Leaving Florida

We spent our last two weeks in Florida just outside the little town of Carrabelle at a small RV park called Ho Hum—as in just another day in paradise. Carrabelle is on the Florida panhandle, which is also known as The Forgotten Coast. Well, only part of the coast is forgotten—the part where we were. It was uncrowded and peaceful and if we really needed anything from one of the big stores like Bed, Bath and Beyond, PetsMart, a Macy's equivalent or some such thing, then an hour drive north to Tallahassee was really no big deal.

We saw a bit more of The Forgotten Coast—the part not so forgotten—as we drove West through the panhandle toward Alabama. Lots of Snowbirds flock to places like Panama City, Fort Walton Beach, Mexico Beach and Destin. On an RV forum I occasionally visit, Destin is mentioned as though 'its the place to go.' Although it would be fun for family vacations, we decided we wouldn't be interested in spending time there. There was too much traffic and too many people and I'm sure it would certainly be worse in summer. High rise apartment buildings or condos studded the beaches and the main drag had a succession of stores specializing in swimsuits, swim noodles, flip flops, floppy hats, beachwear, beach umbrellas, sand toys, sand chairs, sunglasses, sunscreen and anything else one could possibly think of for fun in the sun. We saw a few water parks and an arcade—drop the kids off with some money and mom and dad can get a peaceful respite while the kids have a blast.

The town on The Forgotten Coast that peaked our interest was Mexico Beach. It reminded us of the Outer Banks only more colorful. There were rows of beach houses in shades of yellow and coral and turquoise with sandy yards and footpaths leading to beach accesses or the crosswalks to get you there. There were plenty of restaurants, markets and other modern conveniences, but it didn't feel overpopulated or frantically busy like the others places.

At Ho Hum, we reserved a premium site facing the Gulf of Mexico and it was worth it. We were privileged to awake to high tides lapping at the beach or low tides with water birds poking their beaks into the sandy mud searching for breakfast; either blue skies or gray, rain or misty fog or pink-orange sunrises every single morning. We had a variety of seagulls to entertain us with their antics and pelicans to wow us with their wave-skimming prowess. We had some chilly weather and some pleasantly warm days. One day in particular was so perfect that Rob and I sat outside for so many hours that we both got a bit sunburned. There were a few lovely sunsets, too.

We took a day trip out to St. George Island. We toured the streets and found a place to park next to a beach access on the gulf side of the island. The sand is fine and soft, very white, and covered with hundreds of seashells. The day was beautiful but it was marred with sadness. On our way over the bridge, as we widely passed a young seagull wandering around on the roadway, it leapt into the air and flew directly into the front side panel of our car. I made the mistake of looking into the side mirror and saw it laying in the road, a wing flailing. I was devastated. I can't think about it. I'm still devastated. 

Shortly after we arrived in Carrabelle, Rob needed to go to the VA, so we spent most of one day in Tallahassee, which is the state capitol. It doesn't even have its own international airport. You have to fly into or out of Panama City or Jacksonville. Panama City being the closest at 98 miles. I expected Tallahassee to be a much bigger town. It has a small town feel, even though the census population in 2000 was 150,600 and, reportedly, nearly 187,000 in 2012.

While Rob waited to be seen at the VA, I drove through parts of Tallahassee to pick up a few things at PetsMart and go have my hair cut. I googled hair salon reviews for the Tallahassee area and decided on one of the better rated salons situated between PetsMart and the VA. I called them on our way there and, lo and behold, they had a stylist who could take me exactly when I needed it. So let me give a shout out to Angela Garcia at Hair on Earth who listened to me, advised me and then gave me a cut so perfect that I wish I could go back to see her every time I need a trim. 

Just as I got into the car and starting texting Rob to see what was his status, he called me to say he was ready to be picked up and that we'd be giving a Veteran a ride home or he'd have to wait all day for his wife. We were glad to do it.

After hearing about it, I did an online search for sellers of tupelo honey in the area and found one that was supposed to be in the little town of Sopchoppy. Rob and I took a drive there, which was about 45 minutes, and found only a house where we thought a business would be. Maybe they produced the stuff but they certainly didn't have a retail location. Sopchoppy was quite quaint so we stopped at the town's grocery where handwritten signs advertising tupelo honey decorated its windows along with classified ads. I figured a place like that would probably have the real deal and it did—raw, unfiltered, with homemade labels stuck to the jars. Tupelo honey is purported to be the finest honey there is, pleasantly sweet and warm with a smooth, almost creamy, finish—and it is and it does. I highly recommend it.

We are now at the Ameristar Casino RV Park in Vicksburg, Mississippi, for a two night stopover on our way to Hot Springs National Park. We were going to stay only one night, but Rob had two days of long drives and we were expecting lots of rain so it made sense to rest up. We spent the first night after leaving Florida in a parking lot at the Island View Casino in Gulfport, Mississippi. It was free. But we went over to the casino for dinner and then breakfast the following morning. Rob registered to gamble with the casino and they gave him a card to take to a kiosk where you insert the card and choose a digital curtain. Behind our curtain was $50 that was automatically loaded onto the card and meant to be used in the slot machines. Rob spent (lost) $20 at the Blackjack table, then played a slot machine where we walked away with about $32 after cashing the vouchers. All told, the night cost us $15. Such a deal.

Off we go to Hot Springs tomorrow. It is supposed to be cold, but that's okay. We'll just stow the flip flops for a while.

Here's to wishing the North and Northeast a hardy thaw and California, rain.

Louis enjoying the sun and smells.

Our first evening at Ho Hum.

I love the gulls.

Sanderlings coming in to land.

Beautiful Heron.

I followed the Heron with my camera and got this overexposed shot. Happy accidents do happen.

A Laughing Gull.

And the Moon, too.

Sea foam. Who says it's green?

Low tide.

This little guy postured in an attempt to look tough and menacing. He just ended up looking cute.

Our fishing pier.

I love the centrical rings this gull made.

A lone pelican fading into the sunset.

Vibrant sunset.

The sand at low tide after a stormy night.

Leave me alone! I'm trying to sleep.

The beach on St. George Island.

At the Bayside Seafood Restaurant. Mediocre food and service.

I LOVE seagulls!

The Sopchoppy grocery store.

An assortment of sand balls courtesy of invisible crabs.

Lined up for the sunset.

This guy was waiting to catch tortilla chips.

Once Lost: A Story of Reunion

All our friends know my husband's name is Robert Courtenay Cook. What most don't know is that's not the name he was given at birth. His given name was Arthur Courtenay Robinson, but from the beginning he'd been called Robbie.

The marriage between Rob's mother, Flavie, and his father, Arthur Clarence Robinson, did not survive. Who knows why, but Flavie described her ex-husband as 'Joe College,' meaning that he was irresponsible and, as I take it, fun-loving and not at all interested in home life, all its trappings, and 'settling down' as is generally expected with marriage.

Art was in the military, stationed in Japan in 1953, when Flavie took Rob there with her to make a last attempt to save the marriage. No doubt, after heated arguments and recriminations, it was unsuccessful.

Flavie took Rob to Tokyo to meet the Navy ship that would eventually transport them back to the Naval base at Mare Island, Vallejo, California. During one of the days leading to their departure, Flavie was with a friend at the Officer's Club when she saw a man sitting on a sofa, feet comfortably upon the coffee table, conversing with a couple other fellows. She asked her friend who he was and her friend offered to introduce them. What followed happened somewhat like this: 

"Colonel Cook, please allow me to introduce my dear friend, Flavie Robinson. Flavie, Colonel Howard Cook."

Colonel Cook looked up and casually replied with words similar to, "Nice to meet you."

Now, Flavie grew up in a rather formal atmosphere, having come from a prominent family in the West Indies, where certain responses and behaviors were not only expected but sacrosanct. She reached down, swept Colonel Cook's feet off the table and stated proudly, "A gentleman stands when addressing a lady!"

He was smitten.

They married in October 1955. 

A few months later, a letter was mailed to Art informing him of Howard Cook's intention to adopt his son. Legal paperwork likely ensued and Art Robinson chose to relinquish his parental rights. We have no clue why. We can only presume, however, that animosity may have played a part, the desire to be free of the burdens, financial and otherwise, of an unhappy marriage and all it encompassed. And so, without the benefit of that 20/20 vision called hindsight, little Arthur Courtenay 'Robbie' Robinson became Robert Courtenay Cook.

Although Rob never saw them again after about the age of 5, Flavie kept in touch with the Robinson family until Art remarried sometime around 1960. Rob believes his mother felt they'd somehow interfere with Art's new marriage and that it would be better to bow out. 

Fast forward 50-plus years.

Last summer, while we were in the middle of a cornfield in Kearney, Nebraska, Rob received an email from our daughter, Hayley, with an attachment. Hayley and her husband, Chris, live in our house and have authority to open our mail to determine its importance and to either forward it electronically, by mail, or shred. Chris happened to open a letter addressed to Rob and immediately gave it to Hayley telling her she needed to read it. Hayley was occupied nursing their son, Oliver, and told him she'd read it later. "No," he said, "I think you need to read it." "Later," she replied. "No," he repeated, "you need to read it now."

Rob read the letter attached to the email and couldn't believe what he was seeing. "I am looking for a Robert Courtenay Cook and his mother, Flavie Cook. I am wondering if you might, in fact, be him."

Around 1986 or 1987, Rob searched the social security records then available and found that one C.A. Robinson had died. Rob's mother couldn't remember if his father had been C.A. or A.C. Robinson and Rob assumed the social security listing was his father. After a long, interstate custody battle, Rob just wanted to let his biological father know that he had grandchildren.

Rob read the letter a few times. The shock needed to wane, the information processed, the idea that he had family who remembered him, thought of him and wanted to find and know him had to be absorbed; and, he had to come to terms with information contained in the letter which informed that it had not been his father found in the social security records after all, but his grandfather. His father died only two years before, in 2011—at age 91.

Rob waited until the following evening to call his first cousin, Lloyd 'Brad' Bradford, who is his Aunt Phyllis's son. It was an informative and congenial conversation. Rob learned that his Aunt Phyllis, to whom Flavie had felt close to and carried fond memories of, lived in Florida, and that Brad was at that moment visiting his mother. Rob had a delightful talk with Aunt Phyllis filling her in a bit about his mother's life—and death. And it was further determined, being that we would be spending the winter in Florida, that we would meet and have a bit of a reunion.

We parked The Beast at a funky, little campground in Weeki Wachee, Florida, whose owner is an artist. We had a lot of rain and were gone so much that I never got photos of his 'sculptures' or his 'castle' (aka hurricane shelter), or the outdoor laundry room.

We drove down to Largo the following day to his Aunt's home, where we met Aunt Phyllis, Brad, who came down from Lancaster, New Hampshire, Uncle Barney, and another cousin, Lisa Field, who came down from Canton, Maine. Also there, were Phyllis's brother-in-law John and his wife Shirley. We were welcomed with open arms and open hearts. Never a moment, not once, did either of us feel as though we were meeting strangers. It just felt as though it had been a long time since we'd last seen each other. 

We all talked and talked, giving and receiving stories and information to fill in a huge lifetime gap. I asked if Rob's father had ever regretted relinquishing his parental rights and the answer caused tears to spring to my eyes. Especially in his later years, every time the subject of his son came up, he would shed tears over the loss of his boy—his only child.

At one point, with the assistance of a friend, he sought information about Rob and to his dismay and utter regret, he came to the conclusion that Rob had died in Viet Nam. The family had urged him to do some further research but, no, he was convinced that the information his friend had found was accurate. There were four Robert Cooks who died in Viet Nam. None of them had a middle name that started with 'C.' 

It is lamentable that neither Rob nor his father ever searched even just a little more diligently to find each other—or to obtain definitive answers at the very least. Like father, like son?

Our second day, we met yet more family at Brad's sister's. Gayle welcomed us into her home where we met her son, John, daughter-in-law, Tara, and their four children, Zach, Wesley, Kaitlynn and Anthony. Sweet kids. Again, it felt familiar even though we were just getting to know one another.

We had a wonderful time and look forward to meeting even more family when we reach New England in the Fall.

Thank you, Brad, for reaching out and sending that letter. You struck gold and for that we will always be in your debt. And, also, thank you for your kindness and for orchestrating this reunion.

Thank you, Lisa, for taking the time off from work and getting yourself down to Florida for us. It wouldn't have been the same without you.

Thank you, Aunt Phyllis, for opening your arms to us and giving us a glimpse of Rob's long forgotten past. I can see why my mother-in-law loved you. And thank you for still being around. Period.

Thank you, Gayle, for opening your home and allowing us all a place to gather and have some fun. Thank you for the delicious chili dinner and for having lots of Moxie on hand!

It was truly wonderful getting to know all of you. We'll do it again. And we won't wait 61 years.

Art 'Rob' Robinson in the 1940s.

Art 'Rob' Robinson

Rob's grandparents Clarence and Jennie Robinson with Flavie and young Robbie.

Young Robbie at the Robinson's family camp. This photo triggered a memory of that boat for Rob.

Art 'Rob' Robinson not too long before his death, with his brother, Barney, and nephew, Brad Bradford.

Aunt Phyllis.

Aunt Phyllis, Uncle Barney, Lisa Field, and Shirley and John Bradford.

Rear: Gayle, Rob, Phyllis, Barney, Kaitlynn and Brad
Front: John (Gayle's son), Linda, Lisa, Tara holding Anthony, Zach and Wesley down front.

Brad and Rob. I love this photo.

A Great Start to the Year

It is almost impossible for me to believe that we've been here at Fisheating Creek two days less than four weeks. This has been our longest stay in one place since we embarked on our adventure of a lifetime. We've left the campground only for groceries and other necessities, and we attended an RV show. I haven't even pulled out my camera. I know, crazy, isn't it? And, stupid. But, I'm in the middle of one of 13 (or is it 14?), books I've read since we arrived on January 7th. It has been a welcome respite, although in my literary immersion I got lazy and failed to schedule an airboat tour of the Everglades. I've wanted to ride on an airboat since I was about 7 years old, when The Everglades TV show was airing. Oh snap, and sigh. It's just another reason to come back.

We've had some chilly weather, and rain off and on, which kept us indoors or under our awning a bit. We met some wonderful folks and got reacquainted with others. We walked around the campground and checked the creek for alligators and it's always fun when one is spied; had a potluck up front at the campground entrance with the camp hosts and workers during the Friday evening check-in parade that marked the start of the MLK Jr. holiday weekend.

The campground was 100% full during the holiday weekend. It was great to see people out riding bikes, kids running around, the creek full of kayaks and canoes, campfires all over the place, and laughter in the air. Rob even took a video of kids riding a zipline the adults had strung between two big trees. They secured it in such a way as not to damage the trees and, boy, did it keep the kids entertained. If they fell, it would have been a short fall, maybe potential for a broken arm, but the risk was worth it for all the fun they had. But all of us who were here for more than just a weekend were glad when it was over and peace settled over us again.

We were fortunate that a particular family was assigned the three sites that were beside us on one side, the one behind that, and the one behind us. This family is Cuban and from Miami. And what a wonderful family! So very friendly and welcoming, and so… well, normal. Beside us was Luis and Stephanie. Stephanie is from Colombia, so Rob was thrilled to relate our experiences when we were in Colombia. Luis and Stephanie had two children with them—a son and a daughter—in their travel trailer. Behind them was Luis's parents, Luis Sr. and Annie, who camped with their teardrop trailer (which is the only thing I photographed). Luis Sr. built the teardrop and is still in the process of finishing it. So cute! Behind us were Jose and Rose in their travel trailer. Not only did we enjoy their company, but they introduced us to Cuban coffee.

Cuban coffee aka Italian coffee is pretty much sweetened espresso and it can be addicting. We were served the coffee in little plastic cups like those used in hospitals for pills; and, Luis Jr. had mini red solo cups for serving his brew. Both Rob and I wanted to start singing Toby Keith's Red Solo Cup when we saw them. They were adorable!

On the morning that all but Jose and Rose were leaving, I started asking questions about how they make their Cuban coffee. Even though Luis and Annie were packing up their teardrop, they stopped what they were doing to show me how by making a pot of it for me. They demonstrated how they mix the sugar with the first tiny bit of coffee produced to make a frothy paste, which looks a bit like butter and brown sugar when creamed; and how to know when the coffee is finished 'perking' as it is done by a pressure-cooker kind of method. They served it up in the little cups and then gave me the remainder to use for iced coffee later. Rob and I so enjoyed the treat but, that night, our bloodstreams were so infused with concentrated caffeine that we hardly slept. I found some decaffeinated coffee, but it also has enough caffeine in it that you can't drink it in the evening—I say no later than 3pm. 

Nonetheless, I did a little research on the cuban coffeemakers on Amazon. I went to see Jose and Rose to ask which kind they used so I'd know which to order. They asked what the prices were and just about fell over. I told them I'd found a 6-cup coffeemaker for about $30 and they said no, no, no! They so graciously offered to buy what we wanted in Miami since they were leaving their trailer and would be back the following weekend. I took them up on it and we now have 2-cup and 6-cup coffeemakers, a small pitcher for mixing the sugar and a can of Jose and Rose's preferred brand of coffee, all for the bargain price of $23.21. Thank you Jose and Rose! And it was a pleasure to meet you and your family.

If you read my last post, you'll know that I took our cat, Spooky, to the Humane Society's Vet Clinic, only to find out that he has a potentially life threatening injury probably caused by whatever happened that broke his ribs. I contemplated taking him to the animal hospital recommended by the Vet, but decided not to. Spooky has managed so far and I decided my main concern is his cough. It's funny that the Vet seemed to zero in on Spooky's other issue, which of course could shorten his life, but entirely ignored the cough I described. I would think that getting his lungs healthy would be a prerequisite to any kind of surgery, wouldn't you?

I researched online what to do to treat cat coughs and found that giving them Robitussen expectorant is acceptable. Well, we couldn't find regular Robitussen anywhere, so we bought the children's brand, flavored grape. Spooky would froth and foam at the mouth with each dose, even though it was helping. He hates it so much that the last time I tried to dose him four days ago, I had Rob hold him. He would have none of it! While I tried to get the medicine dropper in his mouth, he fought hard and he'd snap his jaws closed. He squirmed just as I tried to open his mouth again and clamped his mouth shut right on my thumb. My thumb was kind of upside down when his bottom tooth entered my thumb directly next to my thumbnail, slicing me open from about two-thirds back to the end of my thumb, and fairly deeply because he's got big, long, teeth for a cat, and punctured the other side with his top tooth. Holy crap it hurt! I was breathing hard and steady and getting dizzy (no I wasn't hyperventilating), and fighting off the vagal response that I am known to get when I feel exquisite pain. It was all I could do to tend to the wound before laying upon the couch to further breathe through the pain. My greatest worry was the puncture wound because they tend to heal from the outside in, which can promote infection. So I've pampered it by breaking it open several times a day, washing it and applying more antibiotic. It is on the mend.

What I learned, and now know for a fact, is that more than our big, human brains, it's our thumbs that caused us to become masters of the world. If I ever doubted it, I don't anymore.

I will now have to order cough tablets (expensive) for Spooky from one of the sites online when I know we'll be stopped long enough to receive delivery.

For me, one of the joys of our time here was the visit from my old junior high and high school friend, John Olexa. He brought along his lady, Marilyn, and we had a lovely, companionable afternoon and evening. While reminiscing, one of the things John said to me completely warmed and touched my heart. When we were in 8th grade, we were allowed to leave school to go home for lunch. One day, I went with my friend, Paula, to her house. Paula was on her 20 inch bicycle and I was on my brother's sting-ray. To keep up with Paula, my tires had to make that many more revolutions than her larger bike, which meant I had to peddle harder and faster. While we were peddling back, just a few blocks away from school, my left foot slipped off the peddle, which then hit me on the back of my calf immediately stopping the bike. I was propelled by momentum up and over the handlebars, landing on the pavement and sliding a foot or more on my teeth and mouth until I came to a rest in a heap. I still remember the moment my two front teeth broke. I got back on the bike, accompanied by Paula, and rode home. My mom took one look at me and cried, "Oh, your beautiful teeth!" It was devastating—more because I'd never known my mom thought I had beautiful teeth. My mom set out to get me to the dentist, and Paula went back to school. A couple of classmates witnessed the whole thing, Henry Reevey and darned if I can remember the other fellow's name, who I'm sure told the tale of Linda Luiz busting her two front teeth. John told me that after he'd heard what happened (I won't use the same words he did), that if he'd been just a little bit braver, he would've walked out of school to come see if I was alright. Just that he even thought about doing that for me is one of the sweetest, kindest things I've ever been blessed to know. I love you, John, my dear friend. Always have, always will.

Then there was Jim and Liz. We met them first when we were at Fisheating Creek before going to The Keys. I had just noticed Jim's dogs, Belgium Shepherds, thinking, "Hey! I remember those dogs," when Rob said, "Oh, look who it is!" They were equally excited about seeing us again. I heard Liz tell Jim, "Hey, look who's back!" 

When Liz heard that Rob's birthday was on Sunday, she mentioned that Jim's birthday was on Tuesday. So Tuesday morning I paid a kindness forward and baked Snickerdoodles for his birthday. He seemed astonished that I'd go to the trouble for him. And he said he'd never had Snickerdoodles before. Poor, poor guy. All these years of missing out on something as good as Snickerdoodles. And he loved them.

This afternoon we'll be off to Mike and Janet's camp for Super Bowl—which is just an excuse to eat, drink and be merry.

Yes, it has been a good month. Happy 2014.

Luis and Annie's Teardrop Trailer.

Our Cuban Coffee supplies.