Hitchhiker

Blazing blacktop road to the horizon, melting in the unapologetic sun, Flanked by soggy fields sprayed with chemicals for too many generations, all banned now and leeched into the local groundwater. Heading West on that burning sauna of a Florida afternoon, radio says it's 101 in the shade, although there is none of that in sight... just open fields of anemic cabbages raised too long sucking on a Monsanto teat, slowly killing the earth and themselves

Heat snakes undulate skyward, blurring the horizon, dancing in mirage pools that evaporate into the searing oven with my approach.

A shape on the side of the road ahead, at first fuzzy, unfocused, sharpens in flashes until I see him clearly. Dirty, stooped, dragging a piece of cheap airline luggage like an errant child, jumping and bucking, resisting with a broken wheel. His back to oncoming traffic, his left thumb turned slightly outward with my approach, barely visible. An appeal destined to fail, a question already answered by his hunched, defeated shuffle. He was heading the right way, walking hand in hand with a thousand miles of hopelessness, going toward a little farm town that no longer had anything left to offer, as sick and toxic as the water that ran through its veins.

Dustdevils nipped at his heels, pushing him to continue his shuffle down the road to nowhere.

Carla was 21, I was 30. We met at The Reston Times newspaper. She did the classifieds, I handled circulation. In about the time it takes to say “I do”, we did, in the living room of a local JP. We immediately moved to a funky little cabin deep in some very remote Ohio woods. Grad school was the justification but “getting to know you” was more like it. After a year without running water or indoor plumbing, we not so reluctantly left the outhouse behind and moved back to Reston, VA, our old stomping grounds. I needed to get busy, find work or lose my mind. Carla pushed me to interview with an air courier company that was moving its headquarters to Reston. That proved to be a crazy ride, ten years, from graveyard shift customer service, to VP and GM of a spin off in DC and one in NYC. 

Eastern shuttle back and forth.

But back to the couch. Ruth didn’t come along for five years, so four of those years were spent, just the two of us, in a one bedroom, ground floor apartment within walking distance of scenic Lake Anne and the place where we first met. 

Full circle. 1978 Sweet times for us.

As children do though, Ruth changed everything. All for the better. Carla discovered her reason for being and never looked back. It was her passion for Ruth, and then Hannah five years later, that was the impetus for her to quit her job, embrace those girls, and hold on tight 24-7 until they both went off on their own. Carla got rid of the TV and home schooled them, unschooled really. 

Countless hours were spent at the library, in a corner nook at the local Goodwill store and in a sticky red vinyl booth at Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor. Ruth always ordered a big sundae that she didn’t eat while all three read to each other from a huge pile of books that they lugged from here to there.

I may have been the breadwinner in those days, but Carla was the real star. 

She showed those girls how to be the smart, strong, successful, independent women that they are today, just like Mom.

Octopus!

I realized that I was making approving grunts, like sex noises, as I ate this grilled octopus, alone. Carla is at work so it's just me and the dogs.

This cephalopod was on the agenda. He came cleaned and frozen from Hulls Seafood in Ormond Beach. They're just South of us by 45 miles, a spectacular drive, evocative of another time. Get off of 95 South at Old Dixie Highway. That takes you through Tomoka State Park, twenty miles of Florida jungle, palms, waterways, mangroves. The road is a tree tunnel through old oaks that reach across the road in an embrace, draped heavily with Spanish Moss, all hung by nature and the Gods. A shaded hollow through the trees with sunlight blasting through intermittently, stinging eyes as it breaks through the canopy. A million light bulbs flashing in your face as you drive. Then, quickly, you're out in coastal suburbia. Go to the light take a right. Hulls is on the right. They have a restaurant and a seafood market side by side. It's a family thing. They've been doing it for years, they catch it on their own boats and fix it for you in the restaurant or sell it in the store. All fresh and local, as it should be.

This octopus was five pounds, a frozen ball that cooks down to less than half that size. Caught live, immediately dispatched to octopus nirvana, cleaned and flash frozen. Six dollars. Great deal. I thaw it in the refrigerator for a day, rinse and cover with brine and herbs in a large pot. Let it rest for another day or two. Take it out, dry it off, slather it with olive oil and throw it on a hot grill for a few minutes, just to get the grill marks. By itself with only a sprinkle of salt & pepper or maybe sliced up on top of a fresh Greek Salad, it’s hard to beat.

It’s so damn delicious, easy and affordable…one of the many reasons we love living here in St Augustine…

George Madison Maverick

My Grandfather, George Madison Maverick, was born in 1893. That’s him on the bottom right, with the big ears. This picture was taken at Sunshine Ranch in San Antonio. No shirt, no shoes, no problem. Grandpa was one of 13. That’s his dad, seated on the left. He was the son of the more famous Samuel Augustus Maverick, who was an accomplished surveyor and attorney. Sam played a leading role in gaining Texas independence from Mexico and was a signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence.

Samuel Augustus Maverick was once paid a debt in cattle. Not being a rancher, he didn't brand them, so the local, unbranded cows that ran free became known as "Mavericks". That coined the term meaning "unconventional" or out-of-the-box".

The Mavericks have pretty much stuck with that behavior ever since.

His grandson, my Grandfather, outgrew his humble beginnings on the ranch, earning a doctorate in chemistry from MIT and becoming a VP in the Standard Oil company. By the time I knew him, Grandpa had retired from Standard Oil and was a professor in the school of business at the University of Virginia, living just outside Charlottesville on 325 acres of land that traced back some 200 years to our family roots there.

To me, Grandpa was funny and loving, often acting gruff to hide the strong emotion he felt for his family or for any underdog who needed a helping hand, including dogs themselves. His word was his bond and much like another George, that guy who became our first president, I don’t believe Grandpa George ever told a lie. A smart, balanced, accomplished, man, Grandpa, like Grandma, knew he wasn’t better than anyone else in this world, but he damn sure was just as good.

From around 1955 through 1970, I spent a lot of time at their place, “Shepherds Hill Farm”, in Charlottesville, Va. If Grandpa wasn’t in his den reading the Wall Street Journal, he was probably in his shop, working on one of the many chests, tables, and benches he produced toward the end of his life.

I own the large chest he carved for Grandma Ruth, to celebrate their Golden wedding anniversary. He was so happy when the shipment of that huge mahogany board arrived from South America, and worked on that chest incessantly throughout the  summer of 1971 while I was staying there. The high whine of his router ebbed and flowed in tandem with a million cicadas while he carved patterns into the wood. Dust Devils of smoke and sawdust swirled in spurts from his open shop doors. Stopping by several times a day, I prodded him: “What’s that going to be, Grandpa? What are you making?” With false intolerance for the familiar question, he would say: “You don’t ask Picasso what he’s painting, do you?” Finally, one afternoon when Grandma had taken the yellow Nash Rambler wagon into town to do some grocery shopping at the Safeway Store, Grandpa changed his answer to: “It’s my casket, dammit! I’ll be buried in it!” Apparently he had been telling Grandma the same thing. She always shut such talk down with: “Oh George, stop!” But now, with her taillights just a red speck down the road, Grandpa saw a photo opportunity. He had me help carry that big mahogany chest out into the sunlight and promptly stepped inside and sat down. Adjusting his straw Fedora, Grandpa he barked: “OK, take a picture. We’ll call it OLD MAN IN HIS BOX. But we have to hurry up before Grandma comes back.”

Now, almost fifty years later, that picture I took stares out at me from the open lid of Grandma’s box. It was her anniversary present after all, not his coffin.

The day before he died, the EMT guys wheeled him out to a waiting ambulance. Grandpa was wearing his straw Fedora and holding a neatly folded Wall Street Journal to his chest. The next day, I was alone with him in the mortuary, saying my last goodbyes. I wished him well on his journey, assured him that we would take good care of Grandma, and slipped a copy of the Wall Street Journal under his folded hands. I should have asked where the hell his Fedora was, but I didn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter. If Grandpa had been able to, he would have joked that the straw hat would burn up immediately where he was going anyway.

Although I don't believe in such things, if there is a place where the good guys go when they die, Grandpa will be front and center...shoe-less perhaps but definitely holding the Wall Street Journal and sporting a worn straw Fedora.

Heroes?

 

In our knee-jerk reaction to emotional incidents throughout our lives, perspective can easily be swept to one side. This seems to be especially true with police officers. A friend recently posted this meme, that labels Sargent Paul Tuozzolo a “hero”.  Sgt Tuozzolo was shot and killed in the line of duty by a bad guy in Bronx, New York on Friday. Certainly I feel terrible for his family, but this "hero" label is used pretty loosely, much the same way we call too many musicians and actors “superstars”.  Unlike a lot of people in the military, Sgt Tuozzolo wasn't drafted. He applied for the job and was well aware that it involved risks. High risks. It's the 15th most dangerous job in the USA, but Is anyone who dies on a job that they knew was dangerous a hero? Did he jump in front of a friend and take a bullet for them? Did he intentionally sacrifice his own life to save others?  Did he do something above and beyond the job he was hired to do? If so, yes, he is a hero. Otherwise, he is a sad casualty of a highly risky profession, a profession which he chose to be his life’s work.  

When a police officer gets killed in the line of duty, whole communities stop and pay their respects, as they should, often referring to the death as a “tragedy”. But aren’t all unintentional deaths a tragedy? Cops are #15 on the list of “Most Dangerous Jobs in the USA”. What about trash collectors in the #5 spot? When a trash man gets run over in the street, does the whole community mourn? Do they support a funeral procession of 100 garbage trucks, lights on and all intersections opened by police so there is a continuous flow of traffic to the cemetery? After all, the trash guy was serving the community in his job too.

Don’t get me wrong. In no way am I “anti-cop”, hey, I’m glad they are out there and my hat is off to them. No way would I want to do what they do, but then I don’t want to be a trash collector either. Both chose their respective professions. The electrical power-line workers who restored our service after Hurricane Matthew a few weeks ago are #9 on the list. They pulled long hours to get us going again. Are they heroes or were they just doing a job that they know is dangerous and may occasionally demand very long hours to get power restored after a natural disaster?

Ours is a coastal town with many locals who work in fishing related industries. That’s listed as the #2 most dangerous job. When does the accidental death of a local fisherman get anything more than the standard obituary on page 5?

If cops are heroes for doing their jobs, so is the trash guy and so is the fisherman. Right?  

All of these deaths are tragedies, all are heroes, no one any more than another, but that’s not how we treat them in our communities.

Why is that?

Most Dangerous Jobs of 2014
2014 RANK OCCUPATION FATAL INJURIES PER 100,000 PEOPLE TOTAL DEATHS
1 Logging workers 110.9 78
2 Fishers and related fishing workers 80.8 22
3 Aircraft pilots and flight engineers 64 82
4 Roofers 47.4 83
5 Refuse and recyclable material collectors 35.8 27
6 Farmers, ranchers, and other agricultural managers 26.7 270
7 Structural iron and steel workers 25.2 15
8 Driver/sales workers and truck drivers 24.7 880
9 Electrical power-line installers and repairers 19.2 25
10 Taxi drivers and chauffeurs 18 68
11 First-line supervisors of construction trades and extraction workers 17.9 130
12 Construction laborers 16.9 208
13 First-line supervisors of landscaping, lawn service, and grounds keeping workers 16.4 33
14 Maintenance and repairs workers, general 14.4 68
15 Police and sheriff's patrol officers 13.5 97
16 Grounds maintenance workers 13.1 158
17 First-line supervisors of mechanics, installers, and repairers 12.3 38
18 Painters, construction and maintenance 10.8 46
19 Electricians 10.4 79
20 Telecommunications line installers and repairers 10 19

Instagram Starz...

Hannah’s Instagram account just passed 161,000 followers, 60,000 of those are new this month. She and Pablo are experiencing remarkable growth; advertisers and sponsors are beginning to beat a path to their door.

“Social media is the intersection of tech and culture. Instagram happens to be the fastest growing social media site at the moment with over 400 million users.”

Now to put that into perspective, the most followed human on earth right now is Selena Gomez. Gomez is followed by 69.7 million people, which is more than the entire population of France. Right after her are people like Taylor Swift, Beyonce, Ariana Grande, and yes, Kim Kardashian.

Other pop stars, rappers, and famous athletes make the “top 100” list as do all the rest of the Jenner’s and Kardashians. Certainly that tells us something about our culture and who we admire, at least the young people anyway. But if you’re looking for a little more depth, more substance, take comfort in knowing that National Geographic’s Instagram account weighs in at #10.

Cara Devlinge and Zendaya are in the top 26 but I have no idea who they are.

So maybe having 161,000 followers isn’t exactly earth shattering when you look at it that way, but I can’t help being proud of the fact that there are so many people who want to follow a positive example of health, fitness, and balance. Over 200 newbies every hour of the day, 24-7.

High five to Hannah and Pablo. They kick ass.

Hannah always has.

https://www.instagram.com/gypsyon__/

Put a Lid on It...

I’ve done this before, asked my Facebook peeps for your hat preferences, but feedback last time was minimal. I think I offered too many choices…or maybe, people just didn’t give a shit and kept scrolling down, looking for something more interesting. I understand, that’s what I did when I first saw my own post.

Let’s keep it simple. This time there are only two hat choices: A or B? Which one should I try to wear out in public before I rip it off and throw it into a closet for another year? One year from now just I’ll repost my query when Facebook pushes me with their “One Year Ago” prompt
.
But if the vote is clear this time, I won’t post this again. It’s no big corundum, simply pick hat A or B. What say you?

You see, the real problem here, is that I don’t wear hats. Ever. Truth is, I hate hats. But I’m hating baldness even more these days. I feel self-conscious about strutting around sporting a head that looks like a penis with a face.

So maybe I’ll break down and put on a hat, even if doing so causes me extreme hat rage, which it does.  I start to scream inside, doing my best to suppress the urge to cut someone with a sharp object and lap their blood dispassionately like a bored domestic cat. Hats do that to me. But this bald thing? Now that really pisses me off and I think maybe it would be best for everyone if I learn how to put a lid on it.

What’s your pick, A or B?

(BTW, that thing I'm doing with my mouth? That's a warm smile.)