Author: mikeljohnston1 (Page 56 of 269)
The week is flying by now that we’ve back in a routine. We did go see the movie, Bullet Train, yesterday afternoon and had the kids over for dinner last night. This morning is my first chiropractor session in nearly a month. I’m surprised that after 4,000 miles of driving and 13 different beds that I haven’t experienced any recent problems with my back. I was a bit sluggish this morning on my run but my new shoes got me through.
I was able to file for my Florida homestead exemption yesterday, a surprisingly simple on-line procedure. I had visions of having to go to the office in Sarasota, and that may happen yet. Nonetheless, I got through the first step and will wait for further instructions. My big project for today is to figure out why the low pressure indicator is flashing in my car. The only tire I haven’t checked is the spare and I will do that on the way to the chiropractor. I continue to make small repairs on my car, but we’ve decided that at some point we’re going to try to operate with just one vehicle. At some point, we’ll sell the Solara. My wife hopes there will be a golf cart in our future.
Ham salad sandwiches for lunch. My wife is off to tap, while I’ve had enough of the heat. It saps my strength, especially after another run without shade. We’re exactly 3 weeks from our next big adventure. We’ll be on a plane to Portland followed by Alaska and Hawaii. I was able to get our vaccination records in the VeriFLY app required for the Viking Cruise. Within 72 hours of departure, I also need to register us in the ArriveCAN app to expedite the Canadian border crossing into Vancouver where we’ll board the ship. Part of that process involves two separate Covid tests that will ultimately allow passage. All aboard!
I spent yesterday afternoon swimming with my granddaughter. We never did get to a movie, so maybe that will happen today? I did put down 3 more bags of “stolen” mulch this morning after my run. Then, it was back in the water. Tomorrow, I go back to the chiropractor, but surprisingly didn’t have any issues during the long drive. I’ll continue to practice prevention. I’m still feeling the effects of a chest cold that has me coughing first thing in the morning and late at night. Recent Covid tests have been negative but it’s definitely some kind of respiratory infection.
Covid could ruin this upcoming trip to Alaska. Any positive test during the border check in Canada or before boarding could send us home. They are not doing as much testing once we get aboard, so there is not the threat of being quarantined below deck as had been the case with other travelers. We’re definitely nervous about this threat to our travel plans and other health issues like Monkey Pox. What me worry? (See Post #514)
I refer to the memorable Alfred Enigma Neuman phrase in Mad Magazine, a staple of my teen years. “Neuman’s famous motto is the intellectually incurious “What, me worry?” This was changed for one issue to ‘Yes, me worry!’ after the Three Mile Island accident in 1979. On the cover of current printings of the paperback The Ides of Mad, as rendered by long-time cover artist Norman Mingo, Neuman is portrayed as a Roman bust with his catch phrase engraved on the base, translated into Dog Latin – Quid, Me Anxius Sum?”
Yes, I’m a worrier, so I could always relate to this character who appears like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I’m certainly not an optimist when it comes to my future. My philosophy is to think about all the things that could go wrong, so they don’t! I call it the power of negative thinking, but my wife finds it annoying. An engineer at work always said, “What could go wrong?” I always found this to be a humorous approach, and saw him as prepared for any problems should they come along. Fortunately, for me, most of the things that I worry about never happen. What, me worry?
It’s another Meatless, Matinee, Monday if it’s not interrupted with babysitting duties. I did get my full run in this morning, spread a few bags of stolen mulch, and finished my swim. It’s also the day I call my sister and the start of House of the Dragon, the Game Of Thrones Prequel. Last night, we watched The Princess, an HBO documentary on Princess Di. I’m all caught up on episodes regarding Colosseum and Alone as of this morning. Yes, daily life has returned to its normal, boring, tempo.
I have one project today – to borrow my son’s shop vac to suck the water and any residue out of the output line of my air conditioning compressor. Neighbors let me know what to do when it comes to maintenance on my house. All the homes in this neighborhood are similar in age, so we compare notes on what needs attention. So far, since my initial warranty has expired, I’ve had to add a UV light to my A/C system and replace an overflow valve. The key is preventing these problems from happening, so I try to keep up on the issues that other nearby home owners are experiencing.
Tomorrow night, the kids will come over for dinner for the first time in several weeks. They are now back in school and rotating from staying with either mom or dad. We try to do our part in helping them maintain a healthy family life, despite the inevitable divorce. My son is experiencing some depression and not getting enough hours in at work. We’re counting down the days until we leave for Alaska, hoping to spend some time with friends and family in Portland. Our first countdown is to my birthday and the Santana/Earth, Wind, & Fire concert in five days!
As an adopted child, I often wonder what life would be like being raised by a different father? In my case, it would have been two extremes. My adopted father was a successful financial executive with an 8 to 5 desk job, who frequently traveled to Switzerland, Italy, and France, as I recall. He worked for Miles Laboratories, manufacturers of Alka-Seltzer and One-A-Day vitamins, among other popular products, at their Elkhart, Indiana headquarters. My mother, also a Indiana University graduate, where they met, stayed home to care for me and my 3-years younger adopted sister.
By contrast, my bio-dad, who was described as “gregarious,” held a factory job since graduating from high school and worked nights, the shift he preferred. He would proudly punch Clock #1 at Cummins Engine in Columbus, Indiana, an honor he was given upon returning from Korea. His wife was kept busy at home raising six children in tiny Scipio, Indiana.
If there truly is a multiverse, as posed in science fiction stories, I can sometimes envision myself living life under these two different circumstances. Maybe more, if you consider that bio-dad probably never knew that I existed and obviously didn’t marry bio-mom. She was the youngest of a large farm family that secreted her to an adoption home to give birth to me. The other possibility in this multiverse is being raised by a single mother in times when this was rare and unacceptable. Fortunately, for me, they chose the adoption route.
I did grow up a Hoosier, living in northern Indiana as opposed to southern. I ended up in a city of about 40,000, at a school with over 1,000 in my high school graduating class, and in neighborhoods with sidewalks. I joke about this because my wife and I looked at a home once near Lebanon, Indiana. My concern was that there were “no sidewalks”- apparently a bit too “country” for my tastes. None of this would have been the case with the rural lifestyle in my multiverse options.
I could have been the oldest of seven children in bio-dad’s household, if his wife to be had been understanding of my circumstances. She was certainly shocked when I showed up in her life as a result of a DNA test, matching one of her daughters. Fortunately, I was conceived over a year before they married in October of 1951, so he was not disloyal to her. I also could have been the oldest of five children conceived by my bio-mom, Edna Faye Banister, through two different men, either of which could have been a step-dad to me. Or, my very presence in Edna’s young life might have discouraged any further relationships on her part, as I fantasize about the multiverse of possibilities.
Regardless, I had the opportunity to spend some time alone with my half-sister when my wife and I visited Tuscaloosa on our recent road trip. She gave me some background on what it was like to be raised by the man that contributed to half of my DNA. I also met her son who found my facial expressions to mimic those of his grandfather, a.k.a. Cecil Ralph Banister.
Working a night shift, Cecil was rarely home, unless asleep, and spent most of his time outdoors and shirtless with a dark tan. He was an exceptional athlete who stood out at 6’2″ tall in high school basketball and excelled at shuffleboard and golf in his later years. He played industrial league sports with Cummins and was extremely competitive. As an example, he taught his grandson to play chess and then proceeded to beat him 285 consecutive times, counting each one, before the poor kid finally beat him.
Grandpa would take him on long nature walks while teaching him to speak Pig Latin. His only son, besides me, died in a motorcycle accident at age 16. Words like “country,” “outdoors,” and “nature” don’t seem to be in my vocabulary. I do enjoy sports but was never much more than an average participant, while my adopted father was short and left-handed, so fundamentals were not easy for him to teach me. At least, I was fast!
Cecil was a professional shuffleboard player, he would win prizes, including liquor bottles that he rarely touched. He once sat all the kids down at the table and had them sample the booze, hoping to discourage them from drinking because of the unpleasant taste. I don’t think it worked!
My adopted father had a bad temper but he was mild-mannered. He never hit me. Cecil, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to slap the girls and used switches on all the kids. He was not violent with his wife, sticking to hands-on discipline around the house. I only got in one fight in my life and was certainly never encouraged to use my fists. Wrestling practice was as close to combat as I ever got.
Cecil could be a controversial figure. He painted a swastika on his shuffleboard stick and golf balls to identify them as his. It caused a stir in various competitions where he participated. Why not just his initials CRB?
Guns and hunting have never been a part of my life. I could have never fended for myself or protected my family. Cecil was a hunter and owned a gun. He sadly shot himself with it through the eye at age 79. The pain was apparently more than he could stand after surviving the war, by-pass surgery, and the health issues associated with lymphoma.
My adopted father, Burt, bought a sailboat, the closest he ever came to commuting with nature, with the exception of his well-kept lawn and petunias. After the war, he promised himself never to spend another night in a tent. The one time we went camping together, he stayed by the fire all night. Cecil thrived on being outside and hand-built an octagonal cabin on his Creekside, Scipio property with mirrors so he had a 360-degree view of the land and creatures around him. Burt, on the other hand, never owned a tool box. We just used my mom’s!
One of Cecil’s daughters gave me a spoon engraved with USMC on the handle. It was obviously something he took from the Marine’s Mess Hall and is now the only possession of his that I now own. I also have a few pictures, newspaper clippings, and an obituary. I have lots of pictures of the only man I ever called “dad” and all of his “years of service” pins from Miles. The only thing the two of them had in common was a “love” for IU basketball and Bobby Knight, something that I also shared.
For the last month, I’ve focused entirely on travel, but now it’s back to the mundane basics of our daily routine. Sleep. Dog. Run. Swim. Write. Shower. TV. Lunch. Dog. TV. Dinner. Dog. TV. Dog. My wife adds a little more variety to her life with Aqua-Fit, Tap, Bridge, and girlfriend lunches. She also spends an hour every morning with Tally at the Dog Park, socializing with the neighbors. She just received a dinner invitation for tonight – pizza with the next door neighbors, so I’ll have to break from my hermit-like solitude.
Last night, was our first meal at home after weeks of dining out. Peck’s Blue crabs in Crystal River; McDonalds; Arby’s; Cracker Barrel; A&W BBQ in Tuscaloosa; Newt’s in Huntsville; Uncle Bud’s Catfish in Nashville; Hall of Fame cafeterias; Tenderloins at Eddy’s, The Mousetrap, Murphy’s, and Lord Ashley’s in Indy; Wolfie’s by boat; Racz BBQ in Carmel; Lock, Stock, & Barrel in Decatur; Mighty Fine Pizza in Petoskey; Grand Hotel dining; Il Venetian in Cleveland; Greg’s Volcano Pizza in Johnson City, Tennessee; Cedric’s Tavern at the Biltmore; All Y’All’s, Poseidon, Frankie Bones, Wise Guys/Skull Creek, and Nectar on Hilton Head Island; Columbia in St. Augustine; and Ovation BBQ off the interstate in Lakeland. I would also be remiss in not mentioning the several visits to Kilwin’s for ice cream, including their original location in Petoskey, two macaroon snacks along the way, and the buttermilk pie at Nectar.
I was able to keep up with the Better Call Saul series on the road, wrapping that up our last night in St. Augustine. Yesterday afternoon, I also finished up Blackbird, and we watched three episodes of Only Murders in the Building last night. I’m currently catching up on the History Channel series, Colosseum and following the Hagerstown, Indiana team in the Little League World Series. I did reluctantly get in my car yesterday to put some air in the tires and bring home the mail. Sorting it all took most of the afternoon, while doing a load of vacation laundry, and putting away our luggage. Whew!
It took 23-days of driving over 4,000 miles, but we’re finally home. 10 different Marriott properties, thirteen different beds, beaches on the Gulf and Atlantic, The Great Lakes, and four Cracker Barrels took us full circle. I’ve summed it all up in a poem:
Four thousand miles,
Twenty-three days.
What could’ve gone wrong?
Let me count the ways!
Mother Marriott sheltered us,
Most of the way.
But there were three nights,
Where we had to pay.
Panama City first stop,
Selma Bridge walk.
Tuscaloosa BBQ,
“Roll Tide” talk.
Bannisters for dinner,
In Huntsville for Lunch.
You didn’t complain adding,
A Cracker Barrel brunch.
It was one of four,
At your favorite travel stop.
You liked the dancing broom,
In the Georgia gift shop.
The Creeper struck,
And made you itch.
Highway construction,
Was our only bitch.
Adam’s Traverse,
Kept us going.
But your rash,
Kept on growing.
Clothes to consign, Vegetable Art. Food and Drink, Cross-Country to cart.
The Hall of Fame tour,
Started in Nashville.
Grand Ole’ Opry,
A special thrill.
“Safe” travels,
Took a little twist.
We left for Bowling Green,
Your jewels suddenly missed.
Peter to the rescue,
His daughter’s home nearby.
We had stopped by,
Just to say “hi.”
Indy time with Debsie,
Another Banister lunch.
The highlight at The Mousetrap,
Reuniting our media bunch.
Morse Reservoir boating,
Eddy’s tenderloin.
Detour to Decatur,
More friends to join.
Night in Muskegon,
But Covid hits Ludington.
Drive-by wave,
After another short run.
Pizza in Petoskey,
Mackinac Bridge.
Crossing by ferry,
Where’s my fridge?
Grand Hotel porch,
True elegance.
Five-course dinner,
Despite no pants.
Ester Williams pool,
Sweeping Lake views.
Cupola for drinks,
A “deal” we couldn’t refuse.
More Fame in Cleveland,
Canton not as much Glory
Biltmore for more magnets,
And your fav -The Conservatory.
Hilton Head for some rest,
But the Concierge was rude.
He tried to spoil,
Our vacation mood.
The SERG card worth the fight,
All Y’Alls would have gotten old.
Packing and unpacking,
Finally put on hold.
Sun tans restored,
Test comes up clean.
An extra night,
In St. Augustine.
Road Trip Limoges, One of Each. Rock n’ Roll Drums, Plus, a bag for the beach.
Thirteen different beds,
Now we’re finally home.
Just a few more weeks,
Until again we roam.
Copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com
I am feeling really puny this morning with congestion and probably a fever. I barely made it out the door to get in a mile after coughing so much last night, thinking that maybe it was starting to break up. It’s another beautiful day here at Hilton Head, so my plan is to simply stay away from others but get some sunshine. If it’s not Covid, it’s certainly a bad cold that no one deserves to have. Breathing is difficult and my head aches. I can’t remember the last sick day that kept me home. It’s now approaching six years since I retired and nearly fourteen years of running every day, so I’ve been fortunate to stay healthy.
It does not seem right to be feeling poorly when lounging on the beach, and I’m trying hard to not feel sorry for myself. We have no plans today in winding down this extensive road trip and will be home in a few days. We’ve been on the go for 20 some days now and it’s obviously taken a lot out of me. My computer is also acting as sluggishly as I am, as it too has a stubborn virus. It had been working fine here in Hilton Head after road woes of its own. Earlier in the trip, my work was not being saved properly, so I had to constantly restart and rewrite to share my thoughts.
We had dinner last night at Nectar because we couldn’t find Holy Tequila. They are both part of an extensive restaurant group on the island called SERG. All of them are included in our resort credit, so it’s a difficult choice where to go each night. Two of them we ate at seven years ago. All Yall’s Bar and Grill is our only nearby lunch spot, unless you want to feast on Dippin’ Dots or Haagen Dazs – I Wouldn’t Mind!
