mile long traffic block on the other side of the highway. Our side going into the area was pretty open . . . Until we merged onto the Beltway. The despised Beltway. Six and seven lanes of traffic going mostly the same direction is bewildering, but it has normally at least been moving when I have been on it.

This day, however, some knucklehead thought it would be good to start a chain reaction accident during rush hour or should it be hours. It wasn't very spectacular from what Bernie saw of it. (She did comment sadly on the demise of the BMW sports car.) The traffic jam it caused was quite spectacular, though. It took us a half hour. Not bad by big-city standards; very bad by the standards where I live out in the hinterlands.

I have read someplace that there is no such thing as an accident. These collisions are caused by knuckleheads not paying attention or doing something reckless. Notice I did not say aggressive, and notice I did not say male. I have seen a few reckless female drivers on this trip. There is no such thing as aggressive driving. It is simply reckless. there are not enough police to stop it, and even when some of the police we have noticed see it, they still don't enforce it. They must get much mor strict strict with this belligerent recklessness. We know they won't, though. They will have intermittent “crack downs,” then brush aside the enforcement unti the next “crack down.” Sad.

So who knows what this particular knucklehead on the Beltway was doing this day. We were stuck, and Bernie's sister Marie and my favorite brother-in-law were awaiting our arrival. (Well . . . Ronnie is my favorite brother-in-law in the Washington area. Wait, make that Reston. Another of her brothers lives in Washington proper.)

We resigned from the rush, and got into the heavy traffic of two-lane roads near Reston. We found out way to Reston's Lake Fairfax Park. It is a local park and it is splendid. We have only electrical connection. No fulltime water or sewer. Even though we always watch water usage closely, we will watch much more closely this week in the semi-wild . . . near Washington, DC.

Bernie was out behind the trailer, guiding me into the camp spot with voice instructions on her ham radio. After three or four attempts, a nice man, Glen Holbrook from Kansas, help guide me. He has been camping a hundred years. It was very nice of him. He took pity, I think, when I was on my third try. I really was close to making it in, but since he was so calming. I appreciated his directions.

I explained to Glen that I was new to this. He said he knew.

So we will settle here for five days, more or less, and it will be nice to be in one spot for a few days. Not driving. I want to camp, not spend full time driving, but it goes with the territory. I can't complain, though, because the driving has not been that awful overall.

We finally got to Bernie's sisters's place, sat a while, me with a Manhattan then the four of us went for a late diner at the Silver Diner, a great 50's style diner with chrome, aluminum and juke boxes. And Brian was our server. He did his job well, and I asked him about the art on his neck. He pulled his collar down lower and showed me an intricate tatoo with “Dad” featured in the center. It was a memorial to his dad who had died quickly of cancer. Brian told us the story, how he heard of the death from a relative. It was a touching story. Brian was a good server. I like to talk to servers.

We got back to camp late, through intermittent light and thick fog. The crispness of the night made it necessary for me to stay outside for a few minutes. The stars were soft glows through the fog.

After the long day, I went inside, crawled under the warm comforter and slept soundly.

The Camp Hound, The Savannah City Market

If you're walking in the dead of night in this camp in the idyllic forest in Richmond Hill, GA, there is a lesson to remember. Make some noise, carry a flashlight, and be hopeful the neighbors dog is friendly, no matter how big the bark.

During tonight's walk in the forest blackness on the lanes along the campsites, I surmised the neighboring campers are the Baskervilles. I know not where they live, but maybe, just maybe, they're related to the Baskervilles from Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes tale “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” I wasn't making a sound on the narrow paved lane. At least not a sound a person could hear. The Baskervilles hound, though, announced himself with a deep roaring bark.

I shouted a quick “Howdy.” The Hound was tugging at the leash, but he quieted with a mfff under his breath. The owner appeared and I shouted another “Howdy” and lighted the flashlight I was carrying. I returned to my own campsite and sat at the picnic table. I would like to have introduced myself, but I wasn't sure Hound would tolerate that. It's best to meet fellow campers first in daylight.

You've no doubt heard stories about not being able to “see your hand in front of your face.” That probably originated here in Fort McAllister Historic State Park. I tried it. I couldn't see my hand even though my dead-of-night walk took place about 8:30. The thick vegetation hid what was left of the clouded sky. I won't repeat a walk at midnight. It tends to alarm people, including the walker.

Our walking earlier today, in full sun, was around City Market in Savannah.

There we met noted composer Johnny Mercer, or at least we met Johnny's memorial statue. Johnny's statue welcomed us to Ellis Park. He was short and brown. And he had a space between his front teeth. Johnny was born in Savannah in 1909 and died in Los Angeles in 1976. Doesn't it seem that all these people die in Los Angeles? For safety I'm staying out of L.A.

Johnny wrote “Moon River,” “Days of Wine and Roses,” “Something's Gotta Give” and an armload of others. I couldn't remember all the songs he had written and looked him up

We left Johnny with me humming “Moon River” in my head. That will take days to get out of head. Bernie and I danced to that as kids. Memories flooded back as I hummed. I thought we should dance again, but I didn't ask.

Savannah's 21 squares are welcoming. Kids play in an unusual fountain where jets of water squirt maybe 20 feet into the air. Young mother's try to gather up the kids, but to no avail. They want to run in the geysers that burst from concrete. They try to keep from getting wet, but not very hard. They laugh and giggle. It's a symphony of kids' music. You have to laugh out loud at them.

The 20-something guys impress their girlfriends, running though those jets and not getting wet. Ultimately they don't succeed. Their faces are animated. Broad smiles, laughing eyes. The girlfriends laugh and cheer in the background. The music of youthful love. If Johnny could see this, he could write beautify music to it. Is this a Savannah mating ritual?

Horses are here. Big, powerful horses pulling wagon-loads of tourists. The young handler shakes a whip at them, making no noise, hitting no horse. The team responds to gentle orders. “Move on.” These huge animals are responding to the young women guide.

In the open-air restaurant where we ate, “Tapas,” you knew when the horses were passing, even without seeing them. The gentle orders of the young woman, the momentary, wafting odor of horse.

Just down the street was the Mecca of southern cooking. Paula Deen's restaurant and store. We didn't think of it, but we should have eaten there. I could use a little of her wholesome, Southern down-home concoctions.

I looked in vain for Paula herself. She was not to be found. I would love to have been in a picture with her to send to a friend. He is a big fan, and I would want him to eat his heart out. Maybe a postcard will do.

Bernie was attracted to another of the multitude of boutiques and galleries, a cooking utensil store. She never misses one. She has to touch every tool, sniff or otherwise check every spice, herb and condiment. I encourage this because her visits result in good  eating.

I don't know the stage of the Savannah “season” at this time of year, but the City Market area showed a little of the big city grime. Not enough to keep us away, but just enough that you occasionally notice it.

Workers bustled. Shining, painting, restoring building facades. Every one of them greeted us. “Hello.” “How you doing?” “Hey.” The acknowledgements welcomed all tourists. Joe Cook looked up with a smile, interrupting his painting of a wagon wheel. You don't feel like a tourist. It's like we all live here. There really is Southern hospitality here.

We did run across an odd phenomenon, though. The restaurant rest rooms. In a building next door. Down a hallway. Up a flight of stairs. Down another hallway. In a dark recess. Tiny and a touch grimy.
I don't want to sound too harsh, though. Savannah's City Market is a joy.

Parking here was a pleasant surprise. A buck an hour at a metered spot. I marked that spot in the GPS to find our way back after our walking tour. I'm no dummy. After hours of wandering, I was going to impress Bernie. I had no idea where we were. Technology to the rescue. The GPS would take us back. I pulled it from my pocket ready to impress. The battery was dead. Bernie shook her head in dismay.

Bernie enjoyed yet another fountain. She has a thing for them. I coaxed her from the coolness of the water and into heading back to the truck. I'm convinced she has a piece of soft iron in her nose. She pointed me one way, then another, and another, and there was the truck. The useless silicon in my pocket. She didn't need no stinking GPS.
Humiliating.

The GPS shined, however, after I plugged it into the truck. Take us back to camp, I ordered. Twenty minutes later or so we were pulling into the camp, through yet another cloud of flies. In time for another of her great dinners. I'm thinking she has somebody sneak in to cook while we're gone because a meal appears minutes after we unlock the door.

After being sated and treated to a glass of wine, it was time for my walk in the blackness. And my meeting with the Hound.

Richmond Hill, GA

The forest that is Fort McAllister Historic State Park awakens as a primeval dawn. Slanting light filters through boughs thick with their Georgia spring growth. Mist reveals the shafts of light. Diamonds of light poke through drapes of Spanish Moss.

The night before was just as glorious. Except for our arrival, this park provided wonderful peace. The exception? The big brown flies. Swarms of big brown flies. The second I opened the truck door at the campsite I was was engulfed in a small cloud. You have to understand one thing. Insects seek me. Even when other people are not bothered, I am chased, bitten and stung. I inhale these things.

I immediately announced to Bernie that I could not stay here. We had to press on, even though I was tired. She asked where we would go. Good question. I had no idea. This is the south and this is spring. What would I expect anywhere else?

The trailer needed to be unhitched, and I started my strict procedure, but I couldn't think. I was baffled and again implored her to leave. She had that tired look on her face. I stood back for a second thought.

Repellent! Get me repellent, woman!

That simple solution had eluded me. The bugs left as quickly as they came. Unhitched, I headed into the camper, only to notice a goldish diamond patch on the screen door. I had no idea. Bernie smiled and explained they were citronella patches, stuck too the screen, and she had one stuck on her chest, like a badge. I felt left out. Where was my badge? Never mind that she had just hosed me down with repellent.

The drive yesterday from The Villages was probably the most unpleasant trip I have taken, but we made it, tired, hungry, cranky and I was deeply irritated by the some of the insane girations the Garmin GPS put us through. I would submit that its software was written by some Garmin officer's ninth-grade son.

What else caused a certain level of stress were the lack of rest stops along I-95 north of Jacksonville on th way to Savannah. Or maybe I missed them. I had third-party information in the GPS that was supposed to show us rest stops. It was complete unacceptable. Garmin's own information found one a few miles ahead at one point. Even though the point was shown on the northbound side and labeled that way, it was on the southbound side.

We asked the GPS for a truck stop. That was shown three miles off the interstate and off we went, grumbling why it would be so far off the road. It wasn't there. Just as we were getting back onto the interstate, there is was, on the other side, with no signs, I might ad.

The truck stop we finally found was a laugh. Getting fueled there would have been a trick. I watched the other campers try to squeeze out between the pumps and the front of the store. For trucks with campers, it was an almost impossible squeeze. Wouldn't you think a Flying J truck stop would have a careful designer? They clearly saved a lot of money with a less intelligent one. Luckily I had enough fuel to move on, after parking in another impossible-to-navigate area, where I slept for a half hour. I didn't feel compelled to actually buy anything there. Flying J did not deserve to be rewarded for its idiocy.

Of course the road was packed with with vehicles. Ninety-nine percent were doing it right. The other one percent deserved to be jailed for attempted murder. Thanks to the alert drivers a dozen accidents were averted.

I complain too much, but all this contributed to the tired, cranky guy waving and hopping amid the bugs.

Ahh, but the rest of the night was glorious. Fresh, clean air. Cool. Silence. Deep, sound sleep in this primeval forest.

The Villages, Florida

This remarkable retirement development in central Florida, 45 minutes north of Orlando was our next stop. A couple friends and I operate an internet forum TalkOfTheVillages.com geared to the 80,000 or so Villages residents and those thousands of Baby Boomers considering settling here. That was shameless promotion for sure, but that is why I am here in The Villages.

Bernie and I set up the camper Friday afternoon at Southern Oaks RV Park, just north of The Villages. (I recommend it highly.) Then we spent the afternoon with a couple dozen of the 12,000 forum members who meet for lunch each month at Crispers, a restaurant. I went to the lunch with a little trepidation, not knowing whether we would be welcomed or run out of town for my actions on the forum. As an administrator, I have had to take some unpopular actions, and I am guessing as many members are O.K. with those actions as are those who are unhappy with my at-times heavy hand. Honest, people, we are only trying to maintain a friendly, civil forum, comfortable for all to use.

In all honesty I thought I should make an appearance at the lunch because we were passing by on the way to Savannah, and if it got out I didn't stop I would be scorned.

Oddly, this gregarious bunch opened their arms to us, and we laughed and talked the afternoon away. It ended too soon. No contentious conversation. Warm hand-shakes from the guys, and hugs from the gals. These are people I have known for almost four years only from their online postings and from our messages back and forth. I learned you really do get the feel of personalities from only the written words of their forum posts. I wasn't surprised when I met them. I already knew them.

Our lunch on the restaurant's patio was in the bright Florida sun, under cover, of course. The wind blew gently. And the Crispers staff was hospitable to this bunch. It went on for a couple hours, and I was touched near the end of the lunch when the folks from separate tables on the Crispers patio unexpectedly formed their chairs into one huge circle. It was warm and inviting. These people truly like each other, and they like where they live. I would guess that all have met through the forum, and I was happy to see them enjoying the lunch and enjoying their new lives.

I had read off-hand comments here and there on the forum over the years about how various members had been having some difficulty in making friends after they had dug up their roots all over the country and settled in The Villages. They credited Talk of The Villages with their making new, permanent and great friends. I saw that first-hand. And they chided me for not moving here, but, what can I say? I'm a northern boy with family in northwest Pennsylvania and Canada.

The ring-leader for the lunches is a member who uses the nickname KathieI, a transplant from Los Angeles, and a fun-loving lady behind oversize, attractive sunglasses. True California. She packed up and headed across country, on I-10 I am guessing, 2,460 miles to a new home in the sun. In thunderstorm alley, and KathieI is definitely not fond of those storms. She is outgoing, and many call her the mayor. At other times, others will take the lead for the lunch, if I remember correctly.

They use nicknames, but they manage to meet each other in person sooner or later and they learn each other's real names. At the lunches, they still use their screen names. That is how they were identified when I met them.

I have grown fond of the members I have met on-line and in person.

Bernie and I previously met a Canadian couple, Barefoot and Fireboy. They were passing near our home in October and we met for lunch. They live near our son and family north of Toronto. And they made a special trip to the lunch to get together. Barefoot, by the way, originally joined the forum as Barefoot At Last. Then she shortened it. Her husband joined with the name she gave him, Fireboy. He works with the Toronto fire department. They both smile a lot and like to laugh. Their warmth is infectious.

And there was Whalen, an outgoing Brooklyn gal. She broke loose from her mah jongg club to come to the lunch. She, of course, was exactly as I had expected. We talked for quite a while. Laughing and enjoying the sun.

I embarrassed myself on the forum and trying to remember bunch of names thrown at me. I know I probably left several out, but, gee, I am surprised that I remembered this many nicknames. (And, by the way, none are coming to my rescue in the forum and identfying the entire group.)

Take a look at the group here.

http://talkofthevillages.com/forums/showthread.php?t=28615

Each has an interesting story of how he or she ended up at The Villages.

Each was a pleasure to meet.

Alarming mannequin

Here's a further detail on my trip through South Beach.

We tripped across a bathing suit shop, and in the window was this mannequin. I just had to shoot a picture of this alarming display.

They don't make disgusting mannequins like this in Erie, and I put it here for the enjoyment of a former coworker. I won't tell you his name, but I will make up his wife's name as "Tracy." That's fictitious. If she knew I posted this here for her husband's enjoyment she would slap me. So I made up that name "Tracy" so I won't get slapped.

That reflection of the man in the window in the green shirt is me. I am shielding my eyes so I would not have to look at this terrible display.

South Beach

The Claremont is an example

of Miami Beach Art Deco architecture.

Yesterday was windy and threatening storms all day, so we didn't do much of anything except nurse a few glasses of wine at Bernie's brother's place, and I enjoyed a couple cigars. I don't smoke cigars anymore, really. It has been a long time since I had one, but this week being around Cuban-type cigars, I succumbed and enjoyed a couple.

So it was fitting that we ended up in a Cuban restaurant today in South Beach, which is part of Miami Beach. There are a lot of restaurants here and we ended up in this one. It was an excellent choice. Of course, I forgot the name. Yuca or something like that. You will not go too far wrong, really, with any restaurant here.

The traffic is congested, even for a day nearing off season.

We strolled on the walkway along the beach.

I seem to do a lot of strolling on this venture. I never was quite sure what strolling meant. Now I know. I kind of walked along the edge of the walkway to stay out of the way of those in a hurry. I don't know why they would be in a hurry here.

Bernie and I held hands. The wind was fresh.

Skateboarders pumped by on long, long boards. You must use those long ones to get around in the city.

Parasails floated aimlessly.

Quite a satisfying day at South Beach.

Bernie dozed and I fell asleep on the way back to Gene's place at Boynton Beach. He was driving, by the way.

Fixing the sewer

Of all the things on a camper, what would you expect to fail for first timers on their first cross country venture?

The sewage tank of course. They call it the black water tank. It is that.

The gauge inside the camper insisted the tank was three-quarters full, even though I had emptied it at a previous campsite, just before I left. It could not have been full, but I thought I would empty it here, just to prove the faulty gauge wrong.

So, after the I connected the drain hose and opened the valve, I heard the familiar whoosh, then nothing. The hose was full, and I wrestled to drain it. Nothing. No more would drain and I strongly suspected now that the tank was still three-quarters full.

Bob, the manager of the Palm Beach Traveler Park, was more than willing to assist after I went begging for help. He fiddled and tugged valve handles, and ultimately suggested that I would have to crawl under the trailer, dismantle the bottom and check to see if the valve was actually opening. I will admit here that I thought he was definitely wrong. Why would that valve not be working?

The gauge could be broken already, he offered, and I had a pang to just ignore this and move on. Then I thought that if the gauge was correct I would be in for a big surprise on some back highway.

A call back home to the dealer drew advice agreeing with Bob's. I would have to crawl under the trailer and dismantle something I have never even seen from the bottom before. Lucky for me I bought a socket set before I left home, and had a battery operated drill in my complement of tools.

I could see the vale after removing only a part of the bottom. I had Bernie tug on the handle. It was working perfectly. So the bottom went back on after I lost only just a little blood.

Now Bob suggested that we stick a hose down the toilet to flush the tank. I admit I trusted Bob's advice much, much more now, but . . . down the toilet?

"Are you serious," I asked.

"To flush the tank," he emphasized, seriously.

"Flush the tank," I mumbled incredulously, quietly, secretly hoping some guy would just appear and say, "I'll flush the tank. I love doing that."

He didn't appear.

"How do you flush this tank," Bob asked.

Then it hit me with a flash. This trailer is equipped with a flush connection on the outside of the trailer over there near the drain valves. You normally use the flusher after emptying, and since I hadn't emptied, I hadn't used the flush connection.

Bob and I huddled around the connection and the tank valve, and in three minutes or so after connecting a hose to the connection, we flushed the tank and it emptied. Whatever was plugging it I did't want to know about it.

I was very happy, and I was going to offer Bob a handshake, but I didn't figure that it would be sanitary.

After washing quite throughly, Bernie and I went to her brother's place, where a glass of wine was waiting.

Bless Bob of the Palm Beach Traveler Park.