Go, Crackers!

We're Number One! We're Number One...

After the recent hype about how really noble and regal Florida crackers were, elevating a maligned, economically deprived segment of Florida's past inhabitants to a new level of admiration and respectability, I propose a change for the University of Florida mascot, currently a poor, disparaged alligator. Let's face it, "Gator" just doesn't cut it in today's market. 

Alligators are protected by law and somehow it doesn't seem fair in the area of "knock 'em silly" football for a team to be viewed as the sissies of the Southeast Conference by hiding behind legal shield of a protected animal. Besides, sometime, somewhere, someone is sure to file a lawsuit because they believe the name "Gator" defames alligators. After watching several recent football games, they may be have a point. Something needs to be done to bolster the UF football program in the post-Tim Tebow football era at University of Florida. I believe a name change just may do the trick. National greatness may once again lie ahead if they just change the name. What could possibly be more appropriate than Crackers!  Go, Crackers! Wow! I'm already excited!

Rival Florida State University has manipulated the "Tomahawk Chop," while murderous in its symbolic form, into an addictive power to synchronize not only a stadium full of 90,000 fans who will buy anything painted garnet and gold, but actually induce normally sedate adults sitting thousands of miles away into babbling idiots through the medium of television. Even certain ESPN commentators televising the game fall victim to its hypnotic power. Ever hear of garnet? FSU can sell anything painted that color as fast as it comes off the boat. Florida State University was way ahead of the politically astute curve by asking the Seminole Tribe of Florida to endorse their Seminole mascot and his pre-game spear tossing. I'm sure the benefits of that agreement are not for public consumption.

While seductive as the native American theme might be, the fact is they lost. That fact is also lost on the fans and the media. The newcomers won. The Seminoles, and the Calusas and Miccosukees all lost. Well, technically the Seminoles didn't lose the war as they famously never signed any formal cessation of war treaty. On the other hand, who owns Miami Beach? Remember, the University of Florida plays in the "swamp," better known as the Ben Hill Griffin Stadium, not Chief Osceola's Stadium.  Like it or not, the crackers won. Well, until the casinos came in, at least. 

The nickname University of Florida Crackers has a distinctive, erudite, superior connotation to it. Seriously and carefully developed and nurtured by a movement to elevate Florida's distinctive group of settlers who in reality, didn't have a pot to pee in, to a revered level normally reserved for "Daughters of the Mayflower." Real Florida Crackers couldn't afford bullwhips, much less use one. But, hey, to the victor go the spoils. The winners get to rewrite history and Erskine Caldwell book sales fall away as Tobacco Road gets paved over with modern history's rewrites. It's exactly what UF football needs...

 Go Crackers! We're Number One, We're Number One...

Vacation?

I could always sleep anywhere at any time, regardless of location or background noise. Ilse simply couldn't understand how I did it, but after three days of six, high-powered industrial fans and two industrial strength dehumidifiers running 24 hours a day in our house, she's beginning to catch on. She actually sat in a living room chair today watching her favorite show on Netflix on her Kindle Fire, oblivious to the incessant noise. She had on earphones, of course, but they didn't muffle the background noise, they only made it possible to overpower the roar of the fans. The noise level where she was sitting, two rooms away from the nearest high-powered fan, was running a solid 48dB, about the same level as sitting next to a vacuum cleaner. A quiet room runs less than 30dB, you know, where you can talk without yelling. The room currently being treated is running a solid 80dB constant noise. She sat through the whole show as if the background noise wasn't there.

One of six fans

The incessant noise simply becomes mind-numbing. It's even hard to hear the plumbers cutting apart our drywall to replace our defective plumbing. They've been at that for two days now and are no longer a nuisance. We barely hear their saws. My wife says it is like living in an aircraft hangar with the jets running. Funny, that's where I worked for six or seven years while I was in the Air Force. Except they weren't airplanes, they were missile nose sections – you know, the pointy end with the temperamental guidance system – being tended to 24 hours a day by constantly running power stations and air conditioning systems. Those constantly running systems were actually loader than what we are living with at the moment while our house dries out. How did we get here, you ask?

Ilse stepped into our second bedroom closet Thursday evening a week ago (the 19th) and wondered why her feet were wet while standing on my painstakingly installed wood laminate flooring. Turns out it is the lowest place on that side of the house and of course, water flows downhill. Then it seeps up through the laminate flooring – last time it was carpet – and waits for someone to step in it. I went up in the attic to make sure it wasn't coming down an inside wall – that was the day we had that 3 inch rain – and found everything everything overhead was dry, so we decided to call Sleuth water detection. We used them once before 5 years ago to find a leak. Sleuth came in first thing Friday morning and found a pin-hole leak under the TV room slab, about two feet into the room under the tile. That pipe supplies cold water to the guest bathroom and the outside bib on the lanai wall, and they guaranteed the leak was between the spot they marked on the floor and the manifold in the drywall in the utility room.

Apparently the leak has been flowing for quite some time, even though they couldn't say exactly where the water was coming up and entering the house. They assumed it was coming up and running along the 2X4 that is the plate for the wall. Water ran along the edge of the utility room behind the garage to the corner where it meets the family room, then turned and ran all the way down to the guest bedroom

X marks the spot, or in this case, the water leak

So the options were: Jack hammer up the slab and break up the tile to access the defective 24 year old copper tubing (replacement tile not available, so all tiles would have to be replaced) or go overhead with the new PEX plumbing and bypass the slab leak.

Here is where we called the insurance company and thankfully got them involved. The rough estimate for the tile work alone was between $5000 to $8000. The insurance company immediately set up an appointment with the water mitigation people at Rytech, and incidentally, they bill them directly for water mitigation services so we are completely out of that loop. Rytech scheduled to be at the house first thing Monday, but we needed to stop the water flow in the mean time.

Sleuth suggested cutting and capping the supply line under the cold water manifold in the utility room with what is known as a Shark Bite cap. It was either that or shut off the house water, so I went up to Home Depot and bought a $6.20 Shark Bite plug and a $10 pipe cutter. No problem, line plugged OK, just no water to back bathroom. We called a recommended plumbing firm who came out Friday afternoon and gave us an estimate of $1700 for the single run from the already once repaired cold water manifold to the guest bathroom. He also gave us an estimate to re-plumb the whole house overhead for $6000, but his solution included running new water pipes OUTSIDE the CBS block walls and just painting them the color of the house. Scratch the recommended firm for the whole house job.

The water detection people from Rytech showed up Monday with 6 huge industrial fans and 2 of the biggest dehumidifiers I've seen on wheels. They measured water moisture in the dry wall and cut out sections along the utility room and the TV room. They stuck meters everywhere to find out the full extent of the water damage. Their main job is to prevent mold from water leaks, and in the process ripped out all the flooring in the guest bedroom and that closet. Rytech is meticulous and requested we immediately bring in a plumber as they found a single drop of moisture on the previously repaired cold water manifold (not the plug!). We were told either fix the manifold or shut off the house water. So we called the recommended firm back, but they couldn't get to us until Friday, the 27th. We would have been without water for a week, so we called ABC Southwest plumbing and they responded by saying they could get to us that afternoon.

Rytech was satisfied and left. They weren't gone 20 minutes when I noticed I had a new pool of water forming on the base behind where they had cut out the drywall in the garage, and sure enough, I found another pinhole leak behind the water heater. When ABC Southwest got here, the manifold was dry and they didn't want to duplicate work if we were going to put in new plumbing anyway, but they fixed the leak behind the heater. ABC gave us an estimate of around $1540 for the drop and could start on Tuesday morning. We said go ahead, and we canceled the recommended firm.

Ilse and I talked it over and decided two leaks at the same time were grounds to do the whole house, and ABC came in at a little under $5000, considerably cheaper than the other estimate. To make things worse, the manifold failed completely while they were here, so we had to shut the water off anyway. ABC started Tuesday afternoon with the prep work and will finish Monday afternoon. They are doing a PEX backbone system so I won't have the control box and individual water pipes you find on the Manabloc system, but everything is PEX and above ground. And it has a lifetime warranty. We should have partial water this afternoon, and the fans and dehumidifiers we have been living with for the last three days were pulled out this morning.

We can hear! We can hear!

The vacation we were scheduled to start on Thursday has been postponed for awhile, probably until after the new floor goes in, that shouldn't be more than a couple of weeks. We told our daughter we will get there eventually, we just don't know when. Trust me, it will be a great vacation!

Stoned

The writers for American soap operas such as “As the World Turns” would have to really, really dig deep to come up with a script built on unrequited love to beat the primitive, tribal family in Pakistan that recently stoned their pregnant daughter to death. She wanted to marry the man she was in love with, not the man Papa arranged, and Papa and the boys - her brothers - took offense at her insolence. So they stoned her to death. And they did it in front of the Lahore, courthouse!

According to a news report from CBS/AP:

“May 27, 2014. (Yes, 2014!) LAHORE, Pakistan- A woman was stoned to death by her own family in front of a Pakistani high court on Tuesday for marrying the man she loved, police and a defense lawyer said.

Nearly 20 members of the woman's family, including her father and brothers, attacked her and her husband with batons and bricks in broad daylight before a crowd of onlookers in front of the high court of Lahore, said police official Naseem Butt. He said Farzana Parveen, 25, had married Mohammad Iqbal, with whom she had been engaged for years in opposition to her family.”

The article continues:

"...Parveen's relatives waited outside the court, which is located on a main downtown thoroughfare. As the couple walked up to the court's main gate, the family members fired shots in the air and tried to snatch her from Iqbal, he said.

When she resisted, her father, brothers and other relatives started beating her, eventually pelting her with bricks from a nearby construction site, Iqbal said.

Iqbal, 45, said he started seeing Parveen after the death of his first wife, with whom he had five children.

"We were in love," he told The Associated Press. He alleged that the woman's family wanted to fleece money from him before marrying her off.

"I simply took her to court and registered a marriage," infuriating the family, he said.

Butt, the police official, said Parveen's father surrendered after the incident and called the murder an "honor killing."

The Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, a private organization, said in a report last month that some 869 women were murdered in so-called honor killings in 2013.”

Wow, top that scenario, you writers at As the World Turns, or the writers at General Hospital, or any of the remaining soap operas on American television where true love and marital infidelity are the core reason millions of American women, and a few men as well, watch television every day. I bet American, or Spanish and Latin American soaps for that matter, aren't broadcast on Arabian or Farsi TV systems. Erika Kane, and three or four thousand other characters, would never have made it out of Pine Valley alive.

The entire world mobilized in protest to save 230 young Nigerian women kidnapped by Boco Haram Islamic radicals in Borno State on April 15, 2014. Where is the anger over 869 women killed by husbands and fathers in Pakistan in 2013 alone because of religious grounds? Professional courtesy among religions? You don't comment on our brutality and sexual aberrations and we won't comment on yours?

In any other civilized country, murder charges would normally be filed against the killers. But we are talking about a civilization mired in its religion of almost two thousand years ago. It was cruel then, it is cruel now. If there were a god, he would cry at the loss of his daughter and grandchild.

The airline terminal at LaHore is actually a time warp civilized people pass through to get to that primitive, medieval partition of planet Earth where you could easily get killed if you believe in the wrong god, while the ones who kill their own daughters are considered honorable men.

Can I make it worse? Yes, I can! Remember, the Pakistanis have nuclear weapons.

[Update: May 31st, 2014.  Bowing to International Pressure, the murderers have been arrested, and the police who stood by and watched as they killed her are under investigation.  The updated story at:

http://www.cnn.com/2014/05/31/world/asia/pakistan-honor-murder/index.html]

Anonymous

“Would that mean you would move to the east or learn to coexist with the west state?”

The anonymous comment awaiting moderation about The Case for Two Floridas – Revisited blog caught my attention. I don't usually respond to anonymous comments, you know who I am, so return the favor and let me know who you are.  I usually just delete them, but this time, however, I'll try to qualify my position and explain why it appears I parachuted behind enemy lines.

I was raised in Miami, and left what was really just a seasonal tourist town when I joined the Air Force way back in December, 1960. You know, off to see the world and that kind of stuff. Eight years later, – five and a half of which were spent in Germany – recently discharged and married, ready to raise a family, I returned to Miami and was surprised by the city that was on the verge of International big-time. Working in downtown Miami for thirty years, watching Miami win a couple of Super Bowls and later become the backdrop for a popular, modern television show that soon became the most watched show in America, I saw Miami evolve into a unique, International city unmatched by any other in the United States. When I retired, family, finances, and physics dictated our reluctant relocation from Miami so we moved through the time warp that separates the east coast from the west coast and settled in Port Charlotte. It's on the map, trust me.

We were fooled by the north/south rhetoric that pervaded Florida's politics. I was raised knowing the “porkchoppers” as the state legislature was known by everyone in South Florida, treated Miamians as foreigners way before any Cuban refugees arrived. What I got wrong was Tallahassee, Capitol of Florida, holding pen of the porkchoppers, isn't just in the north half, it is in the western half as well. And that is what I missed. We had dear friends who left Miami and relocated in Hernando County in a beautiful waterfront home with Gulf of Mexico access. Still, within several years, they were back on the east coast. I assumed it was because they were north of I-4 and their visa expired, but in retrospect I now know it was because they were west of I-75!

There are pockets of resistance in either of the two proposed new Floridas. I know for certain there are people still stuck in the fifties tonight in Fort Lauderdale! There is no doubt in my mind the Villages will rise up in anger, as far up as they can at least, for being on the wrong side of the Interstate. They won't be able to fight after nine at night and they certainly aren't going to hire anyone to do it for them, so they just may be stuck. But then again, they might get a lot accomplished before tee-time. They do tend to get up early there. They'll have a golf-cart strike and cripple the industry if they don't get their way.

The sixteen years we have lived here in west Florida, not far from a John Birch Retirement Center, gives me an insight to the two Floridas many politicians don't have. Living with people who are terrified of driving to Miami, who have never been there and who will never in their lives drive south of Disney World except down I-4 to I-75, gives me an analytical edge here. I don't just coexist in west Florida, no coexist isn't the right word. I've become a guerilla fighter. A stealth influence on the unsuspecting retirees who still keep Lawrence Welk alive on PBS. Some of them even now listen occasionally to Jimmy Buffet. Well, not often, but maybe every once in a while. We have found an underground network of like-minded people here who sweeten their own tea. And that is progress.

The Case for Two Floridas – Revisited

[Author's note: This blog was updated Jan 17th, 2015, after a Federal Court ruled Florida's ban on gay marriage unconstitutional, but regardless of Federal law, several Florida counties found a way to disobey the court and the law of the land.]
*********************************************************************************
 A recent attempt to split Florida into two separate states drew scant serious coverage from the news media. Supporters of the proposal wanted to amplify the more modern, international influence of the southern half of the state, represented by a line drawn roughly from Tampa to Daytona Beach, or, the route of Interstate 4, as opposed to the “redneck” rural, northern part of the state.

The disproportionate amount of taxes paid by the southern counties supposedly spent needlessly in the northern half of the state, as the supporters want everyone to believe, is reason the proposal just won't go away. The proposal to split Florida floats up every couple of years for other reasons as well, but always fails to gain serious support. I think I know why it fails. The proponents of the split have the demarcation line in the wrong place. In fact, it even runs the wrong direction.

It should go north and south, down I-75 from the Florida-Georgia state line to Wildwood, jump over to U.S. 27 and follow Krome Avenue right down to Florida City. From there down U.S. 1 to Jewfish Creek would also be a boundary, but everything in the Keys would be in East Florida. Flamingo would be in West Florida, along with Monroe Station, Ochopee, Everglades City, and every other place where the deluded inhabitants consider Miamians as foreigners. I think anywhere waiters ask if you want sweet tea for lunch should be in its own state. Jacksonville? They'll just have to suck it up and learn to put in their own sugar in their iced tea. Either that or they will be traded to Georgia for a future draft pick.

The small enclave of counties in the extreme northeast part of the state, Clay, Baker, and Duval Counties, which includes the unfortunate city of Jacksonville, have all cancelled courthouse weddings as a way to protest a recent Federal judge's ruling that allows gay marriage. Perhaps we should consider moving those three Florida counties to Georgia, or just put the Georgia/Florida state boundaries back where they should be if Georgia hadn't lost its Supreme court case in 1854. That way the anomaly would be resolved as the other backwards counties that sidestepped the law of the land  - Calhoun, Liberty (which now needs to be renamed), Franklin, Wakulla, Holmes, Jackson, Washington, Okaloosa, Santa Rosa - are all in the western half of the state, including the odd county of Pasco, located just far enough north of Tampa to be disconnected from reality.

We could split the time zone if the new state line runs north and south. East Florida would be in the 21^st century while the west half of Florida wouldn't have to worry about leaving the 19^th century, where they obviously feel right at home. The two states would be as different as New Jersey is from Indiana. As a matter of fact, that pretty much follows the cultural split that already exists, so no big changes there.

We could rename the states, like Floridana, or Poinciana for East Florida, while the west half could be Gulforama or Teapartyland. The logo for west Florida could be a boomerang, as the west state silhouette would pretty much resemble the stick that just won't go away. Florida east? I don't know, maybe they could have a twitter or Facebook naming contest for the new, oddly shaped state. A slice of Key Lime pie, perhaps?

There will be pockets of residents who will find themselves out of place in either state, such as the Villages who will demand a new survey, but the north-south split fits better than the east-west split along I-4. Either way, while Tallahassee would remain the state capitol of West Florida, Disney World should be the new, undisputed Capitol of Florida East.

George

New Memories

By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the Holiday Inn Express in Cocoa, Florida, the Marines were up to their armpits in the battle of Peleliu. Traveling the two hundred miles alone from Port Charlotte to the TAC Missileer mini-reunion in Cocoa allowed me to indulge myself in music I normally do not crank up at home, and I relished the opportunity to play all of Richard Rodger's Victory at Sea on my iPod from start to to finish without interruption. Through the car's stereo, of course. And as loud as I wanted! Peleliu, by the way, is the 3^rd cut on the “B” side of volume 2 in the set, or about 150 miles or so into the whole playlist. I won’t listen to Victory at Sea on the return trip, but it was a blast listening to it once again after all these years!

Just like the tour of old memories at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. I was in Cocoa, Florida, to attend a TAC Missileer mini-reunion conceived and planned by Max Butler, Membership Director/Treasurer of the TAC Missileers Association. It was all put together in about six weeks.  

Dave Cooper, Max Butler, Len Calkins, George Mindling

Max did another one of his bang-up jobs putting the mini-reunion together. Having a get-together for dinner is something many of us missileers who live in Florida, especially during the winter months, have talked about off and on for several years. Max finally said “Let's do it,” so we did. Originally planned as an informal get-together for those who would make a day trip for the meeting, it soon became clear most wanted more than just dinner, and soon the mini-reunion was open to all TAC missileers.

Max arranged a very special tour of the Air Force Space and Missile Museum located at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station to be held on Friday, March 21st. Max also arranged an air-conditioned tour bus to pick up our 35 or so members and guests at the Holiday Inn Express in Cocoa at nine am. Collecting names and license numbers, and some other info required ahead of time, made access to the normally restricted facility easy.

An informal dinner was held Thursday evening at a local Barbeque restaurant for those out-of-towners who arrived a day early. The restaurant cordially handled the unexpected twenty guests with aplomb. Most of Thursday's arrivals stayed at the Holiday Inn Express in Cocoa, also arranged by Max. Jim and Susan Cagle from Atlanta may have traveled the furthest of the attendees, while many missileers lived in the surrounding area and drove to the hotel on Friday morning. Several missileers brought wives and their grown children, and even grandkids for the tour. Everyone met at the hotel Friday morning to board the big, white bus for a tour of the area, where for some of us TAC Missileers, it all started.

We were soon craning our necks trying to remember where Camp Happiness was located as we drove into the area many of us had only seen from blue Air Force school buses when we toured the facility back in the late 50's and early 60's. Port Canaveral has altered beyond any recognition, and will continue to do so as it grows to its planned facility as the largest cruise ship port in the United States. The old days are long gone.

Inside the Blockhouse at Pad 26

We stopped by the entrance to the Space and Missile Museum to pick up our tour guide, Jim Hale. Jim, a retired Air Force veteran, had a clear, resonant voice and an in-depth knowledge of the museum that captured everyone’s attention. Our first stop at the Blockhouse on pad 26, launch place of Explorer, the US's first satellite, displayed Jim's astonishing knowledge and familiarity with the Cape and its history. The Blockhouse was the first stop on our four and half hour tour, and gave Roger St. Germain the honor of “launching” a missile. From there we toured the open display area known as the “Missile Garden” and the adjacent Exhibit Hall. Again, Jim's fascinating explanations and descriptions brought special meaning to the displays.

Jim Hale explains a rocket motor on display in the Exhibit Hall

The bus tour eventually led to an area many of us have seen in the past, the old maintenance area, and just a few yards beyond, Pads 21 and 22, the Mace B launch pads that have recently been restored. While we didn't get to walk the area, it was still impressive to see the old launch pads. They looked like they had just been vacated.

The Exhibit Hall

The next stop at Complex 14 on  ICBM Road allowed us a look at the pad where not only the first American ICBM was launched, but where John Glenn hurtled into space aboard an Atlas LV-3B carrying a Mercury capsule known as Friendship 7, putting an American astronaut in orbit for the first time. 

Pads 21 & 22 - Mace "B" launch pads

The next stop was Complex 34, site of the accident that killed astronauts Virgil Grissom, Edward White II, and Roger Chaffee. The massive complex remains as a silent monument to all those who served and gave their lives in service to our country. We dismounted the bus for an extensive walking tour of the pad.

Hangar “R” was our last stop of the day, and for many of us, was a nostalgic moment. Hangar R has a unique collection of early missiles and rockets, including the original Matador named “Florida Ranger” that graced the entrance to Orlando Air Force Base. Orlando Air Force Base is where almost everyone who served in the Matador or Mace missile programs was trained. Also in the Hangar “R” collection is a Mace sitting on a beautifully restored translauncher. 

John Gibbs, 1st PBS, Bitburg

One of the amazing, delightful, memories of this tour was meeting John Gibbs, a former member of the 1st Pilotless Bomber Squadron. The 1^st PBS, the very first operational, combat ready missile squadron in the United States Air Force, trained at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station before its deployment to Bitburg, Germany, in March of 1954. John contributed many details and stories used in Bob Bolton's and my book, U.S. Air Force Tactical Missiles 1949 -1969 The Pioneers, including the incident when a Matador dumped nose-first over its launcher in an aborted launch. John was in the detail sent into the palmetto scrub to find the missing hold-back bolt. John is also one of the few people we have a photograph of while on duty with a tactical missile. In the section on Wheelus, figure 18, page 138, John is the airman on the far left with his elbow up. It was a very special moment meeting John and his beautiful wife of 51 years, Dianne. They are tentatively planning on attending the reunion in Boston next year.While every missile in the collection has been painstakingly restored, both the Matador and the Mace missiles have been restored to astonishing condition. A group photo was taken in front of the Mace, and of course I had to get a photo of John Gibbs in front of the Matador.

George Mindling with Jim Hale, tour guide extraodinaire.

I had another highlight of the trip that I hadn't expected: Jim Hale asked me to sign his copy of our book! That was an honor for me. I certainly appreciate the time and patience Jim took with our diverse group, answering every question and handling every comment with professionalism and charm. Anyone who gets Jim as a guide of the Space and Missile Museum will have a special insight to the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station and its history.

Bobby Williams shows a Kadena memento

The Space and Missile Museum web page at http://afspacemuseum.org/ has details on tours and visiting the museum, as well as a virtual tour that can be taken from your PC. They also maintain a Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/afspacemuseum. Visit both pages, and be sure to like the Facebook page.

Revelations: George 71.4

Revelations come at the oddest times. My latest one came while I was preparing a photo album for our five year old granddaughter, Claire. I needed a name for the book, a simple title such as “Happy Birthday, Claire” just didn't appeal to me. I played around with names and fonts, spacing and colors, then, out of the blue, my muse typed “Clair 5.0” in a red, none serif font. I studied the unexpected title, then realized it was perfect for an active, fast growing young girl.

Being a computer nerd, I have been familiar with software release numbers for years. Every base number of a program release denotes a major version or year, such as Microsoft Windows which made the second release of Windows 3.0 famous. It was windows 3.1 and set the standard not only for personal computing software, but for program numbering as well.

Since our granddaughter would be five, I picked Claire 5.0 as the perfect title for her photo book. Only two months after her fifth birthday she would be smarter, faster, taller, a slightly different young girl. By June, using my logic, she would be Claire 5.2.

Using that same standard, I'm 71.4, and that changes my outlook on everything. Next month I'll be 71.5 and my unstoppable progress toward my eventual demise becomes even more definable. Telling people only your age gives you a whole year of wiggle room. No one knows if you just turned your age, or if you are about to roll over to your next one. Saying I'm 71 is a whole lot different than saying I'm 71.4. But, on the other hand, it is kind of cool to say exactly how old I am, although I'm not sure 71.4 is any better or smarter than 71.3, - I'm sure there is a point of diminishing improvement - but experience must count for something, right?

Five dot oh, was exactly what I wanted, but, unfortunately my wife wasn't impressed with my wry sense of humor. Well, I think it's wry. So, anyway, the name of the book will be “Claire.” That works for everybody. Even George 71.4.   

Crab Trap

 My heart sank as my outboard motor pivoted up out of the dark, tannin colored water, the propeller my new 70 horsepower Yamaha cloaked in a mangled, dripping wet, wire mesh crab trap. Our German friends from Berlin stood up, looking over the stern railing of our equally new pontoon boat to see what the problem was. We were being blown about by the incessant wind as I raised the motor to see the damage, still in shock from the sudden, unexpected tooth-jarring stop. The outboard motor had died immediately, something that always gets a boater's attention.

We wallowed at the mercy of mother nature in the wide, shallow mangrove creek while I knelt on the transom, leaning over the motor to see how badly damaged the motor was. The prop was completely wrapped in black, chicken-wire mesh and thick, bent re-bar. Re-bar is the steel reinforcing rod used in cement construction. Commercial crabbers make the frames of their traps out of re-bar. It is cheap, strong, heavy, and takes a long time to rust out. You don't bend re-bar with your bare hands. The crab trap had a dead bait fish in it, but no crabs. It had probably been set just before I ran over its buoy, wrapping the line around my propeller and pulling the trap off the bottom. I had been watching my wife, Ilse, while she asked me a question and didn't see the white, Styrofoam marker and our new Bennington 20 foot pontoon boat came to an abrupt halt. Rather silently, I may add. The mangrove creek was empty except for a few crab traps haphazardly strung down the center.

How I got here in the first place would give most boaters gray hair. I had taken the weather forecast for granted earlier in the day and gotten into deep, deep trouble. No, not the TV forecast many recreational boaters rely on, but the official NOAA, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, forecast. In fact, I listened to it on my hand-held VHF marine radio just before I throttled up into Charlotte Harbor, headed south toward Cape Haze from our home port up-river just off the scenic Myakka River. Five to ten knots out of the south, decreasing to five knots by afternoon. Great! If I can handle the out-bound waves, we'll be in great shape for the return trip.

Trust me, a pontoon boat is not meant for open water and three-foot seas. Normal boats have a pointy end, called the bow, which usually goes through the water first, and some kind of front cover to keep water out of the boat. The end is pointy so water will flow smoothly around it. The back end of a boat, called the stern, is flat and rarely is called upon to go first. To the casual observer, a pontoon boat looks the same at each end. It really does have pointy ends that go first, but there is no fore-deck to divert water that may come over the bow. In that case, all your passengers get wet feet and soggy bags if they left them on the floor. Pontoon boats are not blue-water boats.

I had taken our guests up-stream two days earlier to show them the many alligators found sunning themselves in the fresh water along the river banks between Rambler's Rest campground and Snook Haven, just a few miles north. That trip was perfect for our pontoon boat, and now we wanted to fulfill our guest's wishes of seeing porpoises, or dolphins, in the wild. So, for this trip we headed south into the salt water of Charlotte Harbor. Our visitors from Berlin had a narrow window before heading back to winter in Germany, so if we didn't get out today, we probably wouldn't have the opportunity to show them Bull Bay or Turtle Bay, and quite possibly miss seeing the dolphins we are accustomed to in the area.

An hour and twenty minutes after we started out, we slowed and pulled into protected Cape Haze Bay, bumping the sandy bottom only once as I turned toward the protect anchorage twenty feet or so too early. The wind was a solid ten knots out of the south, but our little Bennington had fared well. We hadn't even come close to taking any waves over the front deck, so everything was perfect. According to the weather report, everything from here on was going to be a piece of cake.

We took photos of an obliging dolphin that circled the boat several times and gave us plenty of photo opportunities. It was as if I had scheduled its appearance just for our visitors. We slowly motored around the point and soon found out weather was going to be a major player after all. The building winds out of the south prevented us from landing on one of our favorite beaches, ripping my stern anchor loose and causing us to cut our stay short.

We toodled along for a few minutes in the strengthening winds headed west toward Bull Bay, then decided to turn around and head for home instead. The winds were increasing, not decreasing. Too late. As we headed back into the open water of Charlotte Harbor, the following seas were too heavy for a straight heading back toward the Myakka River. Afraid of burying the bow and the following sea rushing behind, I took a northeasterly course across Charlotte Harbor toward Punta Gorda which allowed me to at least control the boat in the building seas without taking water over the bow or being swamped from behind. We were soon in three foot seas and fifteen mile per hour winds from my right rear quarter. Disney World has nothing in its ride inventory to compare with the trip. The nine-mile trip across open water in a pontoon boat was a thrill to say the least, but I only drenched my passengers once. I couldn't go faster than nine or ten miles and hour and still control the boat, so it was a simple grit your teeth and hang-on type trip. I couldn't prevent one huge breaker from sloshing water over the port bow, but at least our guests were in good, if not soaked, humor. It was a real test for our ten year old Golden Retriever who squeezed himself between our guests for most of the bone-jarring trip. He gave me more desperate stares than my wife did.

We finally pulled into the Ponce Inlet canal at Ponce De Leon Park and sighed with relief to get out of the heavy wind and rolling seas. We throttled back to idle and found the wind still pushing us through the canyon of big boats nestled safely up on their dry lifts. The twenty minute respite from the incessant see-sawing across wave crests and troughs was enough to give everyone a chance to see if their sense of adventure, if not their sense of humor, had survived.

Cutting through Punta Gorda Isles brought me out into the Peace River in the lee of the winds from the south. I took a direct course across the Peace River, then aimed westward toward the entrance to the shallow Hog Island Cutoff which would once again get us out of the fifteen knot wind. The last few minutes across the Peace River once again found me fighting the steering as I minimized our exposure to the moderate seas as much as possible.

I entered the Cutoff on the western side, avoiding the sand bar that catch many boaters unaware, and throttled back to a comfortable cruise through the shallow mangrove creek that always reminds me of the Florida Keys. Several dedicated fishermen watched as we glided past, once again enjoying the relative quiet. We were almost through the two mile long creek, enjoying the twisty parts and joking about taking a “short cut” when we slammed to a sloshing halt.

Our German friends immediately set the front anchor when they realized we were drifting toward the mangroves. Luckily they are as at home on the water as we are, and knew exactly what to do as I was preoccupied with the other end of the boat.

I propped myself against the stern and after the required expletives, began prying the wire chicken-mesh from around the prop. If I had to use heavy leverage, I would have to get off the boat and in the three feet of root-beer colored water just to use my ever-present tools, but I was lucky, the re-bar lifted up and off the propeller after only a few minutes of prying and twisting. The trap splashed back into the water and we were free. We were once again ready to finish our trip and not only was I still dry, I hadn't even opened the tool bag.

We sat at idle for a few minutes after starting the motor, making sure it didn't make strange noises or leak from any seals. I pushed the boat back up to cruising speed and we finished the creek without any further drama. Entering the Myakka River well past the Hog Island Point kept us out of the wind and waves so the remainder of the trip home was almost dull by comparison. An hour later, after washing the salt water off the boat, and checking the prop for nicks, we all sat down to a glass of wine.

The German clinked our glasses and said “Thank you for showing us the Dolphins!”

“No problem, any time! It was our pleasure.”

I'll know the next time I try to get our dog back on the boat. He might not want to come.

Pharmaphobe

Phobe: indicating a person or thing that fears or hates the subject of the precedent root word. If the root word has anything to do with pharmaceuticals, then, yep, that's me. I'm a pharmaphobe. Without a doubt I am pharmapobic!

I know there are many absolutely wonderful discoveries in the war on sickness and disease, and many drugs are indispensable in our daily lives, but I also know I'm being bombarded with an unending marketing assault that dominates television and print media for drugs that have side effects that scare the daylights out of me. I know about chronic conditions that mandate a life-long demand for pharmaceuticals: I am hypertensive.

Why the massive ad campaigns for pharmaceuticals? Profit, of course. It isn't philanthropy, believe me. The big pharma companies wouldn't give away drugs for humanities sake, unless they knew it would create a never-ending demand from the drug, sort of a mandated addiction. Return On Investment, so to speak. Drugs prescribed by your doctor for chronic conditions like high blood pressure or high cholesterol create a cash flow, like an annuity, as long as the consumer, er, patient, stays alive. What a great business model!

What really worries me is a hypertensive doctor friend of ours won't take drugs other than ones for hypertension. She avoids other drugs as much as possible. Most of the people we know in the medical or peripheral businesses avoid flu shots like the plague. If that doesn't send up a red flag, I don't know what will. What bothers me most though, is the massive marketing attack on the average consumer. Seriously, I'm worried about the pharmaceuticals being sold on television today as if they were candy. “Tell your doctor you want this drug!”

Wow! If I have asthma, I can now go fishing with my grandson -- obviously I couldn't go fishing with him before – all I have to do is take a specific drug that I won't mention here. [My lawyer would be impotent against these guys.] If the side effects of this asthma drug don't kill me first, that is. The popular asthma drug lists thirteen symptoms as common side effects and two of them really caught my attention. This constantly advertised drug lists uncommon symptoms that runs another page and a half on their information sheet, and the overdose symptoms listed are outright scary, but side effects number 4, “difficulty with breathing” and number 11, “shortness of breath or troubled breathing” really are eye opening. If I have asthma, why am I taking this drug? Because the advertising said so! Look how happy they all are! Doing things they normally wouldn't do.

Really? I'm supposed to go to my doctor and tell her I want to take a certain drug because I think I may have a certain illness and I am now convinced I have a solution she may not be aware of? Isn't my doctor supposed to know what to prescribe for me when I have a medical condition that warrants that pharmaceutical concoction to be administered to me? Apparently doctors now respond to their patients demands and prescribe whatever feel-good drug now has the biggest marketing and advertising budget.

Listen to the possible side effects that accompany each Hollywood style production shown at exactly the time of day when old fogies like me are most likely to be watching the tube, er, flat screen I mean, and see if chills don't run down your spine.

Don't misunderstand what I'm writing here. Without penicillin, I wouldn't be alive today. Other new generation antibiotics administered when I blew out my appendix recently kept my septic condition from spoiling my life, much less my vacation. But the drugs weren't advertised on TV as imperative, life enhancing products I need to add to my daily regimen just to feel better. Take notes the next time you watch the evening news [only old people watch the evening news!] and see what I mean. I defy you to write down the side effects of any of the many drugs you will see advertised. Some of them even have the side effect of possible death! Wow, I can hardly wait to take some of those!

I have alleviated my reliance on blood pressure medicines by a simple action, weight loss. By losing twenty five pounds I have been able to reduce the drugs I take to keep my blood pressure “normal.'” Diet and physical activities are helping reduce my reliance on the remainder, all I have to do now is quit drinking alcohol. [Now, there's a rub!] With a little self control, I should be able to drop off or drastically reduce the regimen of the other prescription drugs. The first one I dropped off recently had a side effect that wasn't listed in the information sheet: bad breath! I realize many conditions aren't that easily remedied, but, many are.

Why did I pick the asthma drug as my example of pharma mass-marketing? Because they pander to unconscious consumers who think every fisherman has to wear a silly hat and a two hundred dollar fishing vest, carry a state of the art fly rod, then use a 79 cent red and white plastic bobber probably with a worm on the end of a hook! If this multi-million dollar corporation doesn't know anything about fishing, what do they know about anything else? Obviously they know how to market to American television viewers.

How about the million dollar marketing shtick that has two naked people sitting in the middle of field somewhere in old-fashioned cast-iron bathtubs? Aah, nothing like a dose of ridiculous fantasy to make the consumer feel like popping a pill is the answer to life's problems. Marketing chemicals in such a way that the gullible public demands the required prescribers give them what they want is downright scary. They'll probably drive up the market in old-fashioned cast iron bathtubs as well.

Want more information? Go to the FDA website at:

http://www.fda.gov/Drugs/ResourcesForYou/Consumers/PrescriptionDrugAdvertising/UCM076768.htm#approve_advertisements

Muse

When transferal of thought occurs through a mechanical process known as "writing," regardless of the medium, a permanent record is made of that thought. No longer ethereal or undefinable, it becomes an entity that can be debated or argued, praised or denounced. Often that thought is subliminal or subconscious, not by design or deduction. Whether the thought appears on paper through primitive muscular contraction and expansion, pushing and pulling a stick or ink-stained quill, or on a computer-controlled glass panel illuminated by electricity directed by human manipulation, that thought distinguishes human intelligence from all other forms on our planet. I often look back at my typing and read what I wrote in absolute awe. I have no idea how it got there. I never know what will appear on my computer screen. Well, maybe you do when you sit down to write, but I certainly don't. I often open my word processor and start typing and don't know why. 

The inspiration to transfer thought to a permanent memorial often emerges from an undefined state. Some call it the work of a muse, like “my muse wanted to say...” But my muse just sits there, probably on Facebook and not paying any attention to the fact I'm trying to write! The result is I'm constantly surprised by what pops up. So are you, probably, if you bother to read my nonsense. I'm sure if I had a muse, it would be surprised, too. You might think I don't recognize when the muse is typing for me, but I know better. I've read what muses write for other people, and it's nothing like what pops up on my screen. Muses write beautiful poetry, or involved, mysterious stories with incredibly interesting characters, not the mundane nonsense that shows up on my computer screen. No, no self respecting muse would own up to this stuff. 

Rarely do I have what is called “writers block,” the condition muses are supposed to lead writers through. More often than not, I have something to write and don't have any paper, or a computer to key into, as the case may be. Frustrated, I scribble on napkins, invoices, bills, and envelopes that I invariably, and unconsciously, throw away. Yes, they usually get thrown out well before I go looking for them, trying to piece together the great idea that I had two or three days ago. Or, two or three hours ago. Some days are like that.

Petey - Prime suspect

Writer's block only happens when I have to write something I don't want to write about. You know, something distasteful, or even worse, boring. Boring is the worst. I would rather read something really stupid I wrote as long as it isn't boring. Do I argue with myself? Constantly. Especially when I go back and reread something I wrote then put away for some reason or other. Where was my muse then? I really do put stuff away after I write it. Stephen King taught me that in his mandatory reading for any aspiring writer, “On Writing.”

How writers summon their muses baffles me. I have a hunch where mine might be. It's sitting in front of a PC somewhere checking Facebook. I know once I'm on Facebook, I'm done for the night. Tuck me in when you unplug my PC, I'll be sitting there glassy-eyed in a catatonic state waiting to see how many people like my last posting describing the amount of ear wax I successfully removed by using ear-candles.

My muse is undoubtedly just addicted as I am, I can't seem to get its attention. Wait! Is that laughing I hear? Why did I write this? Where did all this nonsense come from? Oh, Facebook is down. Aah! No wonder!