I woke up early, couldn’t get back to sleep, said to hell with I, and got up and got on the road. I took the back way, down US221, down to Greenville, Florida. There was enough fog for it to accent the morning without being a hazard. I was heading into the sun when it got up, and made the seventy-five mile trip to I-75 from I-10 in just under an hour.
Haywood has been a friend of mine since the 80’s and he once lived in Valdosta. I’d drop in on him at least three or four times a week, and we would play Halo. Well, he would play Halo, I mostly wandered around and got killed. Haywood lives in Orlando now, and that’s where I’m going. It’s about two hundred fifty miles, and at the pace I’m going, I’ll eat that sort of distance up in just over three hours. It’s a beautiful day. The temperature is perfect, hovering around in the upper sixties and for a Saturday morning, the traffic isn’t bad. I’ve got a three disc set of The Emerson String Quartet doing “Beethoven: The Late String Quartets”. The set is an awesome collection of music. The mood is set for the long drive down.
But there is also a sense of dread riding with me, and ignoring it is the best I can do. I can’t, or I won’t tell you why I went to Orlando other than to touch bases with an old friend. Rarely do human beings seek my consul and even rarer still do I offer it to them. But Haywood has problems and it is in my nature and my background to help if I may. On the down side, driving on the Florida Turnpike is like being attacked by parakeets. They’ve got toll booths set up along the way, and I don’t like stopping. Tell me what sort of money you want up front, I’ll pay it, and I won’t have to stop. Is the logic a little too much? But they quarter and dime me to death along the way, and I’m out the better part of five bucks, in six stops, including the big $2.50 just to get on the damn road.
There’s new cats to meet, and old cats to greet. Hershey is still hanging in there. Harley is getting plump in her old age, Otis didn’t know what to think of me and Rengy made it a habit to go charging across the room, leaping on me and running up to within an inch of my face. He’s a kitten. He’ll get over it one day.
We talk about my problems in life, but we both try to find a way to talk about his without absolutes popping up. I realize, misanthrope that I am, that his asking me my advice on such a subject gives us both an indication as to which way he might be leaning already. He admits that there might be some validity to this. Once upon a time we were young, and we had no such problems in out lives. We partied the night away when we were young, and decided to grab a few beers for the evening. Back in the day, a twelve pack was considered an appetizer. This time it’s more than we can drink in one night. I have a hard time sleeping Saturday night, but only because I can hear people. Cars, music, all things I so rarely hear in my world surrounds the apartment. Here, where I sit right now, writing this so that you may read it, there is no sound but that of Sam, snoring softly. Orlando is filled with the auditory detritus of human beings, and it drains me. Sunday morning arrives and I feel very bad. I don’t drink that often, get drunk rarely, and do shots of tequila while drinking beer never.
We sit and talk and I wonder if the words I say will sway him one way or the other. I am careful to try to present facts and not emotions, and I wonder where this will all end. But I must reenter my own world now, and after making plans to leave at lunch, I wind up leaving closer to two in the afternoon. The rain flogs the Interstate and traffic slows down to a crawl. The rain is coming in sheets, sideways, and I begin to lose the truck in front of me. Visibility creep down to almost nothing and the traffic keeps pace. For the better part of an hour I’m doing thirty-five miles an hour in the fast lane of I-75. Cars get slower and slower and closer and closer. It’s bumper to bumper with a Monsoon on the side.
When I finally make it home Bert and Sam are ecstatic. They howl with pleasure and both dance around as if I’ve been gone forever. I lay on the floor of my bedroom while they lie on top of me, snuffling me, and letting me know that they missed me, terribly, whole heartedly, and canned dog food would really help make up for it. It’s good to be back home again, but the burden of having so little skill with human beings weighs on my heart.
Take Care,
Mike
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Comments: 32
thanks for updating us on your life and travels
A big 10-4 about skills with human beings. I do much better with wild things, dogs and cats.
Tell us if you saw any interesting things on your drive!
"I realize, misanthrope that I am, that his asking me my advice on such a subject gives us both an indication as to which way he might be leaning already."
In fact I am convinced that you do have them, and more than a little.
Truly enjoyed this Mike.
This reminds me of when my dad died -- and what comes with it. There were many friends and family with many gestures, but my head was so . . . I just don't remember much about that time. I do remember one thing though. A friend came to me, and said,
"I didn't know your dad. But I am close to you, and I love you. I see how much you are hurting. That much alone is causing sooo much hurt in me, too. I am sharing your grief."
Gave me peace.
What you did may not seem like much TO YOU Firesmith, but it's these very things that stay etched in our loved ones minds forever, as symbols of our eternal friendship and love for them. Well done.
Life is like that. Connections, mirrors, reflections.
Sometimes there is a reason and we find out, sometimes there isn't a reason and we don't.
thanks, it means much that you offer your help.
I haven't gotten around to reading all the comment The Troika left for me. I'm certain I'll fnd that comment which supports you claim.
Mutts, not cats, well, one cat, Wakita.
I trust instinct to act in the best interst of the pack much more than I trust human nature not to harm me.
Photos soonest!
Debbie, I can always edit what I write. Betimes I speak without thinking it through and I haven't discovered the delete button for that.
I hope so too. It's very difficult to give advice and it turn to good.
You both compliment me more than you will ever know.
Thank you for your kind words. Time will tell how this comes out. I love that someone like you is around me if it goes to hell.
The bible is but paper and ink if the person using it is not a living reference to what is good.
There are no spells that you might cast wwritten in the bible nor or there incantations that might bring magic, but a life lived well will attarct those to it who seek such.
Those who do not seek such will not be sway by any writtten word anyway.
You are misguided if you think what you beleive is of more use to other people than who you are.
The bible is only as holy as the person who reads it.
Dad was one who would go to our next Air FOrce Base to get things set up for the rest of us to arrive. When he passed, there was comfort in knowing that he had gone to prepare us yet another place.
Yes, actions are far stronger than words, written or spoken. Your trip was more than your friend could ever hope for from a true friend - words or no words, your presence was what mattered.