Finding and reporting what's special across America
The tree frogs are out in full force at nightfall.
A cacophonous chorus of tens of thousands of croaking creatures bask in the sticky humidity after a brief, familiar rainfall.
They sing a familiar refrain a capella with a delicate vibrato…
To celebrate the moon’s debut over a thick glade of pines, live oaks, and palmetto.
“Let’s get this shuttle moving!” shouts a middle-aged surfer dude in an orange muscle shirt at the volunteer driver of the tram parked curbside at the farthest reaches of Anastasia State Park’s parking lot by the beach.
“First of all, I’ve got plenty of empty seats to fill, with plenty of people still on their way. And secondly, you should have thought about getting here earlier pal, ’cause I been here since 5:30 transporting people to the concert. So stop complaining that I’m the one who’s making you late!” the driver retorts.
“Well asshole, I have no intention of missing the opening number because of you,” he bellows.
“You’re welcome to get off my ride anytime and call an Uber if you want, but otherwise, I suggest you shut the fuck up, and sit the fuck down, and wait patiently like the rest of these folks,” the driver threatens.
According to Joe and Jenny, who had come from Gainesville in celebration of their 10th wedding anniversary, the passengers on the tram were stunned into silence after this fiery exchange. The moment Leah and I took our seats on the tram, the mood seemed unusually somber for a group of mostly baby boomers who were on their way to attend a sold-out performance of Steve Miller Band with Peter Frampton at St. Augustine Amphitheater.
This was to be our maiden concert at the amphitheater–having purchased tickets over three months ago–knowing that we were taking a chance with the rainy summer weather, but choosing to risk it all for just a few hours of iconic rock and roll nostalgia.
At last the day had come, and despite the iffy forecast through late afternoon, the overcast sky had held firm, and it wasn’t long before we were on our way, barreling along the service roads…
to the back door entrance of the amphitheater.
It was 7:05pm and the opening power chords of Something’s Happening were already resonating through the thick air. We bypassed the crowded concessions…
and settled into our seats…
under the big top…
to lose ourselves in Frampton’s guitar licks.
From the start of the evening, Frampton established a smooth repartee with his exuberant audience–thankful for the fans who’ve stuck with him through thick and thin.
At 72, Frampton has seen his share of sunsets in your eyes and lines on [his] face, affably referencing his musical longevity during the interludes between songs, and reflecting on the passage of time through his career–from his chart dominance to his subsequent free fall to his eventual resurrection.
The devotees in attendance who may have missed the ’70s, seized this downtime as the perfect opportunity for a bathroom break, but not without escaping playful ridicule from Peter..
“I wish I could pee. I really do,” quipped Frampton. Now I can only pee on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday… with the help of Flomax.
He’s willingly traded his teen-idol, cascading hair locks and bare-chested pop star status for a musician’s bald/bold appreciation of his instrument, and aptly demonstrated his guitar prowess throughout his set list:
But the literal centerpiece was Black Hole Sun–“the best song [he’s] never written”–performed as an instrumental from the 2007 release of his Fingerprints album that garnered Grammy acclaim.
As if channeling Chris Cornell on the anniversary of his birth, July 20,
Frampton commanded the stage with a mindful intent of demonstrating his guitar virtuosity,
and he deftly acquitted himself in the eyes and ears of his audience.
And when the last shred had been wrung from his beloved Gibson, the crowd let him know how much they were with him and how much they cared.
After a half-hour intermission to reset the stage, the evening continued with Steve Miller and his band.
With a few exceptions, Steve Miller’s set list mimicked his multi-platinum Greatest Hits album, spanning the mid to late 70’s, and nobody in the crowd was disappointed, because they had come to sing along and Dance, Dance, Dance.
Set list
From his early overture into blues-infused rock, to experiments in psychedelia, to a catchy collection of counter-culture anthems with mainstream melodies, Miller captured the songbook for a new generation of America in flux.
Midway through his set, Miller evoked a memory from 1965 that took him from San Francisco to New York for a performance of The Mother Song on NBC’s Hullabaloo with The Four Tops and The Supremes.
As Miller recounts, the $250 he earned from the gig gave him the confidence to shop for a new guitar at Manny’s Music, a cherished, legendary music instrument store located in mid-town Manhattan. Unfortunately, he discovered there was nothing he could afford. Rejected and dejected, he headed for the door, whereupon he discovered a cluttered barrel of buried guitars standing neck up with a posted sign: “Your Pick–$125.”
One guitar called to him–a 19-string sitar-guitar that he had to have. Along the way, Miller explained some of its unusual features: spool-like knobs, 3 pick-ups, and a mirror on the backside.
Of course, after 53 years it’s still in his possession, despite an offer of $125,000 from a bigwig music producer. This tale has been repeated at similar events for years and years–with fluctuating asking prices–but the audience was hooked on every word and ate it up.
“Whadaya think? Should I consider selling it?” he petitioned the crowd.
Naturally, the crowd answered back with a resounding, “HELL NO!”
Miller put the instrument to good use in a soulful rendition of Wild Mountain Honey.
Thereafter, with each new tune, the audience responded with greater enthusiasm and a deeper appreciation of his classic hits.
The band returned with a raucous 4-song encore (if you consider Threshold to be a song rather than an intro)…
And in an instant, the show was over. We were transported back to the here and now–no longer celebrating the soundtrack of our salad days from high school or college, but always reminded that “time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.”
Ironically, I spotted the belligerent surfer dude from before, who had embarrassed himself aboard our tram. Folks were filing past him to the exits, yet he seemed frozen in place–as if locked in a trance–holding onto a past that he was so impatient to embrace.
Doot-doot-doo-doo, tick-tock-tick…
Doot-doot-doo-doo, tick-tock-tick.
On a hot and lazy weekend afternoon, a dip in Madeira’s community pool seemed like a winning idea to escape the heat, but to my surprise (and delight), no one else was there to take advantage of the water. Having the pool to myself was a blessing, if only the oncoming clouds that were assembling could keep their distance.
“You’re welcome to join me,” I offered Leah earlier. However, Leah had settled for the comforts of air conditioning and a Kindle moment.
“Y’know, it’s supposed to rain,” she forecasted.
“But it’s a swimming pool, and wet is wet,” I theorized with authority.
The expectation of rain is ever-present during Florida summers, and today was no exception. In the distance, despite the stillness of the air, the clear sky was yielding to a dark mass creeping in my direction and threatening to blanket the sun.
I floated on the water–as if in a trance–listening to the foreboding rumble, and watching the evolving cauliflower clouds occasionally glow with the flickering incandescence of faraway lightning.
In no time, the war clouds were upon me, but the sun would not surrender gently.
I cursed my misfortune for not having my camera with me as the billowing thunderhead gradually edged out the sun–it’s luminescence taking on an eerie beauty.
However, my Samsung Galaxy was with me and it would have to suffice.
While it wasn’t my first choice for resolution, the camera phone adeptly managed to capture the nuance of color radiating beyond concealment…
until the sun was vanquished and the rainbow had retreated.
Once I managed to locate and retrieve the files uploaded to Google cloud storage, the captured skyscapes were no longer obscured by clouds.
Long before we established Florida residency, our water bills were ridiculously high, averaging $500 per month. Leah and I immediately suspected that during our three-month absence–between closing and occupancy–the irrigation system zoned around our yard was bleeding us dry. Was this truly to be the continuing cost of keeping our flower beds wet and our lawn green? And if so, was this property threatening to become our Waterloo?
No doubt, our water usage was worthy of an investigation, but the city water department was dismissive–offering precise and up-to-date historical data of our consumption–so we turned to our long-distance neighbors for perspective and to the builder for relief, while wondering which direction to go.
A plea for answers and advice via social media prompted a measured response from Lisa and Greg, new community Facebook pals, who offered to monitor the irrigation interface over a time for evidence of any irregularities or abnormalities.
Greg’s systems check of our Rain Bird controller soon revealed a broken drip head now gushing water, and a twice-a-week watering cycle (as planned) irresponsibly programmed to repeat twice a day by the original landscapers.
Greg recommended shutting down the timer, and offered to manually manage the irrigation zones in accordance with the forecasted rainfall.
We were indebted to Greg and Lisa for their vigilance, and dutifully took over on water watch for the month of June and thereafter. A new appeal to the utility office revealed a literal disconnect between our residential meter and parallel irrigation meter, resulting in unnecessary sewer charges every time we watered our lawn. Yet despite our conservation efforts, our newest utility bill was only reduced by 10%. It was time for a new strategy; we would dig an artesian well, and feed our grass and plants with our own well water.
Of course, the process demanded that we file a permit with the city; petition the architecture committee of our Home Owners Association for permission; find a reputable well digger; wait for the job to be scheduled (weather permitting)…and continue to pay exorbitant water bills in the meantime.
Finally, three months from our earliest consideration, the drilling equipment appeared one late morning in our yard without warning.
Using the Eenie Meenie Miney Moe method, Robbie determined where to place the wellhead…
without benefit of knowing how deep or how difficult the drilling would get, although the placement of other artesian wells within our community (a retired golf course from the 1950s) informed that 250 feet was a worthy depth to plumb before groundwater made its way to the surface.
Once Eric deployed the truck jacks,
the drill mast was ready to raise.
Eric and Robbie assembled the debris pump…
and the mud tub (for lubricating the drill head) was aligned over the designated wellhead…
well ahead of tomorrow.
The generator started cranking at 9am. By 11am the drill rod had blazed through 95 feet of clay and sand.
By the end of the day, the drill had chewed through 14 feet of shell and shale (and probably some shark teeth and fossils) to a depth of 195 feet…
eventually reaching a ledge of limestone cap rock at 225 feet.
The boring rods were replaced with PVC pipe, and anchored in place with cement.
The next day saw slow but steady progress, as a slimmer rod and bit sank into the hole to chip away at the more resistant stone.
While Eric sat on a 5-gallon bucket monitoring the levels with a cigarette balanced on his lower lip,
Robbie pre-wired the pump, and cut off power to the panel at 11:15am to make the connection. I was stepping out of the shower at the time when the lights went dark, the AC had paused, and Agent Strzok’s House Inquisitors were no longer embarrassing themselves on my bedroom TV. It was eerily quiet except for the growl from a nearby generator.
It took me a moment to figure out that this was not part of a rolling blackout to cool down an overloaded town grid. Nor was it the drill guys in the yard, who would have been lit up after accidentally severing my buried power cable.
It would take three additional hours to grind through another 15 feet of compacted limestone until fresh groundwater eventually flowed to the surface. Robbie dug a trench to the pump, and tied into the irrigation backflow, protecting us against future contamination and eliminating our dependence on costly city irrigation water.
All that was left to do was pay the well digger, and put the water to good use.
Although we’ve recently received June’s water bill crediting the city’s bogus charge for superfluous sewer usage, we will anxiously await the next billing cycle, already knowing that the grass is always greener on the other side.
Yesterday’s adventure had me scouring the neighborhood for a ladder that was tall enough to reach our 14 foot-high dining room ceiling.
An email alert to our newly adopted community produced immediate fruit, but none of the produce was ripe for the climbing. Of the many responses, either the ladders were too short, or it was the wrong type (extension variety instead of A-frame)–nothing that would allow me to swap out a newly delivered lighting fixture in time for the scheduled delivery and installation of a long-awaited pool table the following day.
While I struck out on ladders, it was a fine way to meet some of my neighbors, and learn about the joys and hazards of living in St. Augustine.
I discovered that two hurricanes within an 11-month period (Matthew and Irma) after a 62-year respite (Dora in 1964) left our neighborhood shaken, but not stirred, with rising water from the Intracoastal Waterway barely penetrating the fence-line perimeter, while gale-force winds and blowing debris delivered negligible roof damage to a few homes, leaving our Madeira community relatively intact.
Additionally, the close proximity to the St. Johns County government complex and the beauty of sharing the same electrical grid resulted in a near, immediate restoral of power.
Meanwhile, it was beginning to feel like I was sitting behind the eight ball, but things have a way of working out when working tirelessly to carve out one’s little slice of heaven on earth.
Fortunately, a last-minute phone call to Smith Electric produced instant results. A crew arrived hours later…
with an 8-foot step-ladder and a 6 foot 7 inch electrician to dismantle the existing fixture…
and prepare the connections…
to hang and balance the replacing fixture…
on the heels of the Pool Table Doctor’s arrival.
Paul made quick work of placing and leveling the base;
stacking the slate slabs;
and shimming the playing surface.
Joaquin was nearby, building the rails and pockets…
while Paul was joining the slabs together with sealing wax.
Together, they finished felting the cushions.
Soon it was time to stretch the wine-colored felt across the table–a quirky color that Leah and I felt was befitting the carved ball and claw table leg design.
After trimming the excess cloth, and attaching the rails…
our Olhausen table was lit and ready for play. The entire process took 2½ hours, and the result–
worthy of a picture, and many future hours of fun.
Rack ’em up. It’s my turn to break!
It’s been one year since our visit to Mt. Rushmore, and what could be more American than re-posting this episode on Independence Day…
There’s no better way to celebrate the 4th of July, than a trip to Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial. Sure, the crowds were large; that was to be expected. But once the cars were garaged, the pedestrian traffic was easy to negotiate. And with everyone looking up at the mountain, the Presidents’ faces and intentions were never obstructed.
It was also a time to celebrate family. There were plenty of kids riding in strollers, hanging from moms in carriers, or balancing on dads’ shoulders. Generations of families–many of them immigrants–had gathered to pay homage to the principles of freedom that make our country a beacon for the oppressed and downtrodden.
Seniors were being escorted through the Avenue of Flags by their grandchildren. Extended families organized group pictures at the Grand View Terrace, unified by their love of democracy and their reunion T-shirts.
All expressed awe at Gutzon Borglum’s grand vision and remarkable achievement–the transformation of a mountain into a national symbol visited by approximately 3 million people every year.
The 14-year process of carving the rock began with dimensionalizing the Presidents’ portraits through Plaster of Paris masks, on view at the sculptor’s studio-turned-museum.
Additional exhibits detail the construction of the memorial, and the tools used by workers, like the original Rand & Waring compressor, which powered the jackhammers for all the finishing work.
A little known fact is that Mt. Rushmore was once intended to be a tribute to the “Five Faces of Freedom,” but funding ran short when the Congressional appropriation approached $1 million during the Great Depression. Hence, the unfinished carving of the Great Ape to the right of Lincoln serves as a reminder that we are never far from our true ancestors.¹
No less ambitious, and equally as impressive, the Crazy Horse Memorial is a work-in-progress located 16 miles away in the heart of the Black Hills–considered sacred land by the Lakota people.
Conceived by Korczak Ziolkowski in early 1940s,
the memorial, when completed will stand 563 ft. by 641 ft. across, and is expected to be the largest sculpture in the world. Already, the completed head of Crazy Horse measures 60 feet tall…
…twice the size of any of the presidents at Mt. Rushmore. While the first blast was conducted on the mountain in 1947, the current prospects for the memorial are to complete the outstretched arm during the next twelve years. There is no completion date available for the finished carving, which has been financed entirely by private funding since its inception.
Mt. Rushmore was created by a Danish American. Crazy Horse was created by a Polish American. And visitors to both destinations manifest the melting pot that has brought us all together as Americans. It’s our diversity that makes us strong, our ambition and determination that makes us great, and our compassion and sacrifice that make us whole.
These are the values reflected from the faces we’ve immortalized in stone. Yet, we would honor them more by living according to these principles.
Happy Birthday, America!
¹ Just kidding, but the photograph is real and has not been retouched.
Streaming thru America 