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