Savage Ramblings

Floydata was a grease monkey, a sunshade mechanic that technology had left behind.   The garage he ran sat just on the fringe of Lefthand, WV.  A small mountain village in a rural area of a rural state.  The building was surrounded by the obligatory rusted hulks of decades past.  A Desoto Firedome Coupé, its chrome pitted and rusted, sits on rotten tires, a tribute to the age of tail fins.  Relics of bygone pickup trucks, missing headlights or grills or both, steel browned from years of exposure with no SPF 50, litter the lot.  A couple of Studebaker Hawks could be project cars, if someone were interested, but interested people don’t live in Lefthand.  Floydata could fix just about anything, as long as it was vintage, or before computers, fuel injection, catalytic converters and a plethora of smog stuff took residence in Henry’s progeny.  Carbs, two barrel or four or multi-sets, presented no challenge.  As a good musician might play by ear, he could tune a V-8 just by the sound resonating off the exhaust.  The engineers in Detroit, Tokyo and Munich had relegated mechanics like Floydata as useless as an Encyclopedia Britannica in the age of laptops and tablets.  He still managed an existence with oil changes, lube jobs and tires, but he was part of a dying breed either unable or unwilling to adapt.  

Floydata had two loves in his life, his motorcycle and his girl.  His bike was a 1977 Harley-Davidson Sportster, Confederate Edition, sporting a grey paint job, stars and bars on the gas tank and a general’s sleeve braid on the front fender.  While his riding gear amounted to “washed twice a year” dungarees, scuffed Red Wings, sweat stained T-shirt and leather jacket, adorned with Viet Vet, Army, and H-D patches; the bike was immaculate. Not a scratch, a ding, or a spot of road grime was evident as he mounted up for a weekend ride with his girl. 

Flovanna was a country girl, a mountain girl; if Lefthand had streets, she’d been street savvy.  As it was, she was just “country smart”.  Working two jobs since leaving school early with a G.E.D.; she spent mornings slinging hash in “Jolene’s Cafe” and evenings slinging beer and cheap drinks at “Big Dick’s” bar.  A favorite with the regulars at “Big Dick’s”, she was easy to spot.  A tall drink of water, legs to rival a giraffe and curves like a grand prix circuit.  Nature had blessed her in many ways.  Her tits, while not overly abundant, were nestled close, creating a grand canyon of cleavage that men wanted to get lost in.  Flovanna knew her assets.  She didn’t flaunt them, she didn’t tease them, but she didn’t tuck them away in a turtleneck either.  Just call it product placement.  

Floy and Flo were holdouts.  Their contemporaries had departed for jobs, lives and futures in places like Charleston, Huntington, Pittsburgh or Cincinnati.  There was nothing to hold Floy in Lefthand except maybe Flo.  Flo was there for her mom.  She’d known her all of her life; it was a strong bond built of love, mutual respect and a changing role of dependency.  So there they were, hold outs in a futureless town that time was bypassing.  Sharing what lives they had, being tossed together, victims of circumstance as fate played a closely held hand.  

Sunday, the only day Big Dick’s didn’t open.  This was a fall Sunday, the trees emerging from the dressing rooms cloaked in reds and golds.  Days were as crisp as a fresh apple.  Flo heard the throaty rumble of the grey ghost before Floy turned the corner onto her street.  Kissing mom lightly on the cheek, she said she was off for a ride with Floy and would be back before dinner.  With that, Flo was out the door.  

Floy was in the driveway, straddling the bike as it rested on its kickstand.  With his scuffed Red Wings, dusty dungarees, leather jacket, the chain connecting belt and wallet hanging low along his leg, red Stars and Bars bandana tied around his head, eyes hidden behind a pair of Walmart shades, Floy was the archetypical portrait of a biker.  As the house door opened, Floy re-fired the Harley.  The twin V roared to life as the kickstand snapped up in response to Floy’s boot.  Without a word, Flo settled in behind Floy.  The straight pipes resounded with the thunder of exhaust as Floy headed out of town.  

The county road was quiet on this Sunday afternoon.  As the road climbed out of the valley, Floy rolled the bike side to side as he negotiated the hairpin turns.  One valley over, the county road tee’d with a state road.  With barely a boulevard stop, Floy hung a right and headed north.  Flo, with her arms wrapped around his waist, snuggled against Floy’s back.  The colors of autumn flew by, weaving a kaleidoscope of hues.  Deep greens of pine opposed the soft yellows of the ash.  Oak punctuated the scene with brilliant reds while maples, caught on the fence, moderated with tones of orange.  On they rode.  

Another right turn took them east and back across the mountain ridge.  As the bike climbed effortlessly through hairpins, the shadows grew longer and the temperature cooled.  As they approached the summit, Flo nuzzled Floy ear, “Floy, Floy baby, I’m cold!”  With that and without any statement, Floy found a wide spot in the road, eased over and silenced his ride.  “Flo honey, git down.  I got an idea,” says Floydata as he began to dismount.  Removing his leather jacket, he held it for Flo to slip on.  Back on the bike, the twin V roared to life, the reverberation flushing songbirds from nearby trees.  Back on the road, the tires sang their song on the pavement while Floy had his own rhythm rolling the bike side to side as he navigated the turns down the mountain. 

Flo, with her lips close to his ear, called out over the rumble of the bike, “Floy, Floy baby.  I’m still cold!” Again, without muttering a sound, Floy found a spot to stop.  Just like before, Floydata had an idea.  “Flo honey, zip the jacket and turn up the collar.”  With the jacket zipped, the collar flipped, and her ass back in the seat, the two were back on the highway, enjoying the throb of motor, the onrushing wind and nature around them.  

Her arms wrapped a bit more tightly around him.  She snuggled closer to his back.  It didn’t matter how close she got to him, how much she tried to shelter herself, the wind continued to siphon the heat from her body.  Once more she called out to him, “Floy, Floy baby, I just can’t get warm. I’m freezin’ here baby!”  Just as before, Floy began to bring the bike to a stop.  This time he didn’t need a wide spot in the road as they had come to a stop sign, where they needed to turn south, back towards Lefthand.  With nary a vehicle in sight, Floy stopped the bike at the edge of the pavement.  Off the bike, he turned to Flo, “Honey, I got an idea, take the jacket off.”  With a certain reluctance, Flo removed the jacket and handed it over to Floydata.  Floy took the jacket, turned it around and offered it back to Flo, “Flo honey, put it on backwards and I’ll zip it up for you.”  She placed her arms into the sleeves; right arm in the left sleeve, left arm in the right sleeve.  Turning away from Floy, he pulled the jacket to and zipped it, all the way to the collar.  Turning her back around, Floy then turned the jacket collar up across her face.  “There, that should cut the wind and keep you warm.  Now, sit that sweet ass of yours back on the bike and let’s get home!”  

“Floy baby, you’re a wonderful and thoughtful guy.  You take such good care of me.” Flo climbed back onto her perch behind Floy.  

The Harley rumbled to life.  As a semi barreled towards the intersection, Floydata turned onto the highway.  The semi driver, reacting to the sudden appearance of the motorcycle in his lane, blasted the air horn as he swung left, just far enough to pass, but squeezing Floy and Flo to the berm.  Floy wasn’t happy.  

As the needle on Floy’s pressure regulator pegged, so did the throttle under his right hand.  Racing up to the rear of the semi, Floy spotted a bumper sticker.  It said, “I maybe slow, but I’m ahead of you.” With that straw, Floy’s camel dropped to its knees and rolled over.  Floy was looking to pass and looking hard.  A turn stopped the first attempt.  The second time he pulled out, he met a semi coming the other way and ducked back just in time.  Just in time avoided the oncoming truck, but wasn’t helpful as his antagonist slammed on the brakes to miss a deer.  

As the deer scampered safely away and up the embankment, smoke rolled off the semi’s tires as 70,000 lbs struggled to stop.  Behind the semi, having accelerated to pass, Floydata couldn’t react quickly enough.  It probably didn’t help that the front wheel just fit under the Mansfield bar.  When the front frame member contacted with the semi, Floydata had already begun to leave his seat as inertia rocketed him forward.  Flovanna’s own inertia helped to propel him forward as her screams in his ear blocked out the squeal of his own tires, fighting to find grip.  The bike couldn’t find purchase fast enough.  Lightened of it’s load as the two bodies went airborne, the Grey Ghost slipped down and under the semi’s frame.  Floy, locked in Flo’s death grip, abruptly became one with the trailer’s doors.  In rapid succession, first his nose, then forehead and teeth as his face flatten like a penny left on the rails.  

Flo was more fortunate, only because she had Floy as a cushion.  As much of a cushion as a pillow on a bed of nails, but it did work.  Call it a going away present, only Floydata was the one leaving.  Slowly, everything ground to a stop and like a Looney Tunes cartoon, Floydata and Flovanna slipped down to the pavement from where they left their impact marks on the trailer.  The Confederate Edition Sportster was instantly reduced to a relic of bent steel and crushed chrome; its stars and bars to no longer fly.  

First on the scene was the local sheriff.  He arrived, siren singing and bubble gum light spinning its red beacon, the lighthouse of the highway.  The sheriff began his initial investigation and was interviewing the semi driver when the volunteer rescue squad arrive.  As the EMTs bailed out of their squad, equipment kits in tow, one called out, “Hey, sheriff, what we got here?”  

“Well, from the looks of it, Floydata here was killed outright in the collision.  Flovanna seemed to have survive the impact until I turned her head around the right way.”

I really don’t like having a schedule and a place to be.  Before I go any farther, for those whom we visiting later this month, know that we are greatly pleased to attend your events.  This is not a negative about seeing you.  It is a general post about our preferred style of travel.  

We tend to avoid traveling the same road twice.  OK, sometimes it’s impossible, especially leaving South Padre Island; there are only select routes available.  If we travel down road A and don’t see anything we want to see, why should we travel that road again?  Consequently, we seek new routes, new towns and new vistas.  Not having a schedule allows us to travel at our pace.  We stop when we want to stop and head on down the road when it suits us.  

What do Rogers Hornsby, Billy the Kid, Buddy Holly, Coronado’s Bridge, Aztec ruins, petroglyphs, opera and the Pony Express have in common? Three are carbon life forms.  They all represent places or things we drove by enroute to where we have to be.  Limited in time, unable to explore, we made some mental notes about possibly returning someday. 

 Rogers Hornsby was born in Winters, TX.  The Buddy Holly museum is in Lubbock, TX.  Billy the Kid is buried near Ft. Sumner, NM and there is a museum dedicated to him located there.   New Mexico is also home to many early man sites, Aztec ruins, petroglyphs and remains of Coronado’s explorations.  The old Pony Express route parallels U.S. Rte 50.  There is a station located in Cold Springs, NV and another in Sand Springs, NV.  Eureka, NV is home to an opera house; who’d-a thunk it!  None of these are worthy of a pilgrimage (OK, maybe the BH museum), but if we retrace the route, we’ll visit some of the sites.  

That’s the enjoyment of a nomadic lifestyle.  We don’t mind going off the beaten track, especially if we think we’ll find something interesting.  When we don’t, we move on.  If we do, we stay to explore.  People often think we have set destinations.  As an example; spring in SPI, summer in Oregon, fall in California and winter in Arizona or New Mexico.  Our only set destination has been SPI.  We hope this year to see Western Canada (Alberta) and then head towards Eastern U.S. locales.  We don’t know where we will be in the winter, but spring will have us back in SPI.  

Greetings from Goliad, TX.  The state has combined a historical site with a small state park and the coupling is very satisfactory.  We’ve stayed here several times prior and now that we are back into migration mode, it seemed to call us for one more stop. 

After a lackluster two months of spring sailing, SPI gave me a down and dirty kiss off with a northern front bringing strong winds and cool temperatures. The winds kicked in Thursday afternoon, but unlike the usual northerners.  During winter when a front sweeps down across the Rio Grande Valley (RGV), the typically southeast winds calm, perhaps swinging a bit east before dying off.  Then you notice a slight rustle of palm fronds as the north wind just tickles the trees.  A gentle prelude to the pending pounding.  Like a wife greeting a wayward hubby at 4AM, all Hell breaks loose as the north wind explodes with gusts topping 40-45 mph.  The bay froths as the wind whips the waters; the temperature drops ten to fifteen degrees within a couple of hours.  

Thursday’s northerner was more like a Floyd Mayweather feint.  The wind shifted east, then northeast, blowing fairly steady with some mild gusts.  Then it backed off for about an hour.  At 4PM, the explosion came as the earlier jab was followed with a uppercut to the midsection.  Wind speeds climbed through 20 and into the 30’s before topping out over 40 mph.  The RV rocked all evening and into the night.  In the early hours, I finally elected to pull in the slides, just to quiet the noise.  

Friday morning, I bolted to the beach at 7AM with hopes of being first on the water and of catching some strong winds before the front settled.  The first goal was easily obtained.  I had finished rigging my smallest sail (3.5m) and my smallest board, when the second car arrived.  A young man from Poland asked what I had rigged, then commented he would rig a 4.0 because that’s what he had.  I felt for him as I expected to be overpowered with my smaller sail.  I was.  My first thirty minutes on the water was a highlight of trying to stay in control and finding soft spots between the gusts when I could jibe.  By one o’clock, the wind was beginning to subside. I had been able to stay on the 3.5, but had to change boards, going for a bit more floatation.  Now I either had to rig a bigger sail or go home.  Packing up, fully satiated, I headed back to KOA.  

Friday ended much as it began, with an emotional rush.  We enjoyed a wonderful dinner with long time friends Ken, Ramona, Jay and Lisa before we shared good-bye hugs and good nights.  Another SPI season drew to a close, highs and lows wiped out by just one wonderful day.  

Before the story is the setting.  KOA is a campground built on the remnants of an old water treatment plant.  The pool was a filtration pond.  The original water tanks have been converted into offices, condos and the activity center. It’s all quite ingenious in the way the old water plant facilities have been recycled.  

One of the problems experienced with the offices and activity center has to do with the steel plate construction.  The salt air wreaks havoc on the paint and steel, requiring periodic sand blasting to remove accumulated rust and to prep for repainting.  KOA is currently undergoing this project.  The windows and doors are covered to shield them from the abrasive sand, but little reduces the sound of the sandblasting against the external steel walls.  The increased decibel level makes phone conversations especially difficult.  Against this background I present the following tale. 

“It’s a great day at South Padre KOA.  This is Linda.  How can I help you?” It was at this point the sandblasting work began.  

“Hi, I’d like to ask about renting a unit.”

“I’M SORRY, IT’S REALLY LOUD HERE.  CAN YOU SAY THAT AGAIN?”

“YES, IT’S LOUD HERE ALSO.  I WANT TO RENT A UNIT.”

“A EUNACH, YOU WANT TO RENT A EUNACH?”

“YES, A UNIT.  CAN I RESERVE A UNIT?”

“OH, A UNIT, NOT A EUNACH.  THAT MAKES SO MUCH MORE SENSE.  YES, I CAN RESERVE A UNIT FOR YOU.”  HOW MANY PEOPLE?

“JUST ME.”

“AND HOW OLD ARE YOU?”

“21 AND MY COUSIN IS 19.”

“SO, IT’S YOU AND YOUR COUSIN?”

“YES, JUST THE TWO OF US.  UNLESS MY SISTER COMES ALSO.”

“SO TWO PEOPLE OR MAYBE THREE.”

“YES, UNLESS SOMEONE ELSE COMES WITH US.”

“OK.  DO YOU HAVE ANY PETS?”

“ANY WHAT?”

“ANY PETS.”

“NO WE DON’T HAVE A TENT.  WE WANT TO RENT A UNIT.”

“NOT A TENT, PETS…P-E-T-S…PETS.”

“IT’S REALLY LOUD HERE, CAN YOU SPELL THAT AGAIN?”

“PETS…P-E-T-S…YOU KNOW, DOGS…CATS”

“OH, PETS!  NO, NO PETS”

“OK, HOW DO YOU WANT TO HOLD THE RESERVATION?”

“CASH, I PLAN TO PAY WITH CASH.”

“THAT’S FINE, BUT I NEED A CREDIT CARD TO HOLD THE RESERVATION.”

“CAN I COME IN AND PAY CASH IN ADVANCE?”

“SURE, YOU CAN DO THAT”

“OK, I’LL BE RIGHT THERE.”

With that, Linda hung up the phone.  The front door opened and a 21 year old woman entered, “I spoke to you about reserving a unit.”

Linda asked, “Were you just standing outside?”

“Yes,” came the reply, “and it was so loud I could barely hear you over that machinery!” 

Well Duh!

It was an off day, no wind, no sailing.  I offered to go with Carol to Laguna Atacosa National Wildlife refuge, just north of the town of Laguna Vista and the Cameron County Airport.  This would be my first trip to the refuge.  Carol had been once prior with friend Peggy.  Dennis and Jill had spoken often of their birding trips to the preserve, so I felt familiar with the facility.  

The volunteer at the visitors’ center told Carol about several areas of bird sightings.  He also mentioned the alligator.  Because of the draught, most of the alligators have moved to another area in the refuge, but one holdout remains.  Carol and Peggy had seen him on their visit and Carol commented to the volunteer how the “gator” looked fake.  It is a problem for the refugee.  They try to ensure visitors are well informed about the danger of the alligator, but people are stupid.  Now the preserve is rethinking the policy of allowing him to run free.  

Carol and I headed out along the one of the many paths.  Not far along we found the “gator” basking in the sun at the junction of two paths.  We gave due respect and took a different path so as not to disturb the wildlife.  

Later, back outside the visitor’s center, I spoke with some women visiting from Wisconsin and Minnesota while Carol worked her skills with her camera.  The three women had come to sign up for the nature tour the following day.  Carol finished with her photos and we moved off towards the parking lot.  The three women were on their way also, when Carol asked if they had seen the alligator.  Two of them were excited about the opportunity, so while the driver re-parked their vehicle, Carol led the other two down the path towards “jaws”.  Finding the alligator, Carol left the two women and returned to me, sitting quietly in the van.  As she was telling me about finding the gator, one of the women came running. 

I looked down the path as Carol spoke.  The one women was running quickly from the area where the alligator had been.  Her arms waving frantically overhead.  My immediate impression was one of dread.  What the hell had happened?  Did the other gal get too close enabling something bad to happen?  But before I could get to far into the negativity, the other woman came running up the other path.  Ok, all is good, but what is the excitement about?  

 While they were watching the alligator, an indigo snake slithered out from the undergrowth.  The alligator evidently determined the snake was trespassing and decided to take action.  In the blink of an eye, his jaws snatched the snake and thrust it skyward, giving it a mighty shake before slamming it back to the ground.  Message sent; message received.  Released, the indigo quickly vacated the area, while the gator returned to basking in the sun.  The women were so excited with this Nat Geo moment that neither of them got any photos.  Who could blame them?  It was probably over in twenty seconds; a display of nature acting as few ever see it.   

It was a moist warm morning as I stepped out for a walk.  Book in hand, I began loops through the KOA, trying to finish a David Baldacci novel started too long past.  Light enough to read, the sun was playing an early game of peek-a-boo from behind the clouds, having broken the horizon just moments earlier.  

Moist.  Dew had settled overnight.  Every surface was damp with beads of nature’s sweat.  The still air hung heavy.  My glasses didn’t fog as much as they slowly clouded with an ever increasing haze.  A haze you don’t notice until you look past them, seeing colors as they are, not like a high def TV through wax paper.  

As the sun began to burn through the clouds, tangerine air hung over the gulf.  The clouds had definition and colors of grey.  The drama was not in the clouds, but in the air as moisture filtered the sunlight.  No definition, no structure of cloud, no start or finish, just a soft glow of orange.  Expanding slowly, but never intrusive, never the primary focus of your eye, the orange hue diminished with growth until like the little man upon the stair, it wasn’t there.