Catching up, It's the last week of my Florida adventure.

February 11

Dinner at the home of  Bob and Hildur Skaggs, Barb Saunders’ parents.  Her brother Mike, his wife Ruth Ann, son Jonathon and Ruth Ann’s mother Dolores joined us.  A nice evening with a nice group of people.

February 12

Rode the bike to Sanibel, an easy 12 miles to get there from the condo.  Then came the causeway and its bridge.  You probably would look at the bridge and say, “No problem.”  YOU weren’t on a bike.  I cursed quietly to myself a little and rode over onto the island.  The causeway and bridge are perhaps a mile or so long, and it took nearly ten minutes to cross.  Sanibel is a joy: a planned community that has kept as much of the island in its natural state as possible.  Beautiful beaches, and a national wildlife refuge, the J. N. “Ding” Darling Nature Preserve.  You just don’t find the myriad of t-shirt shops and fried clam shacks that you find elsewhere.  Once on the island I got lost for a couple of miles then rode about eight more miles to get to Bowman’s Beach.  According to my old BWC-mate Dawn Weber, who has visited Sanibel several times, Bowman’s used to be a nude beach.  No more.  I parked Ringo, looked around and decided that I would return.  Bowman’s looked like a real beach, not a clam shack or sunglasses hut in sight.

February 13

Stayed in town, not much going on.

February 14

I stayed in for the morning and worked on my novel.  Please look for it as soon as I attempt to e-publish when I get back to Grove City.  I had found the local Skyline Chili joint, so I went there for lunch, then back to the Caloosa Y & R Club pool for a few hours.  A group of Illinois and Kentucky farm families had commandeered the place for a get-together for the afternoon.  We peacefully coexisted.

February 15

I went to Everglades City, about an hour and a half drive from Fort Myers.  I booked an airboat ride into the ‘glades.  Since I’m traveling alone, Captain Doug’s assigned me to an airboat with two groups of elderly people: a threesome from New Jersey and a couple from Virginia.  Nice people, all.  Threesome of pelicans alighted on the bow of the boat as we headed out.  Funny, I don’t remember seeing them in the ticket line.  Captain Greg, our pilot, took us out and through the mangroves into the swamp.  He pulled a crab pot out of the water to show us the local crustaceans.  Soon we were racing down alleys through the mangroves and into a pond, where we immediately spotted a fair-sized gator.  Cap’n Greg estimated the beast to be eight feet long.  The gator swam up to the side of our boat and eyed us for lunch.  I got a couple good pictures of him/her, as Cap’n Greg said that you can’t tell the sex of one of the monsters from the surface, and that both males and females grow to at least eight feet.  I suppose it is not polite to ask a gator if it is a he or a she.  In another pond, Cap’n Greg stopped the boat to show us a family of raccoons that live at the edge of the water.  He fed them cat food and they climbed onto the bow.  As soon as we took off, the boat’s engine mightily backfired twice and failed to start.  Greg pulled us to the edge of the mangrove, tied off and radioed in for another boat.  We conversed as we waited, and I mentioned Greg’s decidedly un-Floridian accent.  He admitted to being from central upstate Michigan.  Cap’n Mike in another boat asked if we were okay, and then headed off with his passengers.  Soon, T.J., a Florida cracker if there ever was one, pulled up with another boat and a tool box.  We climbed aboard his boat and he stayed behind to work on the recalcitrant engine.  All in all, a great experience.

I stopped at Susie’s Station, a restaurant on the Everglades City town circle, across the street from the town hall.  I had lunch and snapped a few photos to prove that there simply isn’t much to Everglades City FL.  It isn’t a city; it’s barely a town, but a neat little place.

February 16

Wrote all morning, then went to the pool.  Two obnoxious New Jersey families, at different times, shattered the normal tranquility.  Their young kids ran wild, screaming in the pool and running around trying to catch one or two of the billions of tiny lizards that occupy Florida.  I think one of the younger boys must been named Jesus, because his older brother kept yelling, “Jesus!  Did you see that freakin’ lizard!  Jesus, catch the freakin’ thing, would you?”

I did not automatically assume these families were Garden Staters for any capricious reasoning.  I heard one of the kids talking about returning to New Jersey and home later in the week and I spotted  NJ plates on the other family’s minivan in the parking lot.  So, my Garden State friends, ease up.

February 17

Took another bike ride into old, uptown Fort Myers.  I observed the Caloosahatchee from the city’s riverside park, wandered the weekly farmer’s market, and rode around the memorial square.  On the ride home, for the first time since I’ve been here, a motorist honked at me in anger as I rode southbound on McGregor.  I picked up a very good area cycling map from a local bike shop that recommended riding on the sidewalks along McGregor.  Automobile speed limits vary from 25 to 35 to 45 along the way.  I chose to ride in the street, which is my normal Ohio riding practice.  I wear a helmet complete with a small rear-view mirror, an obnoxious yellow reflectorized vest, and obey the posted traffic rules at all times.  I pay keen attention to all the traffic around me, since they are in cars and trucks and I am atop Ringo.  99.9% of motorists perfectly coexist with me and share the road.  That one gent, though….  As a cyclist, you grin and bear it.  Don’t grin too long, or you’ll get bugs in your teeth.

February 18

I awoke this morning realizing that I had yet to spend time at a real Gulf Coast beach, so I packed a lunch, grabbed a beach chair and headed to Bowman’s Beach on Sanibel Island.  The causeway and bridge were only tiny obstacles in the car.  I found an empty spot on the beach, set up camp, and soon found myself among one Swedish couple and several families of Germans.  Nearby was an American family whose father a.) didn’t want to sit or lay down because of the sand and b.) didn’t want to get into the water because it was wet.  If that was the case, why the hell go to a BEACH!  Also nearby were a grandma, her female acquaintance and her two granddaughters.  The two early-teens girls a.) didn’t want to sit or lie down because of the sand, b.) begged grandma to take them to a McDonald’s they had spotted on the way to the island, and c.) wanted grandma to take them to the Dairy Queen they spotted on the island.  I wish they all would have shut up and enjoyed the beautiful day on the beautiful beach.

February 19, 20, 21.  Stayed in town, tooled around, looked at things.  Florida traffic is very logical and fairly orderly.  The traffic lights are long, but when they change, you will get through.  U-turns are legal in most places, since the main streets in Fort Myers are at least four-lane thoroughfares.  You have to make a U-turn to get to your destination if it is on the other side of the road.  Simply drive an extra block, pull a U-ey, and get into the right lane to peacefully arrive at your destination.  Ohio drivers would freak over that.

In all these days when it doesn’t seem like I do a whole lot, I usually plan a morning activity and return in time to spend two to three hours at the Caloosa Yacht and Racquet Club pool.  I bake in the sun, read one of the numerous novels I found in Barb’s spare bedroom closet, and watch the elderly people do their water aerobics or swim their laps.  When I heat up too much, I hop in, cool off, then go back to the novel.  So dear friends, it’s not like I’m sitting around doing nothing all day.

February 22.  Went to the Minnesota Twins training camp here in Fort Myers.  I found it a relief that the major leaguers do things the same way we do them at Westland High School  They just do them a lot better.  I photographed Joe Mauer, the Twins All-Star catcher, also the American League 2009 Most Valuable Player.  He’s 27 and just signed a contract for seven years and 145 million dollars.  Read that again, folks.  $145 MILLION.  The Twins website says he’s primed to get to spring training and prepare for a good year, with the contract nonsense out of the way.  He’s a Minneapolis native and wanted more than anything to stay at home in the Twin Cities.  And he’s a BEAST!  6’5”, 230, and has a field personality that says, “Listen to me, boys.  Here’s how we’re gonna do things.”  And he probably seldom has to repeat himself.  Watched an online video of an interview with him, and he seems to be a humble, friendly guy.

To the pool in the p.m.

This week in Florida...

February 4 - 5

I gave Ringo a bath and lubed him (he got rained on a few times,) grocery shopped, ran errands and hung out by the pool.  Rode Ringo around the neighborhood to orient myself.  On Friday I had a burger at the bar at the Caloosa Yacht and Racquet Club.  Not bad, but mostly an older crowd of well-dressed retirees.

February 6

A neighbor I met at the pool mentioned the Fort Myers annual street art fair, so on Sunday I donned my riding gear and took Ringo for a spin to uptown.  I parked him under the Pine Island Bridge and walked the art show, nearly a mile long.  The student arts tent had some impressive stuff, and the remainder was various arts, crafts, etc. for sale, with lots of food tents.  It reminded me of a larger version of Grove City’s Arts in the Alley, minus the parade with its marching bands.  Arts in the Alley does not take place next to the yacht basin on the Caloosahatchee River.

On the way home I passed a good-sized neighborhood gathering, complete with multiple barbecue grills, inflated kiddie amusements and lawn games.  I figured it was a Super Bowl party, so I ducked onto that access street and asked what was going on.  Former western PA and Wisconsinites lived in neighboring houses and teamed to throw one massive party for their friends and neighbors.  A man in a Troy Polamalu black and gold #43 jersey tossed corn-hole next to a guy in an Aaron Rodgers green and gold #12 jersey.  They all seemed to be having a good time, but I think “Mr. Rodgers” enjoyed a better evening than did “Mr. Polamalu.”

I returned home and watched the game.  Since both of my kids go to school in the Iron City, I vainly rooted for the Steelers.

February 7

Since I had passed the place the day before, I climbed aboard Ringo and rode to the Thomas Edison and Henry Ford winter residences in uptown Fort Myers.  A very nice staffer let me park my bike at the pavilion next to the ticket booth, as long as I locked it up.  I did so, paid my $20 admission, got my audio tour device and entered the grounds.  A society keeps the houses and grounds in immaculate condition.  The residences feature the abundance of plant life that Edison and Ford brought into the place for decoration and for use as they researched better materials.  You can’t actually enter the homes, but the first floors are on display behind glass or plexiglass doors that allow great visual access to the rooms.  The facility offers a small museum, and particularly impressive is Edison’s laboratory and workshop.  Restorers are working to shore up one wall of the facility, so the curator has temporarily removed all the glassware and lab equipment to the museum until the work is done.  Still, you can see the belt-driven power tools and equipment, the lab tables and their gas supplies, etc.  The two families donated their homes to the city many years ago, and the society can give itself a pat on the back for their painstaking work to keep the places looking so good.  Check it out if you ever find yourself here.

February 8

I did initial reconnaissance of Fort Myers Beach, about 10 miles from the condo.  The beaches are lovely, from the short glimpses I could see from the car.  One must look around any number of fried clam shacks, t-shirt and sunglasses shops, trashy beachfront dive hotels, and everything else I learned to dislike about Florida during the few other times I have visited.  I will cycle there if I return.  I want to check out Sanibel before decide on a beach, but I may have to bike there.  One must pay a $6 toll to cross the causeway, and I don’t want to pay just to drive around for a few minutes.  Bikes are free.

February 9

I decided early to visit the Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, an Audubon Society park that encompasses many acres of Florida swamp.  The park features a 2 ½ mile boardwalk that leads one through various native ecosystems, from prairie to swamp.  The place abounds with slash pine, cypress, sawgrass and sedge.  I am no naturalist, but even I noticed an abundance of birds and other wildlife.  A park volunteer pointed out the head of a 6-foot alligator, and just past there I saw a considerably larger gator sunning itself on a small rise from the surrounding swamp.  I certainly felt that Corkscrew was well worth the $10 admission.

February 10

The promise and delivery of rain has kept me inside at the computer today.  I looked up Fort Myers area night spots and settled on a dive known as ‘Bert’s Bar’ that is located in a small town to the northwest called Matlacha.  Try to pronounce that town name.  Go ahead, try.  I thought, Mat-latch-uh, Mat-lack-uh, and a few others.  According to a video posted on line, you’d have to think of Nick Lachey’s little brother Matt to get it right.  Mat-la-shay is how you pronounce it.  Anyway, Bert’s is a classic dive joint that features a short menu and live music.  The locals hang out there but won’t cast an evil eye at the occasional snowbird who wanders in.  Only one problem: absolutely no place to park.  I made several passes and did not see a single spot that did not carry a stern warning of impending towing to any unauthorized parker.  I saw no choice but to turn around and head back to closer to home.  I stopped for a carry-out pizza at a joint on McGregor Boulevard between here and uptown FTM.  I ordered and waited for my pizza.

They guy who took my order soon raced out to make deliveries and told the kitchen guy that I had already paid.  Soon the bloke came from the back and greeted me.  We conversed a moment and soon revealed that we both are former Navy men.  And then something wondrous happened: we both lapsed into salty language that one only hears around ‘old’ Navy men.  A few ‘F’ bombs fell.  This fellow had enlisted several years after I had left the Navy and complained to me how the ‘new’ Navy has wimpified itself.  The ‘old’ Navy celebrated a sailor’s passing over the equator in grand fashion.  Those who had previously made the crossing are called ‘shellbacks.’  Those awaiting their first crossing are ‘polliwogs.’  Shellbacks devised all sorts of nasty surprises for the polliwogs, such as planting an olive in the navel of the fattest, hairiest shellback aboard, whom they call the ‘royal baby,’ and made each ‘wog’ in turn remove the olive by kissing the royal baby’s belly.  They also saved garbage for weeks, stuffed it into a long plastic chute, and made each wog crawl through.  The Navy awarded each new shellback an impressive certificate.  Sailors highly prize these certificates.  According to the pizza man, he crossed the equator while this practice was still in high fashion.  The ‘old’ Navy.  Later in his career, the ‘new’ Navy had taken over and considered those practices hazing and did away with most of them.  Today’s sailors simply get hosed down with water, and may ask any shellback to stop if the wog thinks the language is too harsh.

My ship never crossed the equator, but I do hold a Submarine Force ‘Deep Dive’ certificate.  The crew of the USS Mariano G. Vallejo, SSBN-658, awarded me this certificate when I rode aboard during sea trials.  The crew must take the ship to ‘test-depth’ to make sure it can handle going deep to evade detection.  With me aboard, Vallejo ventured some 1500 feet below the surface of the western Atlantic.  I am very proud of this piece of paper, and was honored that the crew presented it to me.  It bears the signatures of Commander D.M. Lachata, the executive officer, and Commander J.S. Raybun, the commander.

The United States Navy is one of the more tradition-bound institutions on earth, adapting many traditions from the Royal Navy, who adapted them from the Vikings, who adapted them from the Phoenicians.  Yesterday’s sailors taught us, and we in turn taught those who came after us.  It’s the way of the sea, and the way of sailing ships around on those seas.  You may feel humiliated kissing the royal baby’s belly and crawling through garbage, but once the veterans accept you, you fall into a brotherhood that dates back centuries.  Taking that away is a mistake.

February 3

I stopped by Col. Day’s law office and snapped a quick picture of me and Patti, which obviously I had neglected earlier.  Then it was on to Fort Myers.  I drove most of Florida’s northern width, turned south near Tallahassee, then drove most of the state’s length to my destination.  All told: 9 hours in the car in a single state that is not Alaska, Texas or California.  I pulled into the drive at Barb Saunders’ condo at 7 p.m., unloaded most of the car and did little else.

Florida confuses me.  The P-cola/FWB/Destin area is crammed with Navy and Air Force installations, so it has a definite military presence.  Culturally the area is an extension of Alabama and Georgia, so there is some southern charm and a lot of Rebel nostalgia.  As I drove across the northern part of the state, I saw wilderness and well-tended farms.  Tallahassee, the state capitol, from what I saw, looks very clean, proper and friendly.

Once I turned south on I-75, I thought I had ventured into a different state.  Maybe a different world.  Billboards nearly obscured any view of the wilderness, and I suppose those advertisements somehow reflect the citizenry.  Here are a few things the billboards want you to do:

Don’t get an abortion, because God knew your child before he made it in your womb.  Randy fellow, that God!  Next to that: visit Café Risque, where we bare it all!  The café also sells adult toys and DVDs.  We do have our Lion’s Dens throughout Ohio, but I don’t think they have live, bare-all entertainment.

Florida’s #1 hospital!  Next to that: a cleavage-bearing, heavily armed woman telling you to buy your weapons from the Survival Superstore.  No doubt she extols you to do so before Obama pries your guns from your cold, dead fingers.

Florida’s #1 cardiac team!  Next to that: Eat at Whataburger!

Exercise, live and play in our condos!  Next to that: Florida’s #1 divorce attorney!

And usually in a field by himself: Florida’s #1 vasectomy surgeon.  I’ll admit I had a vasectomy, but not from some schlub who advertises on a billboard along I-75.

And finally, my favorite: a large American flag and an eagle.  Superimposed: Congress take note:  VOTE THE LIBERALS OUT!  Signed, We The People!

I was unable to take any shots of the I-75 billboards.  I-10 was a peaceful, pretty drive.  Once I turned south onto I-75 south of Tallahassee, the tension in the car rose about 90 percent because of the insane traffic.  I thought more Rain-Man photography would not have been a good idea.

Random thoughts while driving through Florida....

February 3

I stopped by Col. Day’s law office and snapped a quick picture of me and Patti, which obviously I had neglected earlier.  Then it was on to Fort Myers.  I drove most of Florida’s northern width, turned south near Tallahassee, then drove most of the state’s length to my destination.  All told: 9 hours in the car in a single state that is not Alaska, Texas or California.  I pulled into the drive at Barb Saunders’ condo at 7 p.m., unloaded most of the car and did little else.

Florida confuses me.  The P-cola/FWB/Destin area is crammed with Navy and Air Force installations, so it has a definite military presence.  Culturally the area is an extension of Alabama and Georgia, so there is some southern charm and a lot of Rebel nostalgia.  As I drove across the northern part of the state, I saw wilderness and well-tended farms.  Tallahassee, the state capitol, from what I saw, looks very clean, proper and friendly.

Once I turned south on I-75, I thought I had ventured into a different state.  Maybe a different world.  Billboards nearly obscured any view of the wilderness, and I suppose those advertisements somehow reflect the citizenry.  Here are a few things the billboards want you to do:

Don’t get an abortion, because God knew your child before he made it in your womb.  Randy fellow, that God!  Next to that: visit Café Risque, where we bare it all!  The café also sells adult toys and DVDs.  We do have our Lion’s Dens throughout Ohio, but I don’t think they have live, bare-all entertainment.

Florida’s #1 hospital!  Next to that: a cleavage-bearing, heavily armed woman telling you to buy your weapons from the Survival Superstore.  No doubt she extols you to do so before Obama pries your guns from your cold, dead fingers.

Florida’s #1 cardiac team!  Next to that: Eat at Whataburger!

Exercise, live and play in our condos!  Next to that: Florida’s #1 divorce attorney!

And usually in a field by himself: Florida’s #1 vasectomy surgeon.  I’ll admit I had a vasectomy, but not from some schlub who advertises on a billboard along I-75.

And finally, my favorite: a large American flag and an eagle.  Superimposed: Congress take note:  VOTE THE LIBERALS OUT!  Signed, We The People!

I was unable to take photos of these billboards, but if you've ever driven I-75 in Florida, you can back me up.  I-10 from FWB to Tallahassee was pretty, empty and a nice drive.  Turn onto I-75 southeast of Tallahassee and you rachet up the in-car tension by about 90 percent. because of the wall-to-wall traffic.  Discretion told me to not attempt more Rain-Man photography.

Adventure Day Two

February 1

I got an early start to eventually get to Fort Walton Beach FL.  Jennifer was strangely quiet today.  At a stop I checked her out and found that she could not find a voice mode.  Maybe the satellite signal comes through differently in Alabama, I don’t know.  Nonetheless, Jen offered only visual advice.  Driving through the wilds of southern Alabama, I think I understand what Dwight Eisenhower had in mind for the interstate highway system.  I know there are so many major differences between Ohio and Alabama, so don’t feel it necessary to point them out.  However, on I-65 south from Birmingham, I did not drive through a single city or town until I got to Mobile.  I know it was dark for the first two and a half hours of the trip that morning, but looking at a map now, it seems I-65 misses all the towns by at least a couple miles.  Some of the exits are nearly 20 miles apart.  All this means smooth sailing.  Few, if any billboards.  Except for the two dump truck drivers pretending to be Kyle Petty and Darryl Waltrip, truckers in Alabama stay to the right, are courteous and drive professionally.  Truckers in Ohio would benefit us all if they would take notes.

Heavy traffic on a Tuesday morning on I-65 in southern Alabama.

Finally in Mobile I turned west, yes west, onto Interstate 10.  In just a few minutes I found myself for the first time in Mississippi.  At the Mississippi visitor’s center just over the line, a kind Texas lady took my picture in front of a Mississippi sign, and I returned the favor for her, her husband and son.

I continued west to Pascagoula, where my old buddy USS Canopus AS-34 had spring to life at the Ingalls-Litton Shipyards.  Pascagoula on quick glance isn’t much of a town.  Biloxi beckoned, as did Louisiana, which I could have visited in less than an hour, but I headed east back to Mobile.

Just east of Pascagoula, MS.

I-10 passed through the downtown area, enters a tunnel, and reemerges onto a bridge across the bay.  I couldn’t help but notice a Navy battleship moored along the edge of a river that feeds the bay.  Hmmm…Finally I made my way into Florida and past Pensacola, which is the home of U.S. Navy aviation.  I had taken the long way to Fort Myers, via P-cola, (look at a map: this isn’t the most direct route by any means,) specifically to visit the National Naval Aviation Museum.  But first, to Fort Walton Beach.

Downtown Mobile AL skyline.

Tunnel under one of the many rivers that feed into Mobile Bay.

Great googlie mooglies!  A battleship on the horizon!

Jennifer stubbornly insisted I continue two-tenths of a mile to my destination on the right as I turned left into the Day’s Inn lot.  Sometimes Jen gets that way.  I found the local Office Depot and bought this keyboard at which I now hack away.  The keys on my laptop are too small for my large hands.

I had arranged a dinner engagement with an old friend from my Indianapolis days.  Patti-Ann Cohoon Tanis and I had met at Fort Benjamin Harrison in 1977.  She was in the Air Force, and we both trained at that bucolic Army post.  She and I corresponded over the next three years until around the time she married and I left the Navy.  She bounced around from Dover DE to Kadena Japan during her service time.  Now divorced, she lives in Fort Walton Beach and works for an attorney.  Colonel George “Bud” Day, USAF (Ret.), is one of the few people alive to hold his service’s cross and the Medal of Honor.  Col. Day was winding down a long military aviation career.  He was one of the most veteran Air Force pilots and had thousands of hours of flying and combat time in an historical timeline of aircraft, and accepted one final combat assignment to Vietnam.  The enemy shot down his aircraft and held him captive for seven years.  In prison, he met John McCain, and is good friends with the Senator to this day.  You can look all this up at Wikipedia.  Col. Day is now 86 years old and had earned his law degree in 1949 before the military re-mobilized him for duty in Korea.  He has practiced law in northwest Florida since his final Air Force retirement in 1977.  Patti has worked as his legal secretary for the past seven years, and fell back on her military journalism photo skills to snap a picture of me with Col. Day.  I may not agree with all his politics, but it was a honor to meet this kind gentleman and true American hero.

With Col. George "Bud" Day, USAF (Ret.), Medal of Honor, AF Cross.
 Behind us is an aerial photo of Bud Day Field Airport in Sioux City SD, Col. Day's hometown.

Patti introduced me to Col. Day and his lovely wife Doris.  Yes, she is Doris Day, get it out of you system now.  Patti took me to dinner at McGuires’, an Irish pub in nearby Destin.  The folks there decorate their ceilings and many wall surfaces with autographed dollar bills.  The joint must have hundreds of thousands of bills stapled to the ceiling on edge, so much of the notes hang down.  Interesting.  Patti and I somehow never talked much about the Indianapolis days, just about ourselves.

With Patti-Ann Cohoon-Tanis.

Adventure: Day One

January 31

Jennifer was acting up.  She was amenable to the 69 I had suggested, but she insisted that I turn the car around first.  Ringo stayed quiet in the back, the light reddening his already normally crimson appearance.  Jennifer then slipped to the floor, suddenly finding the cold glass a little too much for her perfect round bottom.  Her contrariness was due to the fact that I had neglected her for some time.

No, this is not a script treatment for a porn movie.  Perhaps some introductions are in order.

The “I” would be I, James C. Daniels.  I retired from the Ohio Bureau of Worker's Compensation on Friday, January 28.  At about 4:30 a.m. on Monday, January 31, Jennifer, Ringo and I began a trip to Florida.  Jennifer is my British-accented GPS.  Her round bottom didn't like the 15 degree temperatures outside the windshield, so her suction mechanism let go, dropping her off the window, nicking the steering wheel and into my lap.  And I had set 69 miles per hour into the cruise control.  Really, this is no porn film.  I also had left her in “bike” mode, which means that she worked as hard as she could to keep me off the busiest routes, which includes Interstate 71, on which we were traveling.  After a bathroom stop for me and a reprogramming session for her, all was right between us.  Ringo is my red Trek 7.3 FX bicycle that I am taking to Florida with me.  He rested securely to the bike rack that I strapped to the back of my Saturn Vue.  Ringo never fell down because of the cold.  I don't think I ever named the Vue.  I'm open to suggestions.

 Jennifer behaving in north Alabama.

We left early enough to miss the Cincinnati rush hour.  Whoever designed the Interstate Highway System must have been in a wicked mood the day he or she decided to intersect two major highways smack dab downtown in the Queen City.  Even getting there by 6:30 was no picnic, but much better than the city's standard workday rush hour.  Soon enough we were across the river and barely noticed rush hour in Louisville, KY.  Only an accident along I-65 in downtown Nashville TN slowed our fine drive.  I stopped at the Alabama visitor’s center just over the state line and a kind gent from Wisconsin snapped my picture.  Soon enough after that, I pulled into the Motel 6 just south of downtown Birmingham AL at 2 p.m.

 A kind gentleman from Wisconsin snapped this for me.

Still too early to go to sleep for the night, I took my brother, Dave Daniels', advice and visited Birmingham's 16^th Street Baptist Church.  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. once worked from this house of worship.  It is also the site where four young girls were killed in a bombing during the Civil Rights Movement.  I had visited Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp near Munich, just a few weeks earlier.  I try to take the opportunity to visit sites like these any chance I get.  It was after three and I didn’t have time for a tour, so I bought a t-shirt at the gift shop and wandered around the block for a few minutes.

 16th Street Baptist Church, Birmingham AL