I continue to have computer problems updating my site in a timely manner. This coupled with our tight travel schedule has made for maddening frustration. I’m supposed to be doing this for my own personal enjoyment, hoping that someone else might like to read it. Unfortunately, it’s too often more troublesome busywork than comforting personal therapy. I’m constantly losing content and experiencing screen freezes to the point of giving up. I’m forced to rewrite, restart, and repeat my typing efforts. So, please bear with me.
We’re still trying to get used to driving my son’s Chevrolet beast. It’s different than anything I’ve ever driven, so I doubt that a second career in truck driving is in my future. Old age has also made me more paranoid behind the wheel, so we’re having second thoughts about long drives in heavily populated areas. I can’t imagine the stress of driving a camper, fifth-wheel or RV. We’ve had a couple of narrow escapes with 19 more days to go on this adventure.
We had a great time with my half-sister in Tuscaloosa touring campus, eating BBQ, and at the bar. Roll Tide! The next day we would drive together to Huntsville sharing stories of our very different childhoods. We met my wife at Newt’s and joined my biological half-nephew for lunch. It was then back in the road in search of Uncle Bud’s Catfish & Such, a favorite for my wife in the days of accompanying her oldest daughter to horse riding competitions. Unfortunately, it was closed but we found their new location near the Grand Ole Opry in time for dinner before the show. We had already checked-in to the plush downtown Nashville JW Marriott.
The performances were of course spectacular, but even more impressive was the live radio broadcast heard round the world. This was special to me because of all my years in the business and understanding what all goes on behind the curtain when the “On Air” light goes on. The standout artist of the evening was Edwin McCain, who made his historical debut in the distinctive circle on the famed stage. We also saw John Berry, Smithfield, Mike Snider, Dan Tyminski, John Conlee, Killer Beaz and Charlie McCoy do their hits and/or comedy. It was a great way to end an eventful Day 3 of our Summer Tour.
We left Panama City with stomachs filled with Egg McMuffins and drove to Selma, Alabama where we walked the Edmund Pettis Bridge in 90 degree temperatures. “Built in 1940, it is named after Edmund Pettus, a former Confederate brigadier general, U.S. senator, and state-level leader (“Grand Dragon”) of the Alabama Ku Klux Klan.” What a guy! Thankfully, there are plans to change the name of this historical landmark.
According to sources, “six hundred marchers assembled in Selma on “Bloody Sunday” March 7, 1965. They were led by John Lewis and other SNCC and SCLC activists and crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge over the Alabama River en route to Montgomery. Just short of the bridge, they found their way blocked by Alabama State troopers and local police who ordered them to turn around. When the protesters refused, the officers shot teargas and waded into the crowd, beating the nonviolent protesters with billy clubs and ultimately hospitalizing over fifty people.”
The protest was over voting rights and social injustice. It led to the passage of the federal Voting Rights Act reinforcing the Fifteenth Amendment and assuring that the right of citizens of the United States to vote is not denied or abridged on account of race or color. The state of Alabama had interpreted the law in a racist manner.
We had time for the Selma detour because a glass blowing demonstration on the University of Alabama was cancelled due to Covid. The group headed to A&W (Archibald and Woodward’s) for BBQ instead. My half-sister then took my wife and I on a campus and downtown Tuscaloosa tour, ending with drinks at The Hunt Club. It was great to spend time with my Banister favorite, as we also planned get togethers with other Bio-family members in the upcoming days.
I was a bit tense during the first day of our road trip. Driving someone else’s car or even a rental takes some time to get used to, especially in the Florida coastal traffic. We also had a lot of last minute packing and I had to shorten my run to a mile in our to get a 10a start. Our first leg was initially 7 hours up to Panama City, but we stopped for a long lunch at Peck’s Old Port Cove. The service was slow because a local biker club brought in a 100 riders for lunch. The out-of-the-way restaurant is on a Gulf of Mexico outlet off a snake-like road perfect for motorcycles. They serve blue crabs as a specialty.
The restaurant/bar was recommended by a friend who also suggested today’s destination. A&W (Archibald and Woodrow’s) BBQ in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. My wife was impressed that I ordered a dozen crabs because I hate all the cracking work. It’s messy and frustrating for often little reward, but in retirement why not smell the roses or rather the stinky clawed creatures? I had pieces of shell all over my face and on the protective bib tied around my neck. It was reminiscent of visiting my wife’s daughter at a seafood joint when she was in college twenty some years ago. I left with remnants of the meal in my hair, probably the last time I ate pre-cracked seafood. It probably won’t happen again for another twenty years!
We gained an hour with the time change and arrived by sunset, exhausted from the day-long journey. We shared the time behind the wheel but I never took the time to blog. I’ve been having trouble with my Go Daddy site, so writing has become more of a chore rather than a pleasure. I’ll go to post but will experience screen freezes and lost paragraphs. In the hotel room last night, the internet wasn’t cooperating, unusual for a Mother Marriott property. I may very well have a virus, and will try again tonight in Tuscaloosa. Our stop before we get there, other than pricy gas (although “only” $3.59/gallon here in Alabama) will be historic civil rights hotspot Selma, Alabama.
T-minus one day on our road trip. We’ll be gone for a full three weeks, record setting for both of us in terms of length of stays away from home. The previous was two weeks on Singer Island. Tally will once again be at Schnauzerville, enjoying a vacation from us. In two more months, we’ll be gone a full month, proving that we truly are retired. This year will be the peak of our lifelong travels since the future will be limited to Marriott Vacation Clubs. We do plan to work in another three week long drive in 2023 to the Northeast and 2024 to Yellowstone.
The lanai has been fully cleared in case tropical storms pop up while we’re gone. A few potted plants remain that will be cared for by neighbors. The neighborhood will get busy again in October when we take a break from traveling and the snowbirds return. My son and his family will stay here on and off while we’re gone, as a measure of security. The Neighborhood Watch and security cameras will monitor our property in addition to the security guards in our gated community.
The grandgirls will be over for dinner tonight. We’ll switch cars with my son so we have plenty of room during our adventure but they will be cramped in my convertible. My grandson, the oldest, is vacationing with his mother. It will be our last get together of the summer before school starts. The youngest starts Pre-K while the oldest will be a Sophomore in high school. The years go by quickly. When we get back from our drive, I will resume my grandfather duties.
Not a cloud in the sky this Sunday morning, as we clear the lanai of potential projectiles during a hurricane. It’s all part of our preparations for seven weeks of travel over the next four months as storm season looms. Our windows are all hurricane proof but the lanai screens are vulnerable. I’m just hoping that nothing happens while we’re gone.
Today is my son’s 48th birthday, so I’m feeling ancient. To put things in perspective, his youngest is four so at my age she will be 26 and his oldest 37. Glad I got started early as a father. We’ll celebrate tonight with dinner after he gets done working. I’ll probably spend the day by the pool rather than cooped up inside as I am now. There’s baseball to watch and reading to do while I work on my tan.
We didn’t get to the movie theatre yesterday and won’t today, so “Matinee Monday” will be the next opportunity to see Where The Crawdads Sing. Yesterday’s activities included watching additional episodes of Blackbird and Alone before joining my wife for more of Virgin River in the evening. it will be good to take a three-week hiatus from watching too much TV. Hopefully, some better habits will form in the time we’re on the road. The typical dog, run, swim, write, TV, lunch, dog, TV, dinner, TV, dog, sleep pattern will be thankfully disrupted with a lot of driving and new sights to see. Road Trip.
I added the 1956 Chicago White Sox Topps team card to my collection this week. I have an autographed baseball from that year and the same team photo clipped from a 1955 magazine. Sherm Lollar is in the back row next to Nellie Fox. The White Sox of 67-years later continue to underachieve with another lackluster home loss last night following the All Star break. Tim Anderson and Liam Hendriks were the Sox 2022 representatives as the American League won for the ninth straight time. The Pale Hose had finally gotten to the .500 mark on the season and within three games of first place Twins in the division before losing 8-2 to the second place Guardians. Now, the gap is 3.5 games going into today’s double header at Guaranteed Rate Stadium.
I have given up on the White Sox many times already this year. It’s frustrating to watch them fall behind early in games, leave so many potential runs on base, and make sloppy errors in an effort to catch up. Yosmani Grandal came back from the injured list to go a pitiful 0-3 in clutch situations. Luis Robert took his place on the DL with dizzy spells. Injuries and a lack of hustle have sadly become their trademark this season.
I was only 5-years old when the 1956 Sox took the field. Sherm Lollar hit .293 and had 11 home runs and 75 RBIs. It wasn’t until 1959 and the televised World Series games that he became my favorite player. Minnie Minoso led the 1956 team with a .316 batting average. Larry Doby was the home run leader with 24 on this team that finished 3rd in the American League with a record of 85-69. As far as the All Star game, Yogi Berra (2-2) of the Yankees won the starting position as catcher with Sherm (1-2) as his back-up. The NL won 7-3. I might have been a Mickey Mantle fan back then, but soon fell for #10 Sherman Lollar and have been following him ever since.
The Fantasticks were not fantastic. It’s the second straight local theatre performance that we’ve left at intermission. It also seems as if my computer is working against me, considering the loss of my entire post this morning, a couple of power shut-downs, and content freezing. I may have a virus – maybe my machine caught Pink Eye? I’m growing more and more impatient with trying to keep this site updated with fresh content. I just renewed the johnstonwrites.com site for two more years but I’m running out of things to write about. Poetry ideas have been few and far between. Maybe this 3,000 mile drive will be inspirational or at least get me out of a rut.
We leave in four more days with the first stop being Schnauzerville to drop off Tally before spending the night in Panama City. Tally will be away from us for her longest stint ever, but she will be with her puppy friends. I’m sure she’ll miss the dog park and hanging out with us by the dinner table. She probably will not get the quantity or variety of treats that we feed her. Definitely, Tally will miss sitting in my chair most of all. I’ll probably miss sitting there myself.
I did find a couple more Ban(n)ister DNA cousins this past week. They’ve been ceremoniously added to the Jerry Banister Family Tree in Ancestry. Two of the stops on this upcoming trip will be with DNA relatives – one on my birth mother’s side and the other on my bio-dad’s. I’m still trying to find clues as to my existence. I pulled out The Adopted Family book during the course of a sleepless night. It’s allegedly the book that the adoption agency gave to my parents to help them deal with the adjustment of having me in their home. It suggests that I was “special” because I was carefully selected rather than born into their family. It conveniently ignores the fact that there is no natural connection. I’m still trying to sort out the biology of family.
“Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full! One for the master, one for the dame, And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”
This silly nursery rhyme was written in about 1744 and the author unknown. It came to me last night as I was loading the third bag of mulch in my trunk under the cover of darkness. It’s not the first time that I’ve “stolen” in this neighborhood. However, my wife and I felt justified that it was mulch that we were paying for anyway, so we are essentially taking what is ours. The home we live in came with a thin layer around the landscaping but not adequate enough to prevent weeds from growing. It would be another year before they planned to add more and we could not find a color match at local hardware stores. The only option is to steal!
All the homes in our edition have the same gold mulch, part of the uniformity maintained by the HOA. We’re allowed a maximum of six personal yard decorations while lighting, pavers, trees, and fountains require approval for any deviations from the neighborhood standard. Many residents view the association as Nazi-like and have adopted the philosophy that “forgiveness is better than permission” when it comes to adding any distinctive touches to “your” property. There is, of course, the natural fear that you could be made an example of in the process of modifying your home without approval.
No one really knows what the penalty for “stealing” mulch might be, so it’s done by all of us under the cover of darkness. I tend to think of it as redirecting distribution to my own lot rather than theft. We pay for it yet don’t seem to get enough coverage in our own beds and are forced to take matters into our own hands. There is that rush of adrenaline as I sneak bags of mulch in my trunk, trying to avoid anyone seeing me. It’s also satisfying to see the improvement around my own trees and bushes.
“Baa Baa Black Sheep” is apparently about the medieval wool tax, imposed in the 13th Century by King Edward I. Under the new rules, a third of the cost of a sack of wool went to him, another went to the church and the last to the farmer. Our similar battle with the bags of mulch is with the HOA governing body, and we feel we are entitled to take a bag here and there to maintain the proper upkeep of our lots. “Three Bags Full!”
Most of my daily retirement life is spent in front of the TV or immersed in the pages of a book. Yesterday, it was the conclusion of the series, Dark Winds, and the final chapters of the novel The Vanishing Half. However, today I will get off my butt and perhaps go to a movie or at least to a musical, The Fantasticks, at our local theater. In the back of my mind are the extensive preparations for our three week drive and thoughts of all the friends and family that we plan to meet along the way.
I’m kind of regretting that we’re not making a stop in my hometown. My sister is probably offended but we’re meeting a couple that we haven’t seen in years because of health problems. That detour will take us out of Indiana and into Illinois, putting us further away from my family. There was a time when stopping there was the whole purpose of the trip as several classes were planning 50th anniversary graduation ceremonies and many of my friends were headed home. As it turns out, our timing isn’t right for those events that are happening this week instead.
My sister and I are so different in our thinking that I’m afraid that an argument will break out at any time over religion or politics. I limit my contact with her to a phone call each week and try to avoid those topics. She’s also unvaccinated, an issue with my wife, that also prevented me from getting us together with cousins. We did not make the trip up to see her new place here in Florida, just a few hours away, so going out of our way to get back to my hometown was not a priority. However, I would like to see her kids, so I’m conflicted.
I did not get around to writing yesterday due to 10 hours of watching my granddaughter. I already wasn’t feeling well with an eyestrain-induced headache following a week of dealing with pink eye. We tried to take her to the resort pool but lightening cut that short. We did splash around in our pool for about an hour, fed her lunch, and baked cookies. She was then tired enough to watch TV for the rest of the afternoon. My son and his eldest daughter then arrived for burgers on the grill. We try to get together every Tuesday night but it usually puts me in a mood to worry about them.
Things are not easy. My son spent his day off work shuttling kids to summer volunteer work, the doctor, dermatologist, and dentist, driving hundreds of miles. His wife continues to focus on her education, and has been living with her folks for months, keeping two of the kids five days a week. It’s a mess but he’s still living in their house, hoping to be able to refinance it and consolidate bills to reduce his payments. He needs me to co-sign on the loan but I won’t, concerned that the inevitable divorce and health problems may leave us with payments we can’t afford. He could potentially bankrupt both of us, while I feel guilty about not having the money to bail him out.
I want to selfishly focus on my own happiness and security. I don’t want to spend all my retirement energy worrying about them. We’re leaving them behind for a three-week drive, but I can’t get excited about the trip while they continue to struggle. It’s the dilemma of being a parent – a love that should have no selfish constraints. I often worry about his happiness more than mine, but I’m also not willing to put my wife and I in a financial bind. This sounds like something I should be writing to Dear Abby.
