MMTT4S - We Need a Holiday

Vacations are synonymous with summer.

Growing up, I was one of four children – the eldest, wisest, and best looking, by the way - and as a family of six, our vacations took some serious front end prep. Other than the typical logistics of packing, loading the station wagon, mapping out routes, and securing lodging, our trips required some creative planning. My dad was a minister and mom had her hands full at home with 3 boys and a girl – 6 ½ years separating the four of us. We traveled on a budget. We ate PBJs, chips, and Vienna sausages at roadside picnic tables or while we rolled down the road if time was of the essence. McDonalds was a rare treat. Incredibly rare. Destinations typically involved family – visiting grandparents in Virginia, North Carolina, or on the coast of South Carolina. This kept costly hotels out of the picture. We got to know state welcome centers and rest stops fairly well. Our station wagons – the UPS-brown wood-grained Brown Bomber and it’s successor, the pea green wood-grained Green Ghost – were the perfect vehicles for us, too. My favorite spot was the back-in-the-back – the rear facing bench seat that gave you a completely different perspective on your travel. You could see where you’ve been, make faces at the vehicles behind you, but most importantly, you could escape from those pesky siblings and simply stare out of a bigger window and wonder about life. When we laid down all rear seats of our station wagon, all four of us kids could easily sleep on a queen-sized pallet of blankets. Seat belts? We didn’t need no stinkin’ seat belts!  People were safer drivers then, I guess. After all, unfolding a paper map and rotating it 16 times is much less distracting than glancing at a cell phone map. Besides, that back end sleeping arrangement saved the money that a hotel room would have cost. Now, I’m actually considering adding a nifty wood grain wrap to our Kia Sorrento in honor of these classics. I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind. In fact, that might make for a pleasant surprise when she walks out onto our driveway.  I’ll file that one away for future consideration.

We loved every minute of our vacation travel, too. Well, maybe not the few minutes of elbowing in the backseat or the occasional arm punch that quickly followed with a loud explanation about how either or both siblings had illegally crossed over into occupied territory. “He’s in my space – the defense rests.” Judge Daddy hardly ever ruled in favor of the plaintiff or defense. His ruling typically involved a threat of punishment delivered equally across the hind end of all parties. That was effective because he would actually stop the car, not just throw out empty warnings.  Notwithstanding the normal adolescent backseat shenanigans that would usually show up after rounds of "I Spy" and various alphabet games had lost their luster, our trips were wonderful and memorable. We knew no different and we enjoyed the company of each other. Pop made it an adventure and Mom was a capable copilot. We kids just went along and experienced all that we could.

For most of my childhood and teen years, we spent our summers ocean front in Pappy and Granny’s teal beach house on stilts (the Surf Pearl) at Surfside, South Carolina. Days of sand castles, shells, and surf were what we lived for, it seemed. I’ll have more to say about the beach in a later post. Needless to say, life was grand while we were there.

Periodically, we would wind our way through the mountain roads that snaked through North Carolina, the eastern tip of Tennessee, and the southwest corner of Virginia until we reached Pawpaw and Grandma’s home in Cedar Bluff. Those hairpin turns were unnerving and the vistas were mesmerizing. Once there, we’d play with cousins, throw lots of baseball, and take daily walks up to the corner convenience store next to Aunt Chris’s beauty shop, where Grandma would treat us to orange push-ups, half of which would trickle down our hands and chins and end up on our shirts and shorts during our walk back.

Pappy and Granny had another home, this one in the shadow of the Smokies in Saluda, North Carolina. This antique three-story wooden palace and surrounding woodlands offered lots of adventures for us kids. I don’t think the house was haunted, but it should have been. I was pretty sure that ghosts were missing an excellent opportunity. Granny’s treasure hunts and hide-and-seek were the things of legend in this house. We were always thrilled when Pappy would crank up the riding mower and load us in the attached wagon trailer for an excursion through the woods and around the property. The highlight of the trip, though, may have been ending our days of adventure with snacks on the screened-in porch, watching the black-capped chickadees take their own snack from the bird feeder. 

Every now and then, our vacations were a little more extravagant. Pop bought a camper that hooked onto the back of our station wagon, again to battle the cost of hotels and eating out when we traveled. And we were going to travel, by golly. We took the obligatory trip to Disney World in Orlando, visited our nation’s capital, hiked up Stone Mountain – all while making our home base the nearby Jellystone campgrounds. I’ll never forget trekking across to bathhouses for showers, only to get our feet dirty on the way back. Nor will I forget waking to the smell of bacon that Pop was frying in our electric skillet. Best. Bacon. Ever.

Then there was the trip of all trips. Pop had left the pulpit and become a successful insurance rep. I guess he saw college looming in the near future for 4 kids. His efforts often earned wonderful trips for he and my mom. They’ve been to destinations like Switzerland, Hawai’i, Miami, and Montreal, taken numerous cruises, and seen wonderful sites all over the globe. For some reason, they didn’t always take us kids along. We did travel as a family unit, however, on one of the most memorable vacations ever. Pop had won a trip to San Diego this particular year and must have decided a flight out to the west coast and a week in sunny southern California for just he and my mom would be way too peaceful and relaxing. So, instead, we loaded up the family car and hit the road, Griswold Vacation style.

Beignet image courtesy of
NewOrleansOnline.com

Image courtesy of
Houston.culturemap.com

An overnight drive brought us to our first stop – New Orleans – where I had my first heavenly bite of a beignet from Café du Monde. Powdered sugar perfection.
From there we continued our jaunt westward down I-10 to Houston and the NASA Johnson Space Center. I saw the enormous rockets there, not knowing that I’d soon be seeing the stars. Leaving Houston, we chased the sun until we reached the mouth of Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico. Our car, a couple of picnic tables, and a tiny gift shop/ticket booth were the only signs of civilization in this expanse of scrub brush and cactus. Seizing the moment, my dad and I took a couple of sleeping bags and proceeded to sleep on the picnic tables under the stars. I’d never seen so many stars! I imagined traveling among them in one of those rockets we had seen previously at NASA. Needless to say, it took quite some time to finally drift off under that blanket of natural beauty. Well, the coyote calls played a role in that as well. We awoke to the scuffling of deer in the grey pre-dawn and I knew that I had just been a part of a magical experience. After exploring the caverns and almost being kicked out because Pop just had to touch a stalactite, we journeyed ever westward. 

Image courtesy of NPS Photo/Peter Jones

We finally reached San Diego and had a blast at the resort. Yes, a real live resort! With a pool! We saw the sights in San Diego and day-tripped to Los Angeles, Hollywood, Tijuana, and Anaheim. The San DiegoZoo surpassed our expectations, Disneyland was not as impressive as it’s Orlando counterpart, the tour of Universal Studios was well worth it, and Hollywood elicited open-mouthed gawks and stares at both the glitzy extravagance and not-so-subtle weirdness (not much has changed, I guess). Way too soon, we loaded up once again, this time for our trip home…which included the Petrified Forest, Painted Desert and Grand Canyon. We couldn’t just drive straight back. Thankfully.

What stands out to me about our epic holiday is that it was more about the journey than the destination. It’s amazing what you can sometimes experience along the way if you’ll allow the way to share focus with the endpoint.

I certainly have a travelin’ jones. Whether it is innate or instilled I don’t know. I have a feeling I was born with a yearning to wander and that it was nurtured by my parents, who like to wander themselves. Because of this, I treasure vacations. Taking a holiday is refreshing, revitalizing, reconnecting, rewarding. But it’s something more, too. It satisfies some instinctual desire to explore and experience, even temporarily. I long for those moments and detest their conclusions. Maybe that’s why I love summer so. For it is traditionally then that we get away.

So, today’s tune is called “Holiday” and can be found on Jimmy Buffett’s Banana Wind album. It’s not his best effort lyrically and sounds almost like a 50’s era ad for Delta Airlines or Howard Johnson or Miami Beach. Still, it’s a fun little number - it fits - and I find myself singing along every time I hear it and for hours afterwards. The idea is simple – get away, have some fun, reconnect with what’s truly important. We could all use that, don’t you think?

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Margaritaville Musings and Tropical Tunage for the Summer

Summer officially starts for me today.  While I rather prefer the Memorial Day-to-Labor Day spread for this season, I must adhere to the dates set forth in my school district’s calendar, since I make my meager living in the field of education. At least I have a few weeks “off” to enjoy the stretch of longer days and more direct blasts from the sun’s rays.

Some may argue that summer is a state of mind, much like age (you’re only as old as you think you are), happiness (you decide whether you are happy or not), home (is where the heart is), and health (if I eat 6 doughnuts for breakfast, I can work them off during the day; besides, they’re mostly air and I am drinking milk).

I can concur.

For my purposes herein, however, let’s just go with 9 weeks. Starting today, June 10^th, 2019.

What are my purposes, you ask?

I am going to provide you a link to a tune from the King of Somewhere Hot himself, Jimmy Buffett, and include a brief, personal reflection upon that tune. What better way to bask in the wonder of summer than to feast your ears on a Buffett gem and feast your eyes on a commentary by me?

Throughout the next 9 weeks.

Maybe.

I’m here to serve.

Tropical Tune 1 is, of course, his most famous and most lucrative. Talk about a state of mind. This tune has taken on a life all its own, the likes of which very few, if any, songs have ever enjoyed. It’s Jimmy Buffet’s brand. It has spawned books, stores, restaurants, casinos, food and drink, an online radio station, resorts, footwear, resident communities, and more. The song is a summertime anthem that debuted in 1977 on the Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes album. You probably know the words by heart. Funny thing is, its lyrics don’t claim any type of summer celebration or party guidelines, like you would expect a summer staple to do. Instead, the words claim that the singer’s hangover-induced run of bad luck (flip flop blowout, pop top injury, lost shaker of salt) is possibly a woman’s fault, or nobody’s fault, but more likely his own damn fault. Not what you’d expect to be driving a beach bash of epic proportions. Yet, it resonated then and it resonates still today. It’s simple, and memorable, and clever, and fun. People seem to want to go there – Margaritaville, that is. And Jimmy Buffett has been transporting them there for over 40 years.

Penned by Buffett himself, the majority in about 5 minutes reportedly, here’s "Margaritaville." Cheers!

Image courtesy of https://www.margaritaville.com/about-jimmy

Summer Love Rekindled (and Repaired)

To facilitate the time-honored summer tradition of cheesy or trashy or mushy romance reading, I’ve prepared a love story of my own. In fact, it’s an autobiographical tale of sultry summer love. 

A synopsis for you: After a few failed attempts at a successful relationship, our starry-eyed, rugged outdoorsman – based on me, obviously – is reunited with a beautiful figure from his past.

The action is steamy, even sweaty, as the rendezvous moves from the garage to the back yard on a hot Carolina summer day. Our hunk is overjoyed with the unsurpassed performance of the object of his affection. With tears in his eyes (from the glare of the sun) and a lump in his throat (from the dust and grass allergens), he quietly whispers (so no one actually hears him),“I love you…lawnmower.”

No, that’s not some inexplicable or secret term of endearment for his wife. Instead, it’s an uncreative name for his lawnmower.

Those of you who are familiar with my work may not be surprised by the subject of this story, knowing I have had a curious mow-mance with my old Craftsman push mower for some time. Plus, it sounds pretty awesome for me to say, “familiar with my work.”

Anyway, his dark green Craftsman 6.0 push mower with a Briggs and Stratton engine mulched grass like no other mower he had ever used, was not self-propelled, had no bag attachment, lost its back little flap thingy that, as far as he could tell, really served no purpose, and was approaching 20 years old. And it was perfect for him. They had been through a lot together. There were the confusing days of mowing dirt and the occasional mesquite shoots in West Texas. They’d also had their share of root-toppings here in South Carolina. The incident that one summer when the backyard had gone untouched for over a month and had grown into an Amazon rain forest was scary, but they tackled it like unfettered explorers claiming a new world for their homeland. Then there was the rock episode. He thought he had lost her for a moment back then. Although he put her through abuse at times – a rain shower, mowing over pine cones, leaving her in the old thin-walled green shed during the 3 or 4 frigid Carolina winter days, neglecting her oil and gas treatment, she knew he loved her.

 

Last year, though, his darling lawnmower died a noble death – sputtering and coughing to the biter end. After numerous unsuccessful attempts to revive her with adjustments, filter changes, mouth-to-muffler resuscitation (wait…no, that didn’t happen – honest), and sprays of carb & choke cleaner, his mower was pronounced dead. He was heartbroken. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to mow again. But, his wife quickly nixed his proposal for buying goats. Somehow he knew that the grass would continue to grow, that the sun would rise, and that he would have to keep breathing, that he must move on.

So, this summer he put himself back out there. It was scary because he hadn’t been in the market in quite some time. What if a mower required him to do a tiramisu and he didn’t know what that was (you’re welcome, Sleepless in Seattle fans)? He refused to go the online route and check out the hot singles on LawnscapersOnly.com. That’s just sad, people. Instead, he allowed himself to be set up by friends and family. While he was ultimately able to produce grass clippings on his various outings with these viable candidates and keep his lawn somewhat respectable, this method just simply produced no long-term relationships. One mower had a really nice set of blades – yes, two of them. But, even though it claimed to mulch grass, it really just got clogged up and took too long to perform the task. That’s something you really don’t want in a mower, or a lover, come to think of it. Another was one of those fancy zero-turn riding mowers, and while it was easy to handle and enjoyable to ride, it proved more mower than necessary and was actually a little too heavy, tearing up his yard at every zero turn. Again – not ideal on any front.

Our fine specimen of a mowing man - complete with ripped abs, square jaw line, and perfectly tussled hair - tried out his father’s own push mower, which probably explains why dear ol’ Dad dropped by, picked up his son’s lifeless Craftsman that was gathering dust in the corner of the garage and took it to a small engine guy he knew. Well, the fellow works on small engines, he’s not necessarily small. Still, with little hope and a heavy heart, this Don Juan Deere settled on taking advantage of his father’s benevolence and continued using his mower. Days went by and he was coming to terms with the idea that he’d never find another like his precious old green mower.

Then, he went away for a couple of weeks.

Not out of despair. He went on a family vacation to visit his in-laws in Texas. It was a great trip.

He only thought of his mower once, when he used his brother-in-law’s slightly newer Craftsman push mower with a Briggs and Stratton engine. No bag, but self-propelled. It gave him fond memories of stirring up dust and scaring away horned frogs with his sleek new mowing princess. Alas, the memories were fleeting and he knew he would eventually return home to an empty shed.

Upon his return, however, he received unbelievable news from his father. Elated, he plopped on his work boots (in a very sexy, manly manner) and sprinted…or rather jaunted…or probably slogged his way to the garage (it’s difficult to run in those things); tore open the garage door…or, more accurately, slowly heaved it up (it’s heavy and no longer automatic), being sure to expose his glistening, bulging pecs and shoulders during the process; and had to blink his eyes. Yes it was dusty in there, but he was still happy to see his baby back where she belonged! There she was in all her worn out, mistreated glory. He might have hugged her, although there is no proof of that. There was a new sticker on her shell. It said, “Serviced by Randy’s.” It’s as though she’d gone out and sowed her oats, been resurrected, gotten a tattoo, and had now returned. The prodigal mower had come home.

He looked at her. She looked at him. They knew what was about to happen. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Randy had reawakened her, and although another man had ignited the spark of mowing desire in her, the reacquainted duo’s yearning to mow was more than either of them could bear. He rolled her gently out onto the back lawn and with an expert stroke, cranked her right up on the first try. She’d never had trouble getting her engine going, and this time was no different. She purred. Not exactly the purr of the young tigress she was years ago, but more like the experienced queen lioness, long in the tooth and seductively skillful in her field. It was as though they had never missed a beat. Like riding a bike. A match made in landscaping heaven. Grass was mowed, mulched, and expelled that afternoon. Needless to say, she left him with a smile – a pollen-and-gnat-laden smile – but a smile nonetheless.

After consummating their reunion, they cooled off. He with a Gatorade and she with a…well, she just cooled off eventually. He rolled her back into the garage, gave her a little pat, and told her he was glad to have her back. She sighed and smiled. At least, that is what he thought he saw. The heat index was 104. That may have had something to do with it. In any case, he walked away, knowing that soon he’d return, that they’d be unable to remain apart for long.

After all, the forecast calls for more rain and his grass is bound to grow.

From Lightning Bug to Lightning - Experiences in Amazement, Part II

Within a few days of observing the rare and amazing unison light show of the fireflies of Congaree Swamp (Part I), I found myself on our bi-annual pilgrimage to Texas, or as I like to call it, The Republic - birthplace of  Tex-Mex, "Remember the Alamo", and…my wife. 

We make the 16-hour trek for 2 of the 3 big breaks from school - Christmas and summer. Spring break is typically beach time. I feel certain that if my in-laws ever move to the Texas coast, Spring Break would then qualify for the traveling-to-Texas trifecta.  

I don't mind the drive. Really. My gypsy soul tends to get restless near the end of May and November in anticipation of hitting the open road. My family has seemed to accept this about me, if not acquired the quality themselves. It certainly makes for more pleasant traveling, if nothing else. We have our traditions (always stop and gaze upon the Mississippi River, no matter what time of day or night) and games ("OK, who will spot a green convertible, giant peanut, or goat first?"). All in all, it's a wonderful family experience. 

Ironically, the only real arguments that break out are over the one thing placed in our vehicle to help ease the drive time monotony - the DVD player. Deciding on a movie, who gets to choose the movie, in what slot the movie should be returned in the multiple DVD case, who gets to hold the DVD case, who gets to hand the DVD to Mom to place in the player, at what volume should the movie be played, at what angle should the screen be set to avoid the most glare, the proper way to clean a DVD disc, why the DVD is skipping, why our DVD player a piece of junk, why we should or should not buy a new minivan because of our crummy DVD player, why Dad threw that last DVD out the window, was that a bad word Dad said, why Mom is looking at Dad like that... 

You get the idea.   

This trip was of the summer variety. We left late afternoon and hit Atlanta a few brief moments after the heavens had unleashed their fury upon the metropolitan area, catching the northern end of a storm that produced 65 mph. winds, quarter-sized hail, blinding rain, lots of stop-and-go driving and flashing hazards on the road. Horrendous conditions for driving through Chunky, Alabama, much less traffic-swollen Atlanta.  

Little did I know that this storm was just the beginning of a wondrous display of natural beauty, the likes of which I had never experienced before.  

One amazing light show produced and directed by Mother Nature (read about the synchronized firefly display previously posted) is uncommon. But that was just a warm-up for her main event.  

As soon as we cleared the rain of Atlanta, the westward skies remained cloudy. I anticipated driving through pockets of storms until we decided to stop for the evening. Not my choice for a pleasant, peaceful nighttime trek across the southeast. Any other time, rain is pleasant and peaceful. I love it. Just not when I'm trying to navigate my way around and between 18-wheelers, motorcycles, stalled Oldsmobiles, the texting teenager, and ma and pa going 30 in the lefthand lane...at night.  

That, thankfully, was not the case. Instead, we were treated to the most unbelievable lightning show this side of the Mississippi. The only reason I know this is because we stopped for the night just east of Jackson. It may have been the same on the other side of the river. I just don't know for sure.  

This was no ordinary lightning, if lightning can ever really be ordinary. No sir, no run-of-the-mill cloud-to-ground snoozers here. Not your everyday tree-blaster. Not even a brief cloud illuminator. The show we saw lit the entire skyward horizon between the outermost peripheries of our vision as we gazed westward. The electric fireworks paused for no longer than 10 seconds during the remainder of the night, a trip from Atlanta to Jackson, Mississippi. Not only did we get to see how the Earth would put on a Pink Floyd laser light show, we got to witness this marvel for hours nonstop. Were it not for other vehicles on the road, I'm not sure we actually needed headlights to illuminate I-20. 

As my passengers quietly nodded off into a sleep, no doubt filled with dreams of wonder, I realized I was privy to another one of those rare moments of wonder myself. It was simply and staggeringly beautiful. As the lights of Jackson appeared on the far horizon, Van Morrison quietly serenaded my drive with "Moondance", and the light show played on. I knew this was a truly special moment. I also knew I needed to stop for the night. The next day would hold more travel time (we were a little over half way now), more games, a stop at the Mighty Mississippi, and the part I anticipate the most: who knows what else.