Observations – Busted Compass

The Not Quite Perfect Dog

December, 2020

Maggie is becoming more perfect every day and I couldn't be more pleased or more impressed. She seems to think quite highly of me as well, which shows what a very discerning dog she is. Despite our mutual admiration, we do have one area of conflict. And it's serious.

I am long in the habit of sitting down in the early evening with a drink, a book and some music. For the latter I typically fire up Roku on the TV (because that's where the good speakers are) and tune to a customized Pandora station that I call Nighttime Jazz. It features artists like Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Chet Baker and many more. That's right, I listen to dead people. Almost exclusively. That not withstanding, the problem is that my dog doesn't seem share my love of jazz.

When I was coming up, all the canine experts told us that dogs can't see TV. While that may have been true in those ancient days of sets built around picture tubes, I don't believe it applies to modern flat screens. Because I'm here to tell you that this dog sees everything on the TV, and she's fascinated by much of it. She sees people and follows their movement across the screen and if the camera should zoom in, she backs up as if stunned by it (think of something coming at you in 3-D).

Maggie has yet to find any programs she likes, which only serves to demonstrate her good taste in entertainment (or perhaps my poor taste), but we haven't watched any of the big dog shows yet, which I think might sell her on it. At present, however, she'll walk into the room, take a look at what's on, glance at me with a why-couldn't-God-have-done-better look, then turn tail － literally － and head back to the bedroom. She does this several times in an evening, beginning with the music.

I know jazz is not for everyone and that it can be an acquired taste like scotch, sushi and, for that matter, RV travel. But I don't think she's giving it a fair chance. Some would say that I'm an acquired taste, but if she had passed judgment on me as quickly, she might still be stuck at a shelter.

Having said that, she does appear to enjoy some of the album covers that Pandora displays. But as for the music, she doesn't care much for Miles and she seems to hold Mr. Brubeck in particularly low regard, at times even sneering at his picture on the screen. Now I like Dave, especially the early stuff he did with the great saxophonist Paul Desmond. And Miles is quite simply in a class by himself. How do you tell these titans of the genre that their music doesn't appeal to a dog?

Well, everyone's entitled to an opinion, and at the end of the day (so to speak) it's probably not worth worrying about since those guys are all, you know, dead.

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Welcome Maggie

December, 2020

"I only had to tell her once that Crocs are not a chew toy..."

Having lost my much-loved Bernadette this past July (read more...), the ensuing months have been quiet around the RV. Too quiet. OK, way too quiet. So in order to liven things up a bit (OK, more than a bit), I'm pleased to say that a new member has joined our touring company.

Maggie is a one-year-old, 60 lb. lab mix (no one is quite sure what else is in the mix) who is relatively calm... most of the time. She's a happy smiley girl and she exudes personality, which is what first caught my attention. That and her mesmeric amber eyes. She has given me more laughs in our first two weeks together than I've had in months. A real ray of sunshine.

Maggie came from a hoarding situation and, given her age, was probably born into it. Luckily though, she found her way to a shelter in Brunswick, GA at the same time I was staying there. Though at times a bit timid, she loves people (because that's where the belly rubs come from) and drags me over to meet anyone in view. She's a sponge for affection and will roll onto her back in a New York second if there's any attention to be had. And if being cute and sweet-natured isn't enough, she's also very smart. I only had to tell her once that Crocs are not a chew toy and she hasn't gone near them since. Fingers crossed.

Given my current lifestyle, I've been forced to wonder whether adopting a puppy might be final proof of insanity.

But all of my dogs were at least three years old when adopted and most were lost at a far too early age. As a result, I was set on ensuring that the next one would be around for as long as possible.

So welcome home Maggie!

Hurricane vs. Virus

July, 2020

...the only thing worse than watching your home and all your worldly possessions go bouncing down the street is to be inside it when that happens.

As I write this I am about to be, as Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler so eloquently put it, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea*.

Here in otherwise sunny Florida, hurricane season runs from June through November. This being the end of July, I feel like I've pushed my luck nearly to the breaking point. A potential Category 5 storm is heading in our general direction and, as objectively interesting as it might be to experience that in person, I believe I’d rather read about it from afar. Very afar.

In theory, a 50 mph wind can push a travel trailer like mine over. That’s only a Category 1 hurricane. The numbers go up from there and greater winds might just turn my house into a tumbleweed. And the only thing worse than watching your home and all your worldly possessions go bouncing down the street is to be inside it when that happens. I would probably not fare well in that situation and that’s the “devil” part.

Normally, I'd have been long gone by June 1st. But these are abnormal times, which is where “the deep blue sea” comes in. If I choose not to stay, then the only option is voyaging out into a world wrestling with COVID-19.

The virus is currently having its way with a large and growing number of people in the U.S. If that’s not enough, being man of a certain age (I’ll never see 65 again), I am in the statistical Danger Zone. Without boasting, I’m in great shape. I take no prescription drugs, I have all original parts and the only bit that has surrendered to aging is my hairline. Ordinarily I wouldn’t give the virus a passing thought. But unfortunately it's not ordinary. This critter doesn’t seem to care how healthy you are. The information we’re getting, albeit somewhat conflicting, indicates that it strikes in unpredictable ways. For example, some millennials have ended up on ventilators or have even died from it while a few centenarians have survived it. Go figure. Add to that the fact that it can take you down for 2 weeks to a month (longer if you’re hospitalized) and you realize that it's one big, scary, inconvenient pain in the ass.

So I'm forced to pit threat of the virus against the prediction of an “unusually active” hurricane season, which is a no-win choice.

But at the end of the day, I've been in Jacksonville far too long. So I've decided to use the storm as an excuse and bug out.

* (Speaking of The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, Click here to listen to a really cool cover of Mssrs. Arlen and Koehler’s jazz classic, this one by the amazing Annie Ross and the great Gerry Mulligan. Your ears will thank you for it.)

UPDATE: As storms will do, this one zigged a bit to the east while I zagged, heading southwest to visit friends in the Tampa area. My trip was calm and sunny all the way and a day or so later the winds and rain only grazed JAX. So far, so good.

The Painful “Firsts” of Loss

July, 2020

The loss of a loved one – be it human, canine, equine... whatever – is very hard. My recent loss (canine), and the memories of past companions that it churned up, has made me realize that one of its most difficult aspects is dealing with all the “firsts”.

Coming home from the vet’s office immediately after, you walk into your home and for the first time you feel the emptiness. It never ceases to amaze me how the smallest dog can fill the biggest home (and my dog was not small). The residence of one of my previous clients measured more than 12,000 square feet. On one visit, I walked in and immediately knew that their little rat terrier was gone. That great barn of a home just felt empty.

That night is another first, a dark and unpleasant one, followed by the next morning when you open your eyes and slowly remember what’s different about the day. In my case, no bright smiley face to greet me, no long lean body to scratch from nose to tail (our regular morning ritual). That was one of the most difficult moments.

I’ll be hitting the road again soon and I don’t look forward to the first time travelling without Bernadette. I doubt it will be near as much fun. Of course, she was never wild about riding in the truck. She lay on her bed in her own space behind me and panted ...for hours (at first I thought my singing might have bothered her, but I quickly dismissed that idea confident in the knowledge that my duets with Sinatra are epic). There was a time early on when I found her constant and repetitious sounds annoying. If you think I won’t miss it this time, then you’ve never known and lost the love of a great dog.

My only consolation is that she won’t be stressed out on this trip. Another first, and the only good one.

Mourning Bernadette

July, 2020

As anyone who has ever owned a dog can attest, they quickly and deeply insinuate themselves into your life. Also, the minute we bring them home we know that one day they're going to break our hearts. These facts were recently brought home to me by my fourth dog Bernadette.

At the far too-young age of eight years, she developed Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I had heard of IBS and, in fact, knew some people who had it. To my knowledge, you changed your diet, maybe took a pill, and you got on with your life. I had no sense of finality about it. I also didn’t know (this is what I get for dozing through high school biology class) that the stomach doesn’t take in nutrition from the things you eat. It only prepares food for digestion then sends it to the intestines. If the intestinal walls are inflamed, as with IBS, nutrients aren't absorbed. And that’s what happened.

Bernadette lost more than 25% of her body weight in less than a month. Regaining some of that was critical to her survival and we worked at it diligently with the help of two experienced veterinarians. Her diet was limited to bland, low fat food and even then, she often had trouble keeping it down. In her last couple of days she stopped eating altogether.

It was extremely painful to watch. Greyhounds are naturally lean, but she was skin and bones; a walking anatomy lesson. Despite that and the weakness resulting from her dramatic weight loss, she was still her sweet smiling self. Which only made the decision to end her life that much harder.

__________________________________

Before we hit the road, Bernadette was a big part of my life. Traveling solo probably made her an even bigger presence. She was my constant companion. She was intelligent, contagiously serene, ever uncomplaining. She knew my worst quirks and imperfections (of which there are many) and she loved me anyway. In a word, she was perfect.

We used to walk a mile in the morning and a half-mile or so in the afternoon or evening. She did so with grace and ease and she always enjoyed it. More than that, she loved meeting people along the way. Although she had her favorites (you know who you are), she wanted to meet everyone and just knew they all wanted to meet her.

For too brief a time she filled my home with her presence and filled my life with untold joy. But for the pain of her loss, those spaces are empty now; as empty as the places where her beds rested and her toys were stored.

But I know they won’t be that way for long. One day soon the events of the past month will begin to fade and that big hole in my heart will fill with nothing but warm memories. There she’ll live forever.

Rest in peace sweet girl.

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Wanderlust

October, 2020

I am, as my grandmother would have said, nobody's fool. I caught on pretty quickly that the work involved in setting up and packing up the trailer is not worth doing for only a 24-hour stay. I did spend one night in a WalMart parking lot early on, but that was just a proof of concept — I did it to know that I could. Other than that, I'm not unhitching for less than two nights.

Campsite in Forrest City, AR - October, 2019

That said, this trip is about travel, not about standing still. There are few sadder sights than an RV sitting beside a house or in a storage lot, slowly going to seed and with grass growing tall beneath it. When I see one like that I hear it cry out, "Take me somewhere. This is not what I was made for!" Well, whenever we approach two weeks in one location, my trailer starts getting antsy. "Let's go," it says. "Time to hit the road!"

Our first stay was a full month in Tampa. I decided to hang close to the dealer from which the trailer was purchased just in case any problems developed. Thankfully none did, but I still think it was a smart move and I enjoyed the Tampa area. But that was one very long month. After only two weeks the trailer and I were both ready to go.

I never thought I had wanderlust. It's no secret to those who know me that I have a fear of flying (or more accurately, a fear of crashing) and I'm not crazy about hotels. These two facts have long made travel a chore, something to be avoided. But the RV lifestyle began to grow on me as soon as I started researching it many years ago. Now, after twenty years of dreaming and more than six months on the road, I find that it's everything I had hoped it would be and more.

The advantages of RVing over other types of travel include: 1.) you have a different view through your windows at every stop, 2.) no matter where you go, you get to sleep your own bed at night, and 3.) if the engine suddenly quits, it's highly unlikely that your vehicle will fall to the ground in a fiery inferno killing everyone aboard.

(Yes I know, that one of those last points reveals an odd contradiction in my personality — wanting to see new vistas yet still sleep at home. It's actually one of many and if that were the strangest of my idiosyncrasies, I might be nearly normal. But fortunately, I made friends with my quirks a long time ago. Close friends. I learned, not just to be unashamed of them, but to revel in them. I went so far as to design a life that made them work for me instead of against. But that's a whole other blog post. Or possibly a book. ...I digress.)

I'm sure that one day I'll be ready to settle down again in a "stick or brick" home, but at this moment I can't imagine wanting that. This nomadic life, being able to pick up and go anywhere on a whim, is just too much fun.

If that last sentence lit up something inside you, maybe you should try it too.

The Holy Terror of Bridges

September, 2020

I hate bridges. The higher and longer they are, the more I dislike them. And hauling four tons of travel trailer doesn't make them any more endearing.

The month of August spent in Canada was great, but I discovered that there's nothing like coming back to the USA. Even the first speed limit sign — in MPH instead of KPH — made me smile. But here's the thing: I hate bridges.

"It was long... it was high, and it was narrow. ...This bridge had it all."

The border crossing where we returned to the U.S. was on some islands in the St. Lawrence River. Google Maps told me there were a couple of bridges, but they didn't look too long and in the absence of details I figured, how bad could it be.

So imagine my surprise when I rounded a curve on Interstate 81 and was greeted by the sight pictured here.

There is a photographic trick at work that makes this bridge appear shorter and less steep that it really is. Actually, the first half goes up at about the same angle as... Oh hell, it goes straight up! It's like the start of the scariest roller coaster you've ever been on. It was long (the map said around 3000 feet, but I'm pretty sure it was closer to 3 miles), it was high, and it was narrow. It was a trifecta. This bridge had it all. I won't say I was terrified, but I briefly considered turning around, renouncing my U.S. citizenship and becoming a Canadian. At that moment, it seemed an entirely sensible thing to do.

But with no exits, I had no choice but to utilize a lesson learned long ago: when you can't go left or right and you can't go back, nut-up and forge ahead. I stepped on the gas and started up the hill.

When I say "stepped on the gas," what I really I mean is, I took my foot off the gas and slowed to a crawl. You can see the 40 mph sign in the picture, but there was no way I was about to go that fast, at least not with my eyes open.

So, I inched up the incline, trying with all my might to keep looking straight ahead. Higher and higher, heart pounding, hands in a death grip on the steering wheel. Then, about halfway up, I noticed three — count 'em, three — tractor-trailers barrelling downhill in the other lane. As I said, this was a very narrow bridge — two lanes only — so when I say, "in the other lane," what I really mean is, "holy crap, they're coming right at me!" My trailer is eight feet wide and the width of each lane was, to my eye, about seven feet eleven inches. Somehow, all three of the big rigs managed to pass by with no sounds of crunching fiberglass and if I hadn't blacked out just before then, I might have seen how they did it.

After what felt like hours, we crested the top and started on the equally long downhill leg, which was only slightly less panic-inducing since, at that point, we had to be at an altitude of about 10,000 feet. If I'd had the courage to look down I'm sure I would have spotted commercial air traffic below. And let me just mention that the only thing less fun than pulling a four-ton trailer up a steep hill is having four tons of trailer push you down the other side.

But we finally made it back to sea level and dry land, at which time I breathed a deep sigh of relief and began unclenching, well... everything that had been clenched. It took a few miles for my heart to settle back into my chest and return to near normal. At that point I said, "I hope I NEVER have to do that again!". I actually said it out loud.

Have you ever said something and then wished you could snatch the words right back out of the air? Well, a moment later I rounded another bend in the road and discovered...

That damned bridge had a twin!

I am not making this up. I was facing a second bridge that looked very much like the one I had just survived — barely. I'm pretty sure the two bridges weren't identical though because the second one looked longer. And higher. And narrower.

We somehow managed to get over that one too although, once again, the how is a bit of mystery. As mentioned, I hope to never have to repeat that experience. But if it ever comes up again, well, I'm sure I'll enjoy being a Canadian.

Go Maple Leafs, eh!

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Random Musings from Canada — Part II

September, 2019

As previously noted, Canada is a beautiful country. I say that having seen only seen a small part of two Eastern provinces, but I don't expect the rest would disappoint. And Canadians are an interesting people. I have lived in and visited places in the US where total strangers will smile and say hello as you pass them on the street. Here in Ontario, and even more so in Quebec, most won't look you in the eye let alone speak. That might be seen as a coldness, but it's belied when you start a conversation and see how quickly these folks warm up.

Canadians as a nation are sometimes tagged by us in the States as having an inferiority complex and, as such, are often the butt of our jokes. But what some see as inferiority may be something else entirely — civility. I wonder if we've become so jaded that we simply don't recognize it when we see it. People here will often hold a door for you. In heavy traffic they'll let you pull out in front of them. And how about this: In almost a month living in Quebec and Ontario I have been tailgated only once. Once (it was a BMW — I know, big surprise)! Drive two miles an hour below the speed limit in Nashville and half the drivers on the road will try to climb into your trunk. And then there's the issue of turn signals. We all have them but Canadians actually use them.

Speaking of highways and byways, one not-so-nice feature of Canada is the roads. Teeth-rattling, bone-jarring roads. Potholes and patches are bad enough, but when the patches on the potholes have patches, you know you're in for a rough ride.

I get it, Canadian winters are hard. But that's not exactly a secret. Governments, national and local, should be budgeting funds for road repair. Many funds. It's clear that some work has been done and you'll occasionally hit stretch of good smooth asphalt, but you can be sure it'll be a short one.

Travel tip: Eastern Canada is gorgeous. The people are great and there's lots to see and do. But If you plan to drive here, rent a car.

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Random Musings from Canada — Part I

August, 2019

Thoughts and ruminations about nothing in particular:

As of this writing (8/12/19), we have been in Quebec for almost two weeks and, although I've enjoyed it enormously, I'm ready to be back in a land of English speakers.

As Bernadette and I walk the campground, every conversation we hear is in French. No mistake, it's a beautiful language. Someone — I don't recall who (but a better writer than I) — once said that the sound of French being spoken "falls gently on the ear." As opposed to, say, German, which sounds like suspenders caught in a garbage DisposAll. Still, hearing the words and having no idea what people are saying gets old after a while.

And not just conversation. Several times a day the campground manager broadcasts announcements over a PA system and I have yet to understand any of them. For all I know, she could be warning of an impending flood of biblical proportion and telling everyone to leave the island on which the campground sits or abandon all hope. The river that surrounds us would have to rise about 20 feet so I don't think that's what it's about, but what do I know?

It's fun to be immersed in a different language, but after a time it creates a feeling of isolation and I'm getting close to that point. Fortunately, we leave on Thursday for Ottawa. That's in Ontario, and that means more English (although they do that curious thing of ending their sentences with "eh?"). Departure is about three days off and by that time I may be counting the minutes.

It's interesting to note that Canadians don't seem to share our love affair with trucks and SUVs. Our campground, for obvious reason, is a haven for big trucks, but most vehicles plying the roads are small to very small. Also seen are lots of motorcycles, scooters and many more bikes than I'm used to. I think I know why.

In a previous post I mentioned being pleased to find that gas was only $1.24 in Canada. That is, until reality took hold and I realized that it was priced per liter. Thinking about that again today, I did a little math. I probably shouldn't have, but I did it anyway.

There are roughly 4½ liters in a gallon. That means $1.24 per liter is a whopping $5.58 a gallon.

Now, I don't know if that number brought on a "holy crap!" moment for you, but it sure did for me. Once I got over it though, I remembered that the amount in question was in Canadian dollars, which is like the Centigrade of currency. A handy conversion calculator brought the price down to $4.19 a gallon USD; a little less eye-popping, but not much. Thinking about it for few moments, my self-pity changed to sympathy for Canadians. They don't get the converted rate.

Small cars indeed.

Canadian men, at least Quebecers who camp (I don't want to over-generalize) seem to go for the bare-chested look. More than anyplace I've seen yet, guys at our campground in Sherbrooke spend their days, dawn to dark, in nothing but shorts and sandals. I don't know if it's a cultural thing or if the long hard winters give them a need to dive into warm weather with greater gusto.

Campers might not be an accurate sampling but generally people here do seem to revel in summer, certainly more than the typical Tennessean. Of course in the South we swelter through the summer months all the while dreaming of winter, then we pine for summer's warmth when it turns cold. Go figure.

Imagining the hardships of a Quebec winter, I can't blame these guys for enjoying themselves in minimal clothing, even though they're not exactly Chippendale material. The look doesn't work well for most of them and someone really should say something.

Don't look at me. I don't speak French.

Another thing I find odd about folks around here is their attitude toward dogs, specifically mine. Bernadette is the fourth greyhound in my life and the most affectionate of the bunch. A sweeter dog has never been born. She wants to meet everyone and she just knows they want to meet her.

Also, greyhounds are very attractive. They're thin and they have long legs, long necks and big eyes. In other words, they possess all the physical attributes that our society prizes. They are the fashion models of the dog world. And with far fewer dog tracks in Canada than in the U.S., many people hereabouts have never seen a greyhound. You might think they'd be interested, especially given that unusual beauty and grace.

Yet, despite all that, here in the campground people walk right by her as if she doesn't exist (me too for that matter, but I'm no one's idea of a model). As a dog person, I want to greet and meet every one I see, large and small, young and old. I love 'em all and the attitude of anyone who doesn't is to me, well... foreign.

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Life as a Foreigner

August, 2019

Are you bored with your life? Is your day to day routine too stultifying for words (even though stultifying is a pretty good word)? Do you yearn for some color in your black-and-white world? Then here's what you do: go spend some time in a country where they don't speak English. You don't even have to cross an ocean to find one, just head to Quebec. No, it's not a country, but it's pretty darned close.

We tend not to think of Canada as a foreign land. Sure, they use the metric system, their national sport is hockey (pronounced, "hawh′-kee"), and they eat odd foods like Poutine (which is actually no stranger than the things Waffle House does to hash browns). But in our endearingly myopic way, we still consider it more American than other countries, largely because, like us, they speak English. But wait...

Canada has something you don't often find in a country. Wedged in amongst three ordinary American-ish provinces is Quebec, which is not just Canadian, but also French. Proudly French.

The first time someone greets you with "Bon jour!", it's tempting to think they're kidding. But French has been the official language of the province since the British granted the Quebec Act way back in 1774. Many Quebecers do speak English, often with a heavy Gallic accent, but many don't. Not a word.

When a local says something in their native tongue and you reply "I'm sorry, but I don't speak French," you may get a look of confusion in return because they don't even understand that phrase. We American's are just not used to that.

Indeed, there may be no better example of our self-focused perspective than the way we so often refer to ourselves as "Americans". In doing so, we eliminate all Canadians from our world view, even though they too live in North America, to say nothing of disrespecting an entire continent to our south. But I digress.

Display signs at Walmart (which is French for Walmart).

Another reminder that you're not in Kansas, or even Calgary, anymore is that signs are in French. Not some signs, but street signs, traffic signs, business signs... all signs, all French. It's like, well... a foreign country.

The RV park where we're currently docked packs vehicles in pretty tightly and, as the nature of RV-ing is living outdoors, conversations among neighboring campers are easily heard. In a full week of residing here, I have yet to hear one word of English spoken. Each time I step outside my door I'm reminded that I am a foreigner here.

So I try to approach everyone in the park and on city streets with a smile because that's a universal language. I appreciate it when a grocery store clerk or barista quickly switches to English for me. I practice patience with others and thank them for theirs, often with a "merci". Only an "ugly American" expects everyone to speak our language and I sure don't want to be seen that way.

If this website has a theme, it's that change is good. If you're observant, and one of the two or three people who actually read these posts, you'll see it on almost every page. Some folks choose to stay safe in their cocoons, but it's refreshing to step outside our sheltered lives once in a while. It's a wake-up, a splash of cold water in the face. That's what this time in Quebec has been for me.

Of course, it's also left me starved for conversation. So in the name of everything that is holy, will someone please CALL AND TALK TO ME!

And when I answer the phone, don't say "Bon jour!".

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Bigger is better… Sometimes

July, 2019

Ranting against the rise of the "big box" stores seems to be a cause-du-jour. People do it all the time and on all forms of media in a seeming attempt to link their level of disgust to their level of patriotism. Not me. I love the big boxes. I love them because homes — even those on wheels — always have something in need of repair or upgrade. And whenever and whatever my home needs, a big box store has it.

Yeah, I know the dark side too: they're ugly, they add to traffic, they stifle competition and put mom and pop places out of business. Yada yada. Some folks just don't understand change (and they obviously haven't read our Welcome page). Wal-Mart, the biggest box of all, knows that despite every argument against them, when they open the doors of a new store, customers are going to walk through them, and bring their money with them. So until someone comes up with a way to out-sell them, they're going to keep building superstores without a care in the world. Once again, that's the nature of change which, like Wal-Mart, has its own agenda. And, as previously stated, I think that's OK.

Aside from being suppliers of, well, almost everything, here's another reason they're likeable.

If you've read this far into my website, you won't be surprised by the fact that I travel full time. I stay in one place for a couple of days to a couple of weeks and then I'm on the road again. In the time that's been true, I have never for a moment felt even a twinge of home-sickness. There are a number of reasons for that, but the simplest is that my roots have always been shallow and I feel every bit as at home in my RV as I have in any house or apartment in which I've ever lived. But I've met more than a few folks who love and miss their homes when they're away. So here's my advice to anyone who finds themselves in that situation.

If ever you're a long way from home and feeling blue because of it, head for the closest Target, Kohl's, Lowe's/Home Depot - which is actually same store, just different colors - (the dreaded) Wal-Mart, or even your favorite grocery store. Because no matter where you are, those places are the same — exactly the same — as the ones you left behind. As a result, they're familiar and as comfortable as an old pair of jeans. Walk through the door and within a minute or two you'll be feeling warm, fuzzy and right at... home.

And by the way, I don't mean to beat up on Wal-Mart because they can be a road warrior's best friend. You might not know this because they don't advertise it, but most of their stores will allow RVers to stay in their parking lots overnight. Yeah, that's why you so often see RVs there. There are some unspoken protocols to follow, but there's no charge for the space. If you're traveling between stops and you need a few hours of shut-eye in order to keep the shiny side up and the rubber side down, that big well-lit parking lot can look pretty good. Bernadette and I spent the night in a Wal-Mart parking lot once. Interesting experience.

Remind me sometime and I'll tell you about it. 🙂

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The Turtle Story

May, 2019

Florida is full of water. It's essentially a well developed, very attractive swamp. Even deep inland, lakes, ponds, rivers, rills and bayous abound. You can't swing a dead gator without it splashing into something.

And speaking of gators, I've heard the rumor, as you may have, that if you find a body of water bigger than a bathtub anywhere in Florida, it'll probably have an alligator in it. Hyperbole? Maybe. Based in truth? Probably. But I've been here for a little more than three weeks and, I haven't seen a single one (although there's a sign on a pond at the RV park where I'm staying that reads, "Do not feed the gators" which I think is a joke, but I'm not totally sure). That's not a complaint. Among other things, if we did cross paths with one, my dog would probably want to play with it. But enough about gators, this is a turtle story.

Walking past an office building the other day, I stopped to look at a typical piece of Florida landscape: a small pond. Movement in the green-brown water caught my eye as a turtle, just under the surface, pushed off from the bank and disappeared into the murk. Let me just say that this was no small turtle. He would have made a batch of turtle soup that could feed a family of Honduran refugees for a week. I don't know much about them — turtles, that is, not Hondurans — but I believe they're very slow growers and, if so, this guy might have been about my age. He probably had no natural enemies in his little land-locked pond and it could even have been his life long home. It might be tiny, dark and stinky, but it was a place where a self respecting turtle might grow old in peace and safety.

On the other hand, one might ponder (sorry!) whether a life spent in the confines of such a limited world — the same sights, the same experiences, day after day — is indeed a life worth living. Safe? Yes. Comfortable? Sure. Interesting? Mind expanding? Soul-filling? I wouldn't think so. And in fact I don't think so, which is why I left my little pond to see what's over the next bank.

But that's OK. We are, all of us, entitled to our own opinions and the old guy and I can agree to disagree.

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