The Runaway

I was telling a story on myself the other day, when one of the people in attendance, a lady, said,  "If that had happened to me, I would have never told anyone".  Her reaction struck me funny and gave me an insight at the same time.  I, of course, know that I will tell a story on myself at a moment's notice.  It's just something about my character. And I also always thought that most people probably do the same.  However, on closer reflection, I am starting to see that most people don't tell stories on themselves. In fact, to date, I have noticed that some people will tell a story on themselves to a close friend, but not in a gathering of people.  Even if most of the gathering are at least acquaintances of theirs.  It became apparent to me that the people who would tell the story on themselves were the more out-going group, the group that seemed to have a great deal of self-confidence.

Forgive me if I stray.... First I should give my definition of "telling a story on yourself". It is when you have done something incredibly stupid that leads to injury, property damage or arrest, and can, at a later date, be classified in my "It didn't seem funny at the time" file. Get my drift?  Well, maybe it would be easier to tell about my latest bone-head move that fits into the definition.

Two of my sons, Jeff, twenty-five, and, Sean, twenty-three (some of you may remember Sean from an earlier story, "Yes! There is Justice" ), were attempting to whip the Lake House into shape before the Memorial Day weekend.  We had a lot to do and wanted to get the lion's share of it done in one day and be able to coast through the rest of the work later in the week at a more leisurely pace.  My sixty-five year old ass was moving fast, too fast,  while it seemed like I needed to line Sean and Jeff up to a fence post to see if they were moving.  That is to say,  I don't think their hearts were into this labor of love, I call the Lake House. (You'll notice that I capitalize the name).       

Sometimes when you move fast you make mistakes.  I was moving the lawn mower out of the garage and down to the lower lawn between the house and the dock.  I usually use the neighbor's hill side to accomplish this as the steps on our property are kind of hard to negotiate with the machine in tow.  I started to go down the hill on the neighbor's property, where the terrain is steep but not as steep as my own.  It was then that I noticed  his lawn hadn't been cut either and the grass was quite high.  So I decided that if I let the lawn mover coast down the incline, it would be stopped by the tall grass, at which point I would walk down and push it the rest of the way to my property.

I let it go, and that lawn mower took off like donkey with a can tied to its tail, headed straight for the lake.  You need to understand that this property has a wall that the lake comes up to.  There is no beach.  We're talking three or four feet of water the minute you step off the wall.  Well, the lawn mower is racing toward the lake.  My son Sean, God bless 'em, (I've learned that in the south you can say anything about anyone....as long as you preface it with "God bless him", or "Bless his heart") is in hot pursuit.  The lawn mower streaks past him and straight into the lake and promptly sinks.  Sean arrives at the lake's edge and stops.  I yell at him, "Get it!"  The light blub goes on and into the lake he goes, soon to emerge with the lawn mower.  I grabbed the handle and he lifted the machine out to the wall.  I haven't even had time to start get ting mad at myself, when the boaters across the estuary start cheering and hollering. They didn't have score cards, but if they'd had 'em, I'm sure I would have received perfect tens. Of course, if they knew I was a damn Yankee transplant, it might have been fours.

The hero and the goat.  Guess which is the hero.

I called for the portable Hurricane (the leaf blower) and Jeff scurries over with it. I started blowing the lawn mower with the leaf blower.  Checked the oil and gas, they looked surprisingly all right.  I took out the filters, because they were soaked.  Pulled the starter rope and it fired up.  It sputtered and then stopped.  I pulled it again and it started again.  This time continuing to run but sputtering.  We tied the handle down and let it run for a good long time just heating and drying itself.  To date it is running just fine.  Who'd a thunk it?  

From now on, I think I'm going to give special attention to those story tellers who are talking about their own mishaps. But when it comes to telling stories on myself, I can corner the market.  In fact, I have way too many to share.

  

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Breakfast

I'm on my way to Miami, well actually to Ft. Lauderdale.  It should only take a couple of days but it is a delight to be just a little warmer for those couple of days... though I'm not complaining, the winter this year in eastern Tennessee has been very mild indeed. I have come to love the region they call The Low Country.  About the time I get to Southern South Carolina, even the names excite me: the Coossawatchee River, Cat Head Creek.  These are tidal creeks and rivers that are fringed with saw grass. They're beautiful to look at and have a calming effect on me.  They also have an odor all their own.  A mix of coastal and decaying matter.  While some may find the smell offensive, I truly enjoy it.  So that proves it, I'm green!

Along the way, I have often noticed signs for a little town by the name of Walterboro, South Carolina.  They refer to themselves as: "The Front Porch of the Low Country".  Along with that, there is a monument there that touts the Tuskegee Airmen.  I have a friend back at Sacramento P.D., John Banks, whose father was a member of this Black combat flying group in World War II.  In addition, I may have mentioned that I am an "Army Brat" and enjoy military history.

So with these two prompts, I decided to take a look at Walterboro. This little town has a rather nice airport facility and in due course you can figure out why.  It was an Army Air Corps training base and also a prisoner of war camp during the Second World War.  Apparently not all the Tuskegee Airmen were trained at the same facility.  This was news to me.  I had always just assumed that they were a rather small group and were all trained at the same facility.  An interesting fact, the monument honoring these airmen wasn't erected until 1997.  Old habits die hard in the South.

So in driving and walking around in the old portion of downtown Walterboro, I found a number of nice shops. The downtown area is actually quite large taking in several square blocks which lend the visitor to realize that at one time this little town flourished with commerce and activity.  Now they are full of things that tourists like... antiques and food emporiums.

One of the great things that this little town has done is expand on a wild life area that they call the Great Swamp Sanctuary.  They have over 800 acres of swamp land that they have made accessible to the public.  You sometimes walk on what seems like miles of wooden walks and sometimes on trails to view the animal and water born life styles of the different creatures.  And if you like to watch birds, then this has to be a stop for you.
They also have a museum that is dedicated to slave history. In fact, it is named The Slave Museum.  The first time I had ever heard of this.  They have crafts and furniture as well as maps and other things that were made and used by slaves in the Antebellum South.   

So now the trip meter said I was a little over half way to my Ft. Lauderdale destination so I decided to pull off and call it a day. The off ramp I took was in Jacksonville, Florida, and it was the ramp that takes you to their airport.  There are often an assortment of good hotels to choose from near airports.  Often times I look for B&B's, however tonight  I wasn't looking for local adventure but just a place to sleep and quick.

The hotel I picked looked quite nice from the outside, however once inside, I realized that it was the new mixed with the old.  They had built two very nice towers and connected them with a giant atrium .  They had also remodeled the old motor inn rooms (you guessed it, they put me in the old section), however they did a nice job and the room was fine.  After checking in, I made my way to the bar where I visited and had a couple glasses of wine and dinner while watching a football game.  As I made my way to the bar in the middle of the atrium, I made note to myself that this place is hard to get to.  There were steps and fenced walk ways that lead to private little sitting areas everywhere.  They needed a little signs that read "escapee route" or "easy drunk access this way".  

The Next Morning

As I was crossing the maze that makes up this hotel's lobby, in search of breakfast,  I heard a very loud noise.  I looked up and noticed the source of the noise was an elderly gentlemen.  He was tapping a coin very hard on the surface of the bar which is located in the middle of this enormous atrium room. He was demanding, in a very loud voice, that some one should get up there and open this bar.

The physical layout of this atrium room reminds one of an experiment done with rats.  It is, for lack of a better term, "a maze", complete with steps and twists and turns.  It is in fact an old motor inn that has been purchased by a large hotel complex.  As I mentioned before, they have erected two new towers, remodeled the old portion and tied the entire project together with this giant atrium type building.   Then they put in a waterfall which has the pump from hell.  You can hardly think over the noise of it let alone have a conversation.  The bartender told me that it used to be a quiet little trickle, and then they fixed it.  

At any rate, because no one of authority can seem to quiet this man, or get to him in a timely manner, the girl working at the reception desk, calls, no yells to him that the bar doesn't open this early.  He responds that some people who are on vacation would like a drink in the morning. Further, there was some dialogue about having to travel with his family and it not being an easy task.  He, apparently being the only one in the car not a Baptist.    It was at this point that my heart swelled in my chest.  I felt that if I could have gotten to him, I would have given him a big hug.  However on further reflection, that might not have been a good idea because the rest of the mice left running in the maze looking for breakfast might have thought that the old man was gay as well as being a drunk.

And we all know how liberal Baptists are when it comes to homosexuality.  I actually picked up a pamphlet in a doctors office awhile back that tried to convince the reader that this lifestyle is a chosen one and that there is a cure!  Think about it, there are two possibilities going on here.  One, the doctor doesn't know what is being laid down in his waiting room to be read by his patients.  Or two, and probably more likely, you have a highly educated man who has seen just one too many Bibles being thumped in this life. You have to love the South.  One of life's little reflections.

Here's another reflection. You know those new coffee makers that you put the little canister in and it makes an individual cup of coffee for you?  Well, I don't really care for them that much and, because I haven't purchased one, I don't have to defend owning one.  They might be fine for a single person who doesn't live in a houseful of coffee drinkers.  But I always have the nagging thought in the back of my head:  "Why didn't you just get up and make a pot of coffee?  Well, this morning, before I went out and saw the old gentleman announcing that this would be a great place to open a bar,  I noticed that I had one of those coffee makers in my newly remodeled room in the older part of the hotel.  And I thought: Finally a good use for those individual coffee maker things.  You can finally get a decent cup of coffee in a motel room.  Maybe there is hope.    

Well, I'm off to see if the bar is open yet.  Not that I can drink, I'm working.  But if that old fellow has got them to open it, then I just think he needs to meet me.  I think we have things in common.