LEON

Baton Rouge, LA: How often does a winter storm get a name? Hurricanes get names and they should. There was Camille in ’69 and Andrew in ’92. In ’04, Charlie, Francis and Ivan ripped through Florida, one after the other on a four week rampage. Then Katrina swamped New Orleans in ’05. Yeah, we remember them by name. But winter storms tend to drag everything down to a crawl or even a halt, then it clears up, warms up, you dig out and move on. Power outages from ice create problems but I can’t remember a winter storm that earned a name. 

I remember the “Blizzard of ’77.” My kids were little, I was teaching school, West Michigan, living a mile outside of town. We dismissed early on Friday, the 3rd week of January. Final exams were scheduled for Wednesday and Thursday of the next week. Over the weekend it dumped over 2 ft. of snow and the wind kicked up out of the west, a steady 25-30 mph. That Sunday night the temp. dropped to -20. No matter how often the snow plows ran, the north-south roads drifted in within a few hours and the only way from here to there was either bucking 6 to 8 ft. drifts or a good snowmobile. 

We missed ten consecutive school days. Over those two weeks the wind blew, average temp hovered near zero and we accumulated an additional 2 ft. of snow. Cabin fever was out of control by the middle of the first week and any excuse to bundle up and venture out was a welcomed diversion. But that’s in the snow belt, the Great Lakes. You know you’re going to get it sooner or later. When it comes, it comes. You have wood cut, candles, batteries and food in the pantry. 

The Gulf Coast is a far cry from snow country and cold weather here is not the norm. Freeze and snow here, even over night, even just a dusting sends responsible citizens into a panic. Traffic is mysteriously vectored into ditches and into each other, even before the wet streets freeze. I saw photos on line this morning of semi trucks on the interstate, gridlocked in both directions over a thin coat of sleet and snow. It’s easy to point fingers and be judgmental and I try seriously, not to go there. It’s not snow country and Midwesterners wouldn’t cope very well with deluge, tidal surges and 120 mph. sustained winds. 

This winter storm had a name this morning. LEON will cost tons of money in highway care, law enforcement and lost income. I’m hunkered down here in Baton Rouge and I’m not going out. It’s not like back in ’77, no reason to be out in it. But I wonder if, say in ten years, if people will remember LEON. When you allude to weather and frame it with a name, it’s assumed you have a hurricane in mind. LEON the frosty freeze, will generate some ice damage and certainly lots of discomfort, inconvenience and expense. I heard one explanation that makes sense. On the coast, insurance policies are loaded with language to discriminate between damage that is covered and damage that is not. Damage caused by wind, water; if by water, was it wind driven (tidal surge) or common flooding. In any case, people usually have to argue, after the fact, with their insurance company over their coverage. With tropical storms as the main threat, that language is biased in that direction. It seems, if a storm is named, being of greater intensity, the home/business owner is more likely to get a better settlement. That would be way-cool, if someone in the bureaucracy gave this cold blast a name, with policy holders in mind rather than the insurance company. I don’t know if that’s why LEON got his name but I’d like to believe.

BLUE HIGHWAY

In 1982, William Least-Heat Moon wrote a book titled “Blue Highways.” At the time he was an English professor at the University of Missouri who had just been laid off. He spent the next year driving the blue highways, the back roads of his road atlas. “Blue Highways” was the story of that journey and it topped the New York Times best seller list for eight months. 

Yesterday I woke up in Ocala, FL with a date to keep in Pensacola last night. From south Florida my return trip north had been over the same boring interstate that I travelled heading south. So I took Least-Heat’s lead, dropped off I-75 and turned west toward the coast on a Blue Highway; I can’t remember its name.

Very quickly the grim interstate business of semi’s, billboards, lane changers and rumble strips was changed out for pasture land, dairy cows, fields of fresh baled hay and stands of slash pine. My Blue Highway was a two-lane ribbon that required attention to detail, not the auto-pilot driving that goes on, on the big highway. Unexpected intersections, nondescript side roads, oncoming traffic passing with inches of my door handle, tractors pulling hay wagons, passing between yellow lines; there was too much, too close, for a relaxing cruise. 

I hadn’t eaten breakfast. There was an apple and a small can of mixed nuts in the milk crate I keep on the passenger seat. But that’s not breakfast and I wanted breakfast. In the next town, I’d find a picturesque, local kitchen, rub shoulders with locals and find a story. I missed the city limits sign and the water tower didn’t have any identification either so I started looking for something with a name, and for a restaurant. The filling station had a Subway sandwich shop and another one had a Hardy’s but no real-deal, restaurant. The next town was the same. Twenty miles later I stopped at the Exxon. I asked the lady behind the counter if there was a restaurant where I could get breakfast. With an Indian or Pakistani accent, she told me there was a McDonalds up the street. I told her I didn’t want fast food and she gave me the palms turned up, wide eyed, “I don’t know” look. I was hungry for breakfast but I’d eat apples and nuts before I compromised myself to fast food. 

More miles, more double yellow lines, another dairy and another stand of slash pine; Mayo, Florida. I drove by the high school and up the main street, several blocks of well kept, old brick buildings. On the left I saw a storefront that was recessed back off the curb, with a neon “Open” sign in the window and a big sign over the door that read, Meme’s Diner; it looked good to me. Inside the floor was waxed concrete and the fixtures looked new. The walls were the freshly painted, old brick walls of the building next door. 

I sat down and while I was ordering, other people began to filter in. They knew each other and sat across the room at a round table. When the waitress pulled us all into a 3-way conversation I invited myself to the round table. Bertha had moved to Florida from upstate New York but she’s been here for a long time. Wayne’s kids had graduated from high school in Mayo. I asked if local kids moved off to big cities for excitement and better paying jobs or did they believe, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, “There’s no place like home.” They reflected on it and after some discussion decided it was some of both. 

“What should I know about Mayo?” I asked. They liked their little town. When pressed, they couldn’t nail down anything in particular but it was clear in their language and their manner. They liked the schools, their leaders and Meme’s Diner for sure. Our breakfast came and we enjoyed that together. When I finished, I bid them well and thanked them for the hospitality. On the way out, I took a photo of Meme’s from across the street. A few blocks later the small town atmosphere dissolved and I was back into the pines and hay fields.

A few hours later, cresting the bridge and dropping down into Apalachicola, the atmosphere had changed considerably. No more dairies or hay fields, a sandy beach was all that separated my Blue Highway from the Gulf of Mexico. This place was about shrimp boats and tourism. I stopped long enough for a shrimp basket at the corner sea food grill and to pick up a jar of Tupelo Honey at a specialty store on Market Street. Tupelo trees in the swamps above Apalachicola bloom for just a few weeks in the spring. Bee keepers clean out their hives and relocate them to the swamp so the honey will be pure, from the tupelo. It is the standard by which all honey is measured. Once the blooms fall, the harvest is over and the bees are moved to work on another nectar source and it will be a year before there is more Tupelo honey.

At one time, along the Gulf of Mexico, Apalachicola ranked second as a sea port only to New Orleans. The river runs all the way to Atlanta and cotton warehouses lined both sides of Market street. Now days it’s fishing, shopping and the beach. The northern gulf still produces wild, yellow sponges and you can pick them up for a reasonable price as well. I didn’t have time to go wander around the boat landing on the river but maybe I’ll come back again, another day. It was dark, raining and cold when I reached Pensacola but I was on time and a familiar, friendly face was waiting there. 

CATERPILLARS

Hanging out in Sarasota, Florida with long time distanced, recently located friends. It’s really cold here, for the natives. It’s fresh for sure; something about the wind and humidity that makes moderate temperatures feel cold. We’ve been having a good time, seeing the sights and taking some photographs. Yesterday we went exploring and wound up at a public access beach on the bay. The sun was high and bright but you needed a jacket and I had long sleeves. 

It turns out, the facility is the access where Sarasota High School’s Rowing Team practices. When we got to the beach there were oars lined up neatly against a low wall, lots and lots of oars, and teenagers were all over the place, stretching, jogging and, you know, being teenagers. Then, from up the hill, under the trees there comes a caterpillar-like apparition with a 40 ft. long, shiny body and lots of legs, inching its way down the walk. Out the narrow walk-way it creeped, to a low platform just above the water. On command, the legs raised up the body and half a dozen young ladies appear. They turned the boat on its side, then right side up and ease it down into the water. The caterpillar was boat and crew and they were going out in the wind and cold, for fun.

SHS Rowing Team won the National Championship last year and their enthusiasm reflected that mentality. Up the hill, two more caterpillars were making progress down the path. There was a rack just up the beach that looked like something a giant would keep his shoes in, in his giant closet. Square framing with slots three deep and four wide, big enough to hold small, flat bottom, aluminum boats with their motor-lower units hanging out the end. Other kids attacked the motor boats like ants on an apple core. The drug them out and into the water, out along the walk-way and tied them off. 

The guys with bigger, longer legs were coming and any doubts about what was going on were dispelled. Before the last boat was in the water, the first girl crew was off the point, getting oriented into the wind and making way. The motor boats were for coaches and for safety and it looked like a military operation. I was on top of an observation platform, telling myself I was a hearty, mid-westerner and this breeze wasn’t cold, no I wasn’t cold, not at all. 

Shutter-shutter, snap, click; shutter-shutter, snap click, my camera was going strong. I remember football and wrestling practices back in another century and there was an element of that atmosphere. I know a lady who was a rower in college and I understand how brutal the training and conditioning is, if you want to excel at rowing. Pulling on that oar requires every muscle group in the body to exert an all out effort, time after time, every stroke. The wind and water wouldn’t let them overheat so the only thing that would require a lesser effort would be a change of heart or exhaustion. I love ‘em. Go get ‘em guys. I’ll not know your names when championships come around this year I’ll remember the caterpillars. I think that should be your mascot nam,The SHS Caterpillars.

CORKSCREW SWAMP

Yesterday was the last day of my stay with friends in Estero, FL. But we were up early and off in the dark to visit the Wildlife Sanctuary at Corkscrew Swamp, east of Naples. With 2.5 miles of boardwalk through marsh and swamp, it’s a great place to get some exercise and be away from concrete and plastic. 

It was overcast, trying to rain but it couldn’t quite make rain drops; enough I kept my camera in its case but didn’t put on a rain coat. The boards creaked under our feet and daylight was leaking through clouds but no sunshine. Rick had camera troubles and that spoiled his hopes but we did the walk anyway. Sometimes you just have to go and do, take your chances and make the best of whatever shakes. The dark water, vegetation and shades of gray were not what I was looking for but that’s what I had and I started taking photographs.

About the time you get used to the calm and still, there was motion down close to the water and there was color; white, behind the trees and brush. Big birds were slowly but surely, working their way from right to left, harvesting the bounty of the swamp. They are hunter-gatherers; no agriculture or animal husbandry for them, no hanging around waiting for crops to ripen. The birds simply go where the food is and they eat as they go. They seem to get along with each other, no fussing or fighting. Maybe they find more food in a group than one can by itself. Now and then there was a deep throated squawk and someone would flap their way up and around a tree but they were serious about worms, snails and other little macro invertebrates on the swamp floor. While I took photographs, Rick counted about fifty birds. Several other bird watchers with cameras materialized. The clicking of cameras seemed as invasive and obtrusive at the time as horns honking in the gridlock, just a few miles away. The big question was, what were they? I knew I saw an egret’s long, straight bill but somebody else said they saw the pink, curved beak of an ibis. 

There were more birds along the walk, anhingas, storks, woodpeckers, waxwings, but they were to far to get good photos. At the nature center, we made a stop at the gift shop and come out into sunshine. My best photo of the morning was simply, water droplets leaving rings on the still water. My time was short. The people behind us got the good light and we did the best with what we had. I had to get on the road by noon. 

This morning I’m at Starbuck’s in Sarasota. I’ll meet up with an old high school amigo in a couple of hours; we haven’t seen each other in in over 50 years. He’s well and busy, as am I; can’t ask for any more. As I edit my photos from yesterday I see there were both egrets and ibis in that swamp-flock. I always wonder why people who are supposed to be not only intelligent but wise, who are no more different than the ibis from the egret, feel the need to kill each other in the name of God or patriotism. But I’m just an old man who would rather go out in the swamp in the rain than sleep in. 

CAMP

I remember in summer when our moms sewed name tags in our clothes, packed our camp boxes with ball gloves, tooth paste, flashlight, stationery and bandaids; said goodbye and sent us off to camp. We slept on saggy bunks in leaky tents, ate chow with bent silverware, off metal trays. Crafts class in the morning, we swam in the afternoon, pitched horse shoes and played softball after dinner and sang songs around a great bonfire before turning in. Then it was scary stories in the dark and raiding other tents with water balloons. The next day the bugle blared at 6:00 a.m. We were up and at ‘em again, second verse, same as the first. If you didn’t get poison ivy or snake bit you weren’t camping hard enough. After a couple of weeks, they poured us on a bus and sent us home. Our parents said they missed us terribly but they sent us again the next summer.

It’s January in Florida; Snowbird season. All those kids from summer camp in the 50’s, after careers and kids left them in the cold, they started thinking about summer again. So from Minneapolis to Montreal, they come to Florida in November or December for Grandma & Grandpa camp. Get up when you feel like it, air conditioned trailers and motor homes instead of leaky tents, golf carts and bicycles for transportation. A person could wear them self out playing all that cribbage, golf carting without the golf, water aerobics, bridge club, photography club, writer’s group, remote control airplane squadron, water painting, chess club and garden club. In between outings there are social gatherings to share food, watch movies, shop the flea markets, dance to 50’s R&R, and all the time is a good time for a nap.

It's not all camp here, up and down the canal, somebody's working. There is a 2 ft. alligator hanging around the spillway and even though he just hangs around, he’s working. Those long legged birds appear to be in super slow motion, wading near the bank. But thats part of their job description. The little critters they are hunting know enough to duck for cover when a big shadow moves. I had to walk up to the butterfly garden yesterday. On the way I noticed a heron, poised motionless in the shallows. Ten minutes later on the way back he was still there, didn’t look like he had budged an inch. But I’m patient as well and I watched him for a while. Looking at something and studying it are not the same. I studied the heron. His moves were so slow and controlled you would miss it otherwise. The subtle turn of the head, a slight lean to the right and a weight shift from one leg to the other; it must have taken two or three minutes. Then, slow for sure, it tilted its head to the side. The big bird wasn’t searching any longer, it was onto something. 10 or 15 seconds passed and my heron came undone like an exploded pińata. Wings flapped, its head disappeared under the water and the thrashing made the water boil. A couple of seconds later, the great hunter recoiled with a nice fish in its beak. Work is work, however you work it. 

Grandma-Grandpa camp is serious stuff. I don’t know if I’m in shape for it. You can’t just slip off to palm trees and white, sandy beaches for a couple of weeks. It takes several months to make it work.  I am finishing a two week visit with friends at “Grandma & Grandpa Camp.” I haven’t listened to the news or weather since I’ve been here. If it’s under 60 degrees it’s too cold and if it’s wet outside, we eat inside. The worst you can do is forget where you left your sun glasses. I’m old enough to fit in. I’ve cooked long enough to look the part but I must not be done yet; enjoyed my visit but it’s time to be somewhere else, maybe even a Michigan winter. 

BAREFOOT BEACH

A man went for a walk on the beach one morning. It was foggy; it stormed the night before but the sea was quiet, only low rollers sliding up on the sand. It must have been a big storm, there were thousands of star fish washed up high and dry with no way down to the water. Up the beach, in the fog, he saw a little boy throwing star fish back into the surf. When he got there, he asked the boy what he thought he was doing. Of course, the boy told him he was rescuing star fish, putting them back in the water. The man told the boy, “Nature has its own way of keeping a balance. There are enough star fish so there will always be plenty, even when so many get washed up on the beach. So what you’re doing, really doesn’t matter.” The boy turned a star over so its under side was up; “See these rows of short, little threads; they are the star’s feet and if you can still see them, it’s still alive.” Then he threw it out beyond an incoming wave. “It matters to that one,” he said. “It matters to that one too,” as he threw another one back. The man walked on up the beach and as he put distance between himself and the boy he heard him repeating, “It matters to this one.” 

We went to Barefoot Beach yesterday to walk the beach and watch the sun set, between Fort Myers and Naples, Florida. We put our chairs down then headed down the beach, noticing people carrying star fish. My friend asked a lady where she got the stars and the lady nodded down beach toward Naples and said, “They’re all over the beach down there, it’s not far” Sure enough, we started seeing sea stars. Some were washing up under incoming waves while others were waiting for a foamy peak and a gentle undertow to pull them back to the sea. I took some photographs but after you have a dozen good shots of sea stars, you start watching shore birds. I took 299 photos yesterday. After the first edit I had it cut down to about 50 and finally I’m left with about 25 shots form Barefoot Beach. 

The tide was coming in and what had been a great spot was awash with every 5th or 6th wave. I looked down and there were two, very much alive sea stars beside my chair. Phylum Echinodermata, normally 5 appendages with radial symmetry, they have the amazing ability to regenerate lost or damaged body parts. If we could do that and you wanted a twin brother or sister, you could split yourself into two halves and both halves would regenerate the missing half. And, yes; I was a biology teacher for a very long time. I sailed the two sea stars back out into the shallows, knowing they would likely wash up a little later, a little farther down the line. I heard a voice about the same time I saw the man. He was old; this time of year in Naples, we’re all old. He wore his skinny legs and little pot belly like his red badge of courage. “They’re already dead. . . or they’ll die anyway.” I thought about the boy in the story but I didn’t say anything; it’s not my job. But I did think to my self; “If you fell out of the boat I’d throw you a rope but who’s more worthy, you or the star, I don’t know."

The sun was low, almost to the horizon and its reflection was painted out on the water in a reddish-gold swatch, too bright to look at. Down beach, I noticed a silhouette on the water, moving our way. I got the camera up and waited for it to clear the glare on the water. “Click-click-click-click-click-click.” Even through the lens and the bad light, I couldn’t mistake that big bill, the wing tips and the classic glide. I’m more familiar with, more partial to Louisiana pelicans but this one was mighty fine. One of the clicks was good enough to keep.

SOUTH FLORIDA

It’s winter here. The natives and the Snowbirds as well, they know winter when they see it. The sun hangs lower and sets sooner and a day in the 80’s is a welcome respite from the steamy heat of summer. Locals love the business that Snowbirds bring to the economy but they hate the traffic. Six lane boulevards suffer endless gridlock with exotic, out of state SUV’s, bumper to bumper. I’m a Michigander with a well honed sensibility to springtime bluster, bucolic summers up the lake shore, blazing fall colors; then frost on the glass and lake effect snow. It’s a dance where the music changes every few months and you change along with it. I love it. Just down the road from Fort Myers, I feel like an alien, afraid I’ll be discovered and dragged down to the beach to be flogged by incensed frostophobes. I’m trying to adjust. It’s short sleeve protocol outside but when I come in the AC is working, as much to dehumidify as to cool, and I need to slip on long sleeves. It makes perfect sense I suppose but I resist in principle and remain keenly aware that I am out of sync with everyone else. 

In Alaska, bears are deep in hibernation and Michigan squirrels are holed up as well. January in Florida, the change is more subtle but the animals here know all about winter. Humidity is high but not much rain, canals and sloughs are running low. When egrets swoop in to catch lunch the vegetation that used to be at water’s edge is now high and dry, and the deep holes in the middle are just right for wading. With no place to hide, little fish are easy pickin’ and the big birds just feed without rationalizing. I stalked an egret along the canal today, hoping for a good photo with a fish in its beak but it was too fast and the best I could do was a shot of it flying away. I’ll fly away in another week or so. I’ll have good photos and stories to tell and it will be cold outside and warm inside, like it’s supposed to be. 

"USS DRUM" SS 228

I suppose it’s cold everywhere. It rained in Baton Rouge last night; the droplets on the roof of my car were puddled up and frozen this morning. North Dakota was way-below zero, Chicago was just, below zero and the Gulf Coast was nothing but chattering teeth, all the way from Baton Rouge, east. In Mobile, I-10 curves down under, through the channel tunnel and then across the causeway over Mobile bay. Coming out of the tunnel, off to the right, you see the USS Alabama, BB-60, battle ship from WWII. It’s berthed there at Battle Ship Memorial Park. Every time I drive this route I say to myself, “One time, maybe next time, I’ll stop and visit BB-60." You know that nuclear powered aircraft carriers are big but they’re not 75-yrs old. The Alabama is big. From the highway it’s a mile away and the big guns jut out so you can’t, not notice. 

Down into the tunnel, lights on, up and out the other side, look to the right and there it is. “One time, maybe next time. . . what the heck, I’ve got time.” So I drop off on the exit and loop back to the park. To my surprise they have an aircraft hanger full of war birds and a submarine on display. They had a great display on the  (Tuskegee Airmen, 332nd Fighter Group, the Red Tails). I know a man who knows somebody who flew in WWII and told him the Red Tails were actually incompetent cowards and their war record was a conspiracy, hatched by Eleanor Roosevelt. He wanted to perpetuate that racist rhetoric. I didn’t respond; it was his house. The subject changed and we talked about something else. Most of those old pilots are gone now but they had them on film and the interviews were awesome. On the battle ship, it was cold and windy, not many visitors. I was more than impressed with the height of the super structure and the size of the big gun turrets. The BB’s carried two single engine sea planes, launched off catapults and retrieved with small cranes off the fantail. I imagined hundreds of sailors scurrying up and down ladders, from duty stations to battle stations. The big guns could hurl a one-ton, explosive projectile 21 miles and the decks were covered with smaller cannons, anti-aircraft and machine gun mounts. I liked the BB but big doors and high ceilings made it seem little more than a big, steel building with lots weird shape rooms and bristling with fire power. 

USS DRUM SS 228 was bigger than I thought a WWII submarine would be. I was impressed with tiny hatches and cramped spaces. Enlisted men had to keep the clothes they weren't wearing under their mattress, with only inches between them and the bunk above. The idea of being submerged in there with 60 other people, fighting a war, was disturbing in itself. They had a big gun on deck but their muscle was the torpedoes. “Drum” was highly decorated through 11 patrols in the Pacific. Working my way back from the officers quarters, through the control areas, engine room and torpedo rooms, you feel how much , out-of-their-element they were. I am comfortable with my smart phone technology, take it for granted. The dash board in the control room featured dials and levers that looked more like going to sea in a bath tub, with a pipe wrench. 

It was a nice little break and I got some exercise. Battle ships are impressive and I love airplanes but if you ever get a chance to go through a submarine, take it. I got into Pensacola before dark and will be in Naples, FL tomorrow night. 

ON THE FIRST DAY

I just went back a year and reread my New Year’s Eve piece from 2012. I was on the beach, Gulf of Mexico, in good company; anticipating the new year. Well, not really; I know it’s customary to think about years but I'm not good with norms. I was dwelling in the moment then, without much thought about 2013. On the split, at the midnight hour, we went down and sat in the dunes with tiny wine glasses and a small decanter of home made, Cranberry Liqueur, from Alaska. It was cool, the wind had an edge; we reminisced on other New Year’s Eves and huddled under a blanket. Out with the old, in with the new; I slept but was up early, watching from the balcony as beach pilgrims in jackets and hats walked the line between wet and dry sand. It was a new day and the numbers seemed irrelevant. 

Last night I was among friends. The house was built in 1888, three stories with  hard wood floors, nine foot ceilings, giant pocket doors between rooms, a back stairs for the servants and huge brick chimney in the kitchen. Our hosts kept the side board  supplied with food and drink and being together was enough reason to be there. The kids; teens and 20-somethings, were squeaky clean and anxious for their future to unfold. They had more places to go after midnight, more to do, like sponges, soaking up everything that was soluble. Those with the grizzly experience from decades, we shared ideas and story from the work place and from travels. 

I don’t think it matters much, shifting from one calendar to another. We need more reasons to get together, more often. It’s a good thing, even if I can’t give it a good name. I can reflect on the past like old movie classics and ponder the future like leaves in the wind, but I live in the moment. I’ll continue to write something down, so you know I was there, somewhere. On the road tomorrow. I’ll be back here in a month or maybe two and 2014 won’t be new anymore.