Day 28 -- Thonotosassa to Naples, Florida -- 170 Miles

Today it was Interstate 75 all the way until we rolled into Naples. We passed numerous park and nature preserve signs, but didn't see anything potentially exciting until we came across a sign for the Florida "Vietnam Veterans Memorial." That sounded like we should try and find the location so we exited the Interstate at the appropriate offramp and headed west.

Unfortunately, because Florida has lost a plethora of directional and other highway signs in the recent huricane, we did not see any brown point-of-interest signs as we traveled west into a residential neighborhood. Reversing direction we headed east, passed under the Interstate, and continued on for some miles. But again we saw nothing to indicate we were headed in the right direction.

Once again we reversed direction until we came upon a WinDixie grocery store. There we stopped, pulled into the parking lot, and found a nice spot away from the bulk of the parked cars. There were a couple of items I wanted, so while Concetta launched into lunch preparations, I went inside to see if I could locate a can of brake fluid, a box of cereal, and a couple of rolls of paper towels. The store had no brake fluid, but I did find my other two items.

Moments later I was back at the rig, only to find that while I was absent two large utility trucks had pulled up right next to us and were now just sitting there enthusiastically idling their motors. Well, as we've learned over the years, trying to have lunch while being serenaded by diesel engines and fumes is not very pleasant. So, I had to start our own engine and move the rig to a new location in the parking lot.

Once lunch was over, we were soon back on Interstate 75 and by 2:00 p.m. we were rolling through the front gate of our camp for the next three evenings. The camp we rented is one of those "upper crust" operations that charge a big pile of money and provide us with an absolutely immaculent pad for our RV. Everything in the park is either paving or layed out in gardens. All the RVs are kept clean and tidy, and I suspect that there's a park citizens group that does the policing if anyone dares to drop a candy wrapper somewhere.

Still, the park turned out to be just six miles from Concetta's sister, Phil's house, which should make it totally easy for Phil to pick us up and drive us to dinner or to visit other relatives.

There's only one problem with the whole idyllic picture: it's as hot here as the depths of the Amazon jungle. Even sitting in the rig with the air conditioner at max, the sweat was pouring off my face and dripping on my computer. I suspect that by the time three days go by, I will be five pounds lighter with all the moisture loss.

We did have one interesting experience just as we left camp in Thonotosassa this morning. I had asked at the camp office and been told that we could fill our propane tank just down the road at a local gas station. The directions were to "turn right out of the camp, turn right on Route 301 east, then turn left at the first light." Well, the first parts of the instructions were okay, but we needed another right to get to that gas station, not a left.

But once we had figured out that minor problem, we saw the gas station tank and drove over next to it. I jumped down and went into the mini mart to ask about a propane fill-up. That's when reality started to bend. The sign on the door said that Cuban cigars were available there, but the sign was in Spanish. When I entered the store, I knew immediately that I wasn't in Kansas. The whole atmosphere was decidely Latino. No problem, I decided, I spoke enough Spanish to get by.

I approached the counter behind which a very pregnant Latina girl was just having the best time talking and laughing with the customers as well as the other workers. Finally when I could get a word in edgewise, I asked if anyone was available to fill a propane tank. She sort of pondered the question for a moment, than at the top of her lungs bellowed out, the name "Mellita" and a series of Spanish words, few of which I recognized. I did however recognize the word "propane" as it came out in English.

With that, the Latina girl, who probaby was about 18 years old, went on laughing and yelling things at the other workers behind the counter while I stood there not really knowing what to do. Every once in a while she would bellow, "MELLITA" to someone unseen, then go right back to laughing and chatting.

I looked around at that point and sure enough an impatient-looking customer had come up behind me and stood waiting there for his turn. Finally, after the Latina girl had bellowed "MELLITA" for about the fifth time, a diminutive middle-aged woman appeared with a very young teenager in tow and headed for the door. Though I couldn't be sure, I think she signaled to me to follow

Once the three of us reached the rig, I could see that the middle-aged woman had the teenager in tow so she could teach her how to fill a propane tank. To say I was a little bit nervous is decidedly an understatement. Never before had I seen a female take on the difficult task of working with propane. But to see that same female attempt to teach a teenager using our rig as a training device had me holding my breath at times.

After I had watched the two of them try to attach the hose nozzle to our tank filler neck without success, I asked them if I could show them how it should be done. Our tank has a slightly uplifted input neck that almost always gives propane attendants trouble. Once I had the nozzle attached properly, both women thanked me, then they went on to accomplish a proper filling.

The tank filled, I dashed into the store, paid the bill, and was on my way out when I came across a bedraggled young black boy, in filthy sweatshirt and jeans, leaning against the wall of the store. Remembering that I had seen him in the store earlier counting out enough change for a vaping device, I fished five dollars out of my wallet and went over to him. The boy looked like he hadn't eaten in days, so I handed him the fiver, put my hand on his shoulder, told him to go inside and get something to eat. The tiny store also served up cooked food, and I thought the fried chicken looked pretty good. The boy mumbled something I didn't get, but the look in his eyes was plain enough.

And that's the end of the story. I probably won't be doing much blog writing while we're here schmoozing with relatives, so you may have to wait until we hit the road again on November 1st. So this may be "hasta la vista" for now, or I may think of something to tell you about. Who knows. But here's wishing you many exciting adventures of your own. Ciao!

Day 27 -- Ocala to Thonotosassa, Florida -- 93 Miles

Cell phone reception being an “on-again, off-again” situation here the Happy Travlers RV Resort in Thonotosassa means the blog is going to be iffy tonight, but here goes. Today we traveled south from Ocala, Florida using Route 301 until we got tired of all the traffic lights, then we jumped over to Interstate 75 to brave all the big rigs.

The danger in traveling the Interstate, aside from the menacing 18-wheelers, is that you miss so much of the real American. Part of the fun of traveling the two-lane ribbons of asphalt across our land is seeing the America that "used to be." Long dead gas stations, cabin courts, and restaurants still broadcast their historic presence via welcoming, if faded signs, which helps us visualize what used to be.

Today, amazingly enough, we spotted our blog destination for the day as we traveled Interstate 75. Because of the speed you're traveling on the Blue highways, and the number of lanes involved, it becomes much harder to "dart" out of your lane and exit the Interstate if you suddenly see a point of interest you'd like to investigate.

But today we got lucky as we easily slid over to the offramp and were soon following the brown signs. We headed east toward something called the Dade Battlefield Historic Park, only stopping to dash into Walmart for more bottled water to add to our dwindling supply.

Since we had scored a prime spot under an ancient oak tree in the outer reaches of the Walmart parking lot, we went ahead and had our lunch there. Once lunch was over, we headed on down the road toward the promised battlefield.

We made a couple of navigational mistakes on our way, missed our turnoff, and had to execute a U-turn in a local business parking lot. Once that bit of floundering was out of the way, we managed to find our way to the front gate of the battlefield and park. Confident that we had found the right place, we rolled up to the ticket window.

We must have looked like we weren’t headed anywhere important as the resident ranger immediately informed us that we had to be off the grounds by five p.m. as they had scheduled a Halloween extravaganza for the evening.

Glancing around the park, we saw almost nothing that might prompt someone to WANT to stay until five o’clock, but we nodded our agreement, paid our $3.00 entrance fee, and rolled on in.

Once parked, we decided that we would just hoof it around a bit and stretch our legs. We didn’t see anything that even remotely suggested a battle had been fought there, so we just chalked it off to a nice, green park to visit.

But moments later the ranger who had told us to be out by five walked by, and she pointed out where we had to walk to see the outdoor battlefield displays. She regretted that all the archeological aritifacts that had been found on the grounds were inside the closed visitor center, but she hoped that we could get a feel for the battle by way of the outdoor displays.

After we crossed the key bridge on foot, we easiy found the reconstructed breastworks (stacked log fortifications) used during the battle as well as displays of photos taken of reinacters over the years. Though we would have enjoyed even more visual displays, we still liked the walk through the woods to our objective. As it turned out, the pamphlet provided to us by the ranger did a lot to fill in the historic gaps of what went on at the Dade Battle, verbiage of which follows.

"The first Seminole War (1817-1818) took place in Florida and southern Georgia when U.S. troops attacked and defeated a group of Seminoles. Spain formally ceded Florida to the United States in 1821. When Florida became a U.S. territory and more settlers began steadily moving into tribal territory, the Native Americans were forced to move south."

"By the 1830s, significant conflict had arisen between Seminoles and white settlers who coveted Seminole lands. The Seminole practice of giving refuge to fugitive slaves added further cause for conflict."

"With the signing of the treaty of Payne’s Landing in 1832, some chiefs agreed to moved to territory west of the Mississippi River. Widespread opposition to this treaty, led by a Seminole named Osceola, resulted in the outbreak of the Second Seminole War."

"In December 1835. 108 U.S. troops and officers were marching from Fort Brooke on Tampa Bay to reinforce Fort King in present-day Ocala. One hundred miles from Fort Brooke, they were attacked by 180 Seminole warriors. All but three of the soldiers were killed."

"In 1921, the state legislature appropriated funds for the preservation of the battle site as a memorial. Today visitors can tour the site where a replica of the original log breastwork can be seen. A visitor center and a section of the original Fort King Military Road provide insight into a battle between Florida’s clashing cultures."

Reading the signs at the battle site we learned that: "The second Seminole War was the longest and most costly Indian war in American history, and now one of the least known. It began where [we were] standing. In December 1835 peace existed in the Florida Territory, but it was a tenuous peace. It was the first time of President Andrew Jackson's Indian Removal Act, and Seminole leaders had agreed under a series of treaties to relocate their people to Indian Territory in present-day Oklahoma. Some felt the Chiefs had been tricked into signing. And no Chief or group of Chiefs could speak for all the people. Many were determined to remain in Florida and to fight for their homes."

"Thus began seven years of warfare, at the end of which several thousand Seminoles, having surrendered or been captured, were sent forcibly to Indian Territory. But a few hundred remained in scattered bands in the everglades. The government declared victory. Todays proud Seminoles, the descendents of those who never surrendered, see it differently. That's why they are known as the unconquered people."

It's ironic that one of the most impressive stops we have made on this vacation was at the Andrew Jackson home, the Hermitage, in Tennessee. There we learned all about the Indian Removal Act and about how Jackson had actually defied Congress AND the Supreme Court to remove the Native Americans of the southeast against the wishes of many in the government. History is not always pretty, it's not always fair to the participants, but it is always available for study to those who wish to avoid making the same mistakes.

Though our visit to the Dade Battlefield Historic Park fell somewhat short of our expectations, it nevertheless was a great reminder of the things we have learned from our nation's illustrious and sometimes nefarious history.

Tomorow we hope to complete our journey to Naples, Florida and a reunion with Concetta's family members in the area. So for now we wish you exciting adventures of your own. Ciao!

Day 26 -- Savannah, Georgia to Ocala, Florida -- 238 Miles

Okay, somebody help me figure out what's going on. I was just setting up the rig, and I was sweating so profusely that I looked around to see if I had taken a wrong turn today and ended up in Panama. Sweat was pouring off my face, and I figured that I could wring my shirt out and save enough water for several future desert journeys. The air felt like it was half oxygen and half water vapor. Maybe ALL water vapor! Had I accidently driven the rig into a lake? Have the waters of the Atlantic suddenly started rising and swept over southeastern America? No, I suddenly realized, we had just crossed the border into Florida!

Please tell me why everyone is moving here. It's almost winter for God's sake, and I'd have to climb inside a freezer to experience weather I recognize! When we set off on this vacation, we thought that when we finally got to Florida the daily temperatures would be manageable by people who are used to the change of seasons. But here we are nearly a month after we left home, a home where frost was putting most vegetable gardens out of commission, and Florida feels like they still haven't gotten the message. IT'S WINTER FOR GOD'S SAKE! Put away the patio furniture and turn off the air conditioner! It's time to quit sweating!!!!

Last night in Savannah, Georgia I had to get up around eleven o'clock and retrieve the comforter. It had been pretty mild and wonderful all day, but by eleven o'clock it had gotten cold enough to need more covers. So today, as we traveled south 238 miles, I had no idea we were also going to travel into a diffent reality; a reality where Panama summers never end and Bermuda shorts stay in style all year.

But enough about climate catastrophes, let's talk about things we like to visit and photograph along the way. Today, as we motored south on Interstate 95, we knew that we had to transition at some point over to Interstate 75. When we consulted the Atlas, we discoverd if we didn't want to spend too much time traveling straight west, we had to watch for Route 301. Route 301 takes off on the north side of Jacksonville, Florida, but first you have to catch ring road 295 which makes the transition to Route 301 south.

That accomplished, we looked for a place to park and have lunch and found one just before the Route 301 offramp. Our ideal lunch spot lay just across the street from an elementary school and came in the form of several acres of grass punctuated by super-large, moss draped oak trees. The light was poor for taking a photo, but the setting was exellent for our lunch break.

Lunch done, we jumped right back on Route 295 and just a very few miles later, we were able to exit to Route 301 south. I thought the route would be lightly traveled, but such was not the case. Though it is a vast improvement over the Interstate, we did have to contend with the occassional stop light, road construction, and reduced speeds. However, if you're traveling from say Naples, Florida to Fort Augustine, Florida, Route 301 should be your choice for moving you elegantly between Interstate 75 and Interstate 95.

The big push for today was to find something to write about in the blog since we didn't spy anything from our routes to tempt us to stop. It wasn't until we were less than two dozen miles from our evening camp that we stumbled onto the perfect human interest story. Even more attractive, the tempting site was only four miles off Route 301.

When we turned onto a country backroad that promised to take us to a nice park beside a nice lake, we had no idea the outing was going to turn into quite a lengthy stay. When we arrived, I immediately chose the wrong place to park which put us in a tiny little alcove with almost no place to turn around. It was tough, but I finally moved a little bit this way and a little bit that way until I had turned completely around and exited the way we had come.

Back out in the more open parking area, we noticed all the shady parking places were occupied by boaters' trucks and their empty boat trailers. Obviously the boaters had used the boat ramp and were now out catching fish. Oh, well, we just went ahead and parked in the sun and opened the windows.

The next thing we did was wander around the stands of moss-drapped oaks and enjoyed the shade that we couldn't take advantage of with the rig. The ancient oaks were stately and sturdy, and we enjoyed walking amoung them. Off in the distance, the beautiful lake embraced the brilliant blue sky and fluffly clouds, and it certainly beckoned us to find a boat somehow and go fishing. That not being an option, we satisfied ourselves with exploring the park grounds.

At one point, as I was wandering beneath the oaks, I could hear hammering going on in some unseen place nearby. The park was farily well bounded by thick brush and trees, but before long I discovered a gate that led into the world beyond. At that point I retraced my steps and told Concetta that I intended to explore the grounds beyond the gate, and she agreed that she'd wait for me in the shady coolness of the rig.

When I returned to the gate, I noticed a signboard that gave me some clues to what I might find in the leafy world beyond. The sign promised that I was about to enter a special place known as Cross Creek. Cross Creek belonged to the renouned writer, Marjorie Kinnen Rawlings, the author of famous books like "The Yearling."

To quote the sign adjacent to the gate, "Margorie described her adopted home in north central Florida as an enchanted land. Immediately upon arrival in Cross Creek, Rawlings immersed herself in the local culture, including hunting and fishing with her Big Scrub neighbors. She quickly grew to understand and appreciate the lifestyle of people who depend on the land for survival. With this understanding, Rawlings became a voice for environmental stewardship." Margorie would write that she had become a part of Cross Creek, she was more than a writer. She was a wife, a friend, a part of the earth. Of her Florida home, Marjorie msaid, "Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time."

Well, after that stiring send off, I could hardly remain outside the grounds. I opened the gate and strode purposely through. The first thing I encountered was an orchard of lemons and palmettos. I looked around for something clearly ripe, but then decided I wouldn't be able to carry anything and shoot photos as well. Next, I encountered the barn containing a light spring wagon, walls full of tack, and a bale of hay. The wagon was vintage looking, and I snapped a couple of photos.

When I left the barn there was nothing else visible on the grounds but a white frame house, probably constructed in the 1920s, upon which a couple of workers were busily constructing a new roof. They weren't just applying singles, they were doing new plywood sheeting on parts as well as applying the old-style 1"x6" slatted fir that was commonly found under cedar shingles until the latter part of the twentieth century.

Unfortunately, the new work in progress sort of ruined the vintage look of the house for photos, so I snapped one for the heck of it, then approached for a closer look. The first thing I saw was a 1940s vintage yellow Studebaker under a lean-to roof. That might make a good subject, I thought to myself, but a closer look revealed that the Studebaker was hemmed in so tightly by the walls of the lean-to that photos were not going to be easy or pleasing.

After snapping a shot of the yellow car anyway, I wandered over to a screen door that provided access to the east end of the house. I looked around and didn't see anyone who might oppose my entry, so I just opened the door and stepped into what turned out to be a screened porch. Immediately inside I found what looked like Marjorie's work space. Her typewriter, a very vintage portable manual machine, rested on what was once a dining room table. Nearby, a couple of book sheleves full of ancient tomes clung to the wall near her work space.

Busily snapping photos as I went, I began to wander through the house. At least I did that for a couple more minutes. I was busily photographing the living room when a bright young lady appeared in front of me and asked what I was doing.

"Ahhhhh," I said, "Are you the person who collects my three dollar admission."

"Well, not exactly," the young woman said. She didn't look terribly cross with me, but I wasn't exactly sure how much trouble I was in by looking at her. "Are you part of the tour group," she said finally.

I admitted that I wasn't.

"Okay," she said, "I'm just about to start a thirty-minute tour, and you can come along on that if you like."

I told her about Concetta being in the RV out in the parking lot and how it was hot and how I better not keep her waiting that long. "Guess I'll have to pass," I said.

"Hmm," the young lady said. Her name turned out to be Joy, but I didn't ask her until later. "How about if I give you a five-minute synopsis before my regular tour begins?"

"That would be great," I said. "Thank you very much!"

And so Joy gave me the briefest of tours only finishing when she had to leave to collect her legitimate tour folks. She let me take her photo a couple of times while I told her about my own writing efforts. Somehow she didn't seem to react to my tales of the writing life so maybe I was treading a little too heavily on her patience. But in the end, she and I shook hands and parted amicably. I'm sure in the future she's probably going to try harder to keep wanderers out of Marjorie's small house until the tour begins.

Returning to the rig, I passed the same fishermen whom I had passed earier when I approached the gate. They had told me at the time they were waiting for one of the men's sons to come rescue them with the tools necessary to remove the boat trailer's spare tire. Glancing at their problem, I told them that I probably had a wrench that would do the job, and I went to retrieve it. Thankfully, my super duty cresent wrench was exactly what was needed, and it made me feel good to give them a hand.

Concetta wanted me to be sure and let my readers know that the beautiful park adjacent to the Rawlings estate where we had parked earlier, had at one time been slated for a GIANT building project that would have, at buildout, provided homes for 200,000 residents and established a major rural city. But a community-spirited woman formed a group to save the parkland. In the process of saving the park for future nature-lovers, she became a county commissioner so she could have a greater say in future such projects.

Anyway, that was our day. Just a few miles down the road from Cross Creek we wandered into a park adjacent to Route 301, and found that they had a site just for us. Now night is swiftly coming on and we hope that cooler temperatures prevale. So until next time, we wish you exciting travels of your own. Ciao!

Day 25 -- All day in Savannah, Georgia -- no miles

Today we played hookey from our constant driving and spent the entire day, well from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., in the beautiful southern city of Savannah. Yesterday we picked a camp that boasted being a stop for the morning Savannah-bound shuttle. All we had to do was line up at the front office at 9:00 a.m. and the shuttle would pull up and spirit us away in air-conditioned comfort for the fourteen-mile drive into the city.

Then, just before ten, our driver deposited us at the collection point for the hop-on, hop-off, orange and green trollies. Before we scarcely had time to collect a map and talk about our preferred destinations, the trolley arrived, loaded us aboard, and away we went into one of the most romantic cities in America.

Oddly enough, our driver was an expatriot from Colorado, and so at first we didn't get to hear that soft southern drawl of the Georgian natives. Driver Ewell might have only been piloting a trolley for eighteen months, but he knew his material like he'd been telling folks about Savannah all his life.

We learned that Savanah had been planned and laid out by James Edward Ogglethorpe back in 1733. Ogglethorpe, known as the father of Savannah, was responsible for America's first planned city. He laid the city out in a series of grids that allowed for wide open streets intertwined with shady public squares and parks that served as town meeting places and centers of business. Savannah had 25 original squares; 22 squares are still in existence today.

The trolley does its best to cruise around as many of the park-like squares as possible while the driver describes the statues located in the very center of the squares. Most of these green spaces are notable for their huge, mosss-draped live oak trees that bear the brunt of the hot summer sun and ensure lovely cool places for Savannah residents to gather and meet. The squares are also notable, said our trolley driver, for their two and three story historic homes and other structures that line all four sides of the street across from the parks.

One structure we remember was the house where Julliete Gordon Low lived, the prime-mover of the Girl Scouts. Another home we passed a massion that could boast of none other than Robert E. Lee as a house guest in 1861/62. Of course, after Union General Sherman's march through Georgia to the sea, many of the historic residences became homes for Union officers as well as hospitals for Union soldiers. Still, I don't think the southern folks in Savannah minded too much, as it was General Sherman who actually "saved" Savannah from being put to the torch. Sherman thought the city was just too beautiful. General Sherman cleverly gifted Savannah to President Abraham Lincoln as a Christmas present on December 22, 1864, which ensured its survival.

,

When you've been on the trolley long enough, all the history you hear begins to fill your head to overflowing. Once that happens, it's best to pick a stop and get off. We picked the city market area for its potential to provide us with lunch. It was a tad early since we got off around 11:00, but we spent some time perusing the shops in the area. When we finally picked a restaurant, it was Belford's that we chose. The menu looked good, but even more important, two Florida ladies standing with us at the gate said that they had heard really great reviews.

When we were shown our outdoor table by a very polite and bright young woman named Brittany, I knew we had chosen wisely. We just love how polite and helpful southerners are. Soon we were scanning the menu and saw many entres that we would love to try. Finally, when pressed, Concetta chose the crab cakes, and I chose the fish and chips and a glass of a beer called "Scofflaw Brewing Basement IPA" from Atlanta.

Concetta found the crab cakes exellent. My Scofflaw Brewing Basement IPA from Atlanta was truly wonderful, and I thought my fish and chips was the best I ever had! And I'm not kidding!

In 2008 when we were driving south of Scotland in the county of Northumberland, we happened upon a wide spot in the road where a small bar seemed to be the only structure around. Since the bar advertised food to eat, we stopped, went in, and ordered fish and chips and a couple of beers. Granted, the place didn't look like much, but we had the best meal of that traditional Enlish dish we had ever eaten. And until today that record had not been broken.

And a further endorsement of Belford's, Brittiany helped us with our maps and directions. Then, moments later, a young man approached our table and asked how long I had been in the Navy. When I told him three years, he said he had been in for fourteen years. Then we proceeded to have just the greatest conversation about our respective lives. He said that he had considered submarines after I told him I had been trained in anti-submarine warfare. But he didn't get to become a submariner as he was assigned to the Pentagon. Eventually we learned that the young man's name was Alex and he'd been born in Savannah.

Eventually, Alex wished us well and made his way back into the restaurant. When I asked Brittany if Alex was the owner, she laughed and said no. "That's the owner," She turned pointed at a man standing at the front entrance. That man broke into a giant grin and told us to "watch out" for Alex. I laughed and said, "Don't be saying anything about Alex. He's great." Later Brittany would tell us that Alex was the bartender.

We all laughed together and we knew that the owner wasn't insulted. Later when we left, we stopped and shook hands with the owner whose name was Kevin. We told him we loved his food AND his restaurant and maybe someday we'd be back.

During lunch we had decided that perhaps we could walk the couple of blocks and visit the maritime museum. We had tried to see it on our last visit to Savannah in 2014, and it had been closed. We're not up to doing the kind of long-distance walking we once enjoyed, so a couple of blocks would be great.

Since Brittany had told us exactly how to proceed, we set off at a determined pace and were soon strolling up the garden path to the entry door. Once inside, we received a very fast-paced disertation on the contents of the museum, the things that we shouldn't do, and something about photography, which I totally missed and decided not to have him repeat.

The museum was pretty incredible, but certainly was meant for those who have an avid interest in maritime history. I wasn't sure that applied to us, but we soldiered on anyway. Many of the exhibits were minutely-crafted vessels in glass cases which proved almost impossible to photograph, with or without a flash. I had set my camera to 1000 ASA and was able to shoot most of the displays without flash, which lessened the potential for reflection.

However, there were so many interior lights and so much light coming through the plethora of windows, that the glass cases just bounced whatever light was near and right into the camera. Still, there were other things not in cases. Quite a few figureheads stood in corners just begging for a shot. There were dozens of informational plaques that were outside the glass, or were situated so that they could be shot inside the glass while excluding reflections.

In the end, the displays that stuck in our minds were the shipwreck stories. They had a model of the Titanic, of course, and it came complete with passengers and lifeboats. The shipwreck that fascinated Concetta most was of the Pulaski. The boat was named for a Polish Count Kasamir Pulaski who fought with the patriots in the Revolutionary War.

The boat named the Pulaski sailed from Savannah on June 14, 1838, and after one stop had a passenger complement of about 187 counting both passengers and crew. Later that night the starboard boiler exploded, and the boat sank within 45 minutes. Fifty-nine people survived, and 128 died. Incredibly, the bow portion forward of the explosion area didn't sink and 23 of the survivors lived by clinging to the wreckage. They floated for five days without food or water, but were eventually picked up by a passing steamer.

The display that I found the most memorable was that of the scrimshaw, usually crafted by crew members of whaling ships. The sailors, when not actively hunting or processing whales, suffered from extreme boredom. Whaling cruises could last a couple of years before reaching port again. Scrimshaw turned out to be the perfect free-time activity for the crew members. All sorts of scenes could be found carved on whale teeth. Everything from nautical scenes with ships and whaling activities, to fantasy scenes with mermaids were displayed.

After our trip to the maritime museum, we walked back to the City Market area. It was a tad too early to ride the trolley back to our point of origin, so we chose a restaurant that advertised peach cobbler, and went in to appease our sweet tooth with cobbler, ice cream, and black coffee. Once done with our midday snack, we walked to the nearest trolley stop, boarded, and very soon our afternoon in Savannah had come to an end. There was nothing left but to catch our shuttle back to camp and our rig waiting peacefully underneath the sheltering pines. Tomorrow we will be setting our GPS for Naples, Florida and a much anticipated reunion with Concetta's sisters and other relatives. So, until then, we wish you exciting adventures of your own. Ciao!

Day 24 -- Lumberton, North Carolina to Savannah, Georgia -- 230 Miles

Today we were just a driving machine, knocking off 230 miles when we ordinarily only drive 150-170. The reason is that we (sort of) decided that maybe we could spend the day in Savannah and still arrive in Naples, Florida, on the 29th of October if we drove more miles per day. Miraculously we were able to secure two nights at our Savannah camp and take advantage of the sightseeing trolley that comes right to our door.

While we basically did nothing but drive, we did find time to stop a couple of times to stretch our legs, do some shopping, and visit a point of interest that beckoned to us from the Interstate.

Aside from the shoping stop at Walmart, and the informational stop at the point of entry for South Carolina, we were fortunate to discover the location of a memorial to the Tuskeegee Airmen at the local Anderson airport as we rolled on toward Georgia. The airport was known as the Walterboro during World War II. We found the memorial to be nothing fancy, but we were impressed that such a tribute existed. Both of us would have liked to see a little more upkeep and maintenance done to the memorial site, but we stayed a good half hour and took a couple of dozen photos in the process.

There understandably was no time for research today, so here's Wikipedia on the Tuskegee Airmen: "The Tuskegee Airmen were a group of primarily African American military pilots (fighter and bomber) and airmen who fought in World War II. They formed the 332d Fighter Group and the 477th Bombardment Group (Medium) of the United States Army Air Forces (USAAF). The name also applies to the navigators, bombardiers, mechanics, instructors, crew chiefs, nurses, cooks, and other support personnel. The Tuskegee airmen received praise for their excellent combat record eaned while protecting American bombers from enemy fighters. The group was awarded three Distinguished Unit Citations."

"All black military pilots who trained in the United States trained at Griel Field, Kennedy Field, Moton Field, Shorter Field, and the Tuskegee Army Air Fields. They were educated at the Tuskegee Institute (now Tuskegee University), located near Tuskegee, Alabama. Of the 922 pilots, five were Haitians from the Haitian Air Force and one pilot was from Trinidad. It also included a Hispanic or Latino airman born in the Dominican Republic."

"The 99th Pursuit Squadron (later the 99th Fighter Squadron) was the first black flying squadron, and the first to deploy overseas (to North Africa in April 1943, and later to Sicily and other parts of Italy). The 332nd Fighter Group, which originally included the 100th, 301st and 302nd Fighter Squadrons, was the first black flying group. It deployed to Italy in early 1944. Although the 477th Bombardment Group trained with North American B-25 Mitchell bombers, they never served in combat. In June 1944, the 332nd Fighter Group began flying heavy bomber escort missions and, in July 1944, with the addition of the 99th Fighter Squadron, it had four fighter squadrons."

"The 99th Fighter Squadron was initially equipped with Curtiss P-40 Warhawk fighter-bomber aircraft. The 332nd Fighter Group and its 100th, 301st and 302nd Fighter Squadrons were equipped for initial combat missions with Bell P-39 Airacobras (March 1944), later with Republic P-47 Thunderbolts

(June–July 1944) and finally with the aircraft with which they became most commonly associated, the North American P-51 Mustang (July 1944). When the pilots of the 332nd Fighter Group painted the tails of their P-47s red, the nickname "Red Tails" was coined. The red markings that distinguished the Tuskegee Airmen included red bands on the noses of P-51s as well as a red empennage; the P-51B, C and D Mustangs flew with similar color schemes, with red propeller spinners, yellow wing bands and all-red tail surfaces."

"The Tuskegee Airmen were the first African-American military aviators in the United States Armed Forces. During World War II, black Americans in many U.S. states were still subject to the Jim Crow laws and the American military was racially segregated, as was much of the federal government. The Tuskegee Airmen were subjected to discrimination, both within and outside of the army."

I could not find a specific reference in the above Wiki article about the Tuskegee Airmen and the time they spent training at Anerderson (Walterboro) Field where the memorial rests today. It looks like for now I'll have to take the memorial as primafacia evidence. The sign that I photographed (top left) seems to be suggesting that lots of pilots trained at Anderson (Walterboro), so it's not hard to believe that the Tuskegee Airmen were around in the later part of the war.

Day 23 -- New Bern to Lumberton, North Carolina -- 160 Miles

Today the sun FINALLY made an appearance after nearly three full days of nothing but fog, rain, and gray skies. Unfortunately, the sunny blue skies and fluffy white clouds that just seem to make traveling so much more fun, did not seek us out. No, we had to go in search of those things, and we did that by simply heading west instead east or south.

My plan was to move away from the coast in hopes of finding less people and, therefore, more room in the camps. This seems to have worked out great. Once we had transitioned from Interstate 17 to Route 74/76 at Wilmington, the traffic thinned out to an extent that we almost had the freeway to ourselves at times. And when we saw a KOA sign just before three o'clock, we jumped on the chance to get into camp early and get some laundry done.

The plan worked perfectly! Not only was the camp virtually empty, but the laundry room was empty as well. We had finished the washing, and were well into the drying cycle before rigs started arriving in quick succession and parking all around us. Very soon folks started trekking to the laundry room, and by then we were almost finished.

This morning as we drove west, and the skies were still basically gray, we didn't see anything worth shooting for the blog. By the time blue skies appeared overhead, we were ready for some action, but still nothing much appeared. We did stop and take a walk around a small-town square at one point, but we didn't find anything interesting to photograph there, either. I thought the blog tonight might have to be a selection of Concetta's favorite recipes.

It wasn't until we arrived at the KOA, and were trudging back and forth with the laundry totes, that I spied a small cemetery tucked away near the eastern boundary of the camp. Making a mental note, I went on doing laundry detail until Concetta and I had finished, then I grabbed the camera and went to investigate to headstones.

Once in the tiny Cemetery, I could see right away that the occupants were probably all of the surname "Howell." Some of the stones were fairly readable, and some were not, but I decided to pull up Ancestry.com and see what I could find out about the family. After quite a bit of research time, I both discoverd information on the family tree and also a suggestion for who might be buried on the edge of the KOA campground.

The cemetery is located in the county of Robeson, the town of Lumberton, and the Howell family, both living and dead, have been here for a very long time. I identified the headstone for Henry Boswell Howell (photo upper right), as well as the headstone for his wife, Lucy. Henry was born May 30, 1815. His wife, Lucy Ann Matilda Coleman, was born May 3, 1814.

Henry and Lucy had the usual passel of children, but only two appear to be buried with the parents. Son William Franklin Howell was next to his father (photo left), as was Amanda Howell (photo lower right). William was born April 29, 1855 and he died November 28, 1935. Henry was married twice but I'm not sure if either wife is buried in the family plot. His sister Amanda was born January 30, 1844, and died July 10, 1895.

According to records collected by Ancestry.com, Henry Boswell Howell's father, Shadrach Howell, is also buried near his son and grandson. I didn't see a stone, but Shadrach was born in 1788 and died in 1869. That meant that he was too young for the revolution and too old for the Civil War.

Shadrach's father, Rayford (Ralph) Howell fought in the Revolutionary War. The following is from an Ancestry.com member: "When Captain Ralph Raeford Howell and his twin sister Letitia "Letty" were born in 1757 in Virginia, their father, William, was 37, and their mother, Martha, was 30. He married Dicey Barfield in 1782 in Edgecombe, North Carolina. They had nine children in 22 years. He died as a young father in 1790 in Howellsville, North Carolina, at the age of 33."

It's thought that the family originated with William Howell in Isle of Wight County, Virginia. But the 1790 census for Robeson County shows William living there in North Carolina. The family consisted of three white males and three white females. William Howell was born in 1720 and he married Martha Raiford in 1754.

Now that our laundry is up to snuff for the next week or more, it's time to find some fun things to do. Tomorrow we'll be jumping onto Interstate 95 and will probably remain there all the way through South Carolina to Savannah, Georgia. We've been to Savannah once before, but the city is completely captivating and perhaps we'll visit again.

While it was fun today tracking down dead folks, hopefully we will encounter more interesting above-ground folks in our travels and will actually be able to talk to them person to person. So until then, we wish you exciting travels of your own. Ciao!

Day 22 -- Coinjock to New Bern, North Carolina -- 181 Miles

Today I finally was able to achieve what has been, since my junior high school days, a much anticipated goal: to vist the site of Orville and Wilbur Wright's first powered flight in a fixed-wing airplane. In those days I never dreamed that I might one day become a Naval aviator, but airplanes were for me and my friends an almost fanatical fascination. Often we would sit in class sketching World War II airplanes while the instructor carried on in some subject like English not noticing our lack of attention or participation.

As recently as our 2019 RV vacation we purchased a copy of David McCullough's book on CD, "The Wright Brothers," and Concetta came away as big a fan of those famous brothers as her crazy husband. We listened for hours, fascinated by the tenacious nature of the two brothers. No matter what the Wrights tackled, whether it was in the bicycle business or in airplane development, they just never gave up or gave in until success was theirs.

The problem with reaching Kitty Hawk (actually the town of Coinjock) two days ago was we arrived just ahead of inclement weather. First the wind began to blow. Then by bedtime the rain set in. Before long it appeared that our visit to Kittyhawk the next day was not going to be as nice as we hoped. This morning our fears were confirmed as the previous night's rain was still falling.

Nevertheless, we put on our brave faces and drove the 29 miles from our camp in Coinjock to the Wright Brothers National Memorial while the rain pelted us with greater and lesser force. It didn't look good for us, as each of us envisioned the park grounds as being largely an outdoor activity. Thank goodness that we were both wrong as the only things located outdoor are the actual granite monument, recreations of the brothers' workshop and airplane hanger where they did their work while preparing to fly, and the markers noting the length of their first three powered flights.

The museum indoors was actually pretty startling. Initially we walked through the informational displays, which are easily understood, and the type fonts are large enough for senior citizen eyes to see. But right next door, in a room that we originally thought was just our meeting place for a talk by the park ranger, sat the most magnificent reconstruction of the Wright Flyer 3! The Flyer was perched on a raised platform under soft, flattering lighting, and guests could walk all the way around to see and photograph the historic craft craft from all angles.

We've seen an original Wright Flyer at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, but I don't remember it being as spectacularly displayed as the reproduction model was today. It was just so easy to catch it from every angle that I just kept circling the display, firing the shutter as I went. Outside the rain continued to pelt away, but inside and dry, Concetta and I have seldom been more in love with a piece of machinery or the unforgetable gift of being there in person to see it.

Once everyone was seated on the perimeter of the showroom, the park ranger began what turned out to be an absolutely outstanding rundown on the Wright Brothers and their personal history in the relm of heavier-than-air flight. I truly wish I could have recorded her somehow as she not only knew all the facts starting with their schoolboy days, but presented those facts in a animated fashion that just kept you hanging onto her every word.

After our museum visit we dashed back through the rain to reach the RV. Once there we had our lunch, and I did a little editing on the photos I had shot inside. After lunch we set our course for New Bern, North Carolina about four and a half hours away. And wouldn't you know, as we rolled toward the exit we saw that the rain had stopped, and folks were outside walking up the hill to the monument.

The rain was back, unfortunately, for a good part of our drive south and west and away from the Outer Banks. Nothing to report on our drive except that we got here safely thanks to Concetta and her iPhone.

Ciao for now.