Notes from our trip to the great land of the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower

The so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.

The mighty De Land water-tower.

—1) Granny’s airline and storm-door service
Our Jet-Blue A320 is sealed up and backed away from the terminal at Rochester International Airport.
We are sitting quietly on the apron.
All of a sudden, from deep within the bowels of the airplane: “rrrr....., rrrr....., rrrr....., rrrr.....!”
“I recognize that sound,” I say. “That’s the same sound the puke-green ‘57 made when Elz and I abandoned it to get to BHS.”
If it was too cold, the ‘57 wouldn’t start, but the Blue Bomb, a ‘53, would.
“Sounds like it won’t start,” a passenger said. “Get the kick-starter.”
“I don’t know if I wanna stay on this thing,” Linda said.

—2) Rental-Car follies
-a) After waiting at least 15 minutes, the shuttle finally showed up to take us to Advantage car-rental.
A sales-clerk asked if I wanna upgrade from our reserved economy car: a Chevy Cobalt.
“No thanks,” I say.
“Maybe I can get you a free upgrade — a PT Cruiser convertible, or a Jeep.”
“No Jeeps,” I say. (Sure, cart my 92-year-old mother-in-law around in a Jeep.)
“I don’t want no PT Cruiser convertible either; it only has two doors.”
“The PT Cruiser convertible has four doors,” she says.
“Are you SURE?” I ask. “The last four-door convertible I remember was made by Lincoln in the early ‘70s!”
“Do you wanna look? Slot A32.”
It had two doors. Memories of the Daze Inn in Altoony (“that ain’t no B52; that’s a B24”).
-b) An older man at the depot exit is giving directions, so we ask for directions to De Land.
“If I go north on Semoran (“Sem-MORE-in”),” I say; “I eventually intersect with an east/west expressway that will take me east to the Greenway.
“Oh don’t go that way,” he shouts. “That’s too roundabout. Take Semoran south to the Beeline (528), then west to Interstate-4, then up Interstate-4 to 17/92.”
The old direction waazoo kicks in.
I don’t want 17/92. That’s north-south through De Land. There’s also an east/west state route that intersects I-4 that goes right by the great land of the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower.
DISREGARD ALERT!
But we took his suggested Beeline route, and it seemed just as roundabout as the route I was gonna take; plus it sucked us into a traffic-jam at one of its many toll-plazas, had construction, and took us through downtown Orlando on Interstate-4.
“I ain’t comin’ back this way!” I said.
-c) I started the rental and it immediately blew us out of the seats. Someone had left the radio on at full volume tuned to a Spanish station.
Full-blast mariachi!
I started stabbing buttons willy-nilly and killed it on my third try.
Later I turned it back on and discovered a volume control.

—3) Here we are navigating deepest, darkest De Land; Linda’s mother riding shotgun to give directions, and Nancy following in her car.
We are headed for the mighty Wal*Mart super-center so Nancy can look around.
I more-or-less know where it is, but couldn’t get a straight answer.
“YA GOTTA TURN AT THE BLACK BANK BUILDING,” Linda’s mother kept saying.
Different wave-lengths, I guess. “17/92 splits north of De Land, and the road east goes to Daytona,” I said.
“If I continue north on the other road, I think that passes Wal*Mart.”
“THAT’S THE ROAD PA AND I USED TO GET TO DELEON SPRINGS.”
“Okay, up ahead is a traffic-light; I can either turn right, or left, or go straight. Which is it?”
“WELL YOLANDA ALWAYS TURNED LEFT HERE; JOHN AND JEANETTE TURNED RIGHT; HAROLD AND I ALWAYS WENT STRAIGHT TO GO TO BANK OF AMERICA; AND TONY (the center bus-driver) TURNS RIGHT TO GET TO PUBLIX.”
I cruise calmly straight through the intersection.
“WHUP! HOW COME YA DIDN’T TURN HERE?”
“Which way? Too late!”
“WHERE YA GOIN’ NOW?”
“Guess I gotta go around the block.”
Continuing north I see a Wal*Mart sign; “Do I turn here?”
“NO, YES! WHERE YA GOIN’? THAT’S THE ENTRANCE!”

—4) I wish I could tape everything
Next day (Tuesday, February 26, 2008), Jerry and Nancy leave to return home, and Linda’s mother is riding shotgun again, in search of an elusive “clock-place” to repair a disoriented plate-clock; that is, a dinner-plate that has been converted into a clock-face, with a quartz motor in the back.
(Who knows if the clock actually needs fixing; it may not even need a battery.)
“NOW THIS IS CAMPUS TOWERS (De Land is the home of Stetson University); BUILT WHEN WE WERE IN ALDERSGATE.”
“So do we turn here?”
“YES; THERE’S THE LIBRARY!”
“This is Woodland Boulevard. Is that 17/92? Do we go out 17/92 a long way?”
“YES, ALL THE WAY TO THE TRUCK ROUTE.”
“What’s the ‘Truck Route?’”
“15A I THINK! THAT OVER THERE IS THE NURSING-HOME WHERE EMMA STAYED. PA AND I WENT THIS WAY TO GO TO HOME-DEPOT FOR MULCH!”
“BUT THAT HOME-DEPOT WASN’T UNTIL LATER. FIRST WE HAD TO GO TO THE GARDEN-STORE ON BERESFORD ROAD IN DELTONA. SEE THAT EMPTY SPACE OVER THERE? IT WAS ALL TAKEN OUT BY THE TORNADO — USED TO BE A PUBLIX, AND STORES.”
“I see a 15A sign ahead; do we turn here?”
She glances around and after I’ve already committed to the right-turn (ya can see the direction waazoo is working here): “YEP; THERE’S THE BUICK-DEALER BEHIND THE MINIMALL WITH THE FISH-RESTAURANT. CAP’N JEB’S; HAROLD AND I ATE DINNER THERE ONCE AND THEY HAD STRING-BEANS.”
(I’m not making this up, chillen.)
Back-and-forth along the vaunted Truck-Route, but no clock-place.
I get in a left-turn lane to flip-flop, but “NO, YOU CAN GO STRAIGHT HOME, BOB.”
“But I’m already committed to a left-turn.”
“OVER THERE’S THE MEAT-MARKET PA AND I WENT TO. THEIR STEAKS WERE DELICIOUS, BUT THEIR SAUSAGE WAS DISGUSTING.”
“THAT CLOCK-PLACE WAS BACK FROM THE ROAD IN ONE OF THESE MINIMALLS. NOW WE’RE INTO HOUSES. WE’VE GONE TOO FAR.”
Back to the retirement-center in the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower.
“I’M SORRY, BOB,” she says; “I SHOULDA CALLED FIRST.”
Yet on the other hand I get left with so much material.

—5) Cobalt-Sport
Our rental is a Cobalt “Sport” model.
From what I can see, this means alloy wheels.
It’s okay, but it’s not a 454 Chevelle.
To me, it’s comparable to the HHR we rented before — as good as any Toyota, which for me, at the time of the HHR, was a pleasant surprise.
The onliest way Chevy can compete with the Japs is to make a car as good as the Toyota, which our Cobalt is. All I have to do now is feel an American car is as reliable as a Jap car.
I’ve seen too many Pontiacs on hooks, and heard horror-stories.
We drove our so-called soccer-mom Astrovan 12 years and 140,000 miles, and it never crippled on us, although it threw enough mysterious hairballs at me, and needed to be rescued a few times by Triple-A.
For years it threw the “check-engine” light at me, and that finally disappeared when the mechanic at Molye Chevrolet in Honeoye Falls did a kerreck engine-analysis and replaced the faulty part.
But I always felt the engineering was Band-Aids®, and it had a chintzy solenoid that would seize up and not let me put it in gear (like at Auto-Train).
—A Band-Aid® to meet the foot-on-brake requirement.
I thought about replacing it with another Astrovan, but by then it was no longer made — or so I was told.
(The salesman was finagling a Windoze ‘pyooter system that drove me outta the store: “Please wait while Windoze calculates the value of Pi.”)
So I ended up comparing various American minivans upgraded to All-Wheel-Drive.
Pontiac had one, but the Chevy was the luxo version.
So we ended up trying Toyota, and buying it.
We’re very pleased.

—6) Elusive clock-man found
Tuesday morning (February 26, 2008 — see above) we zagged up-and-down three times on the so-called Truck Route in search of the elusive clock-man.
Later Linda’s mother called clock-man to get directions and the location of his shop — after getting clock-man’s phone-number from her neighbor who was on the toilet.
Turns out clock-man’s original shop had been closed when his parents died, and he moved back to his humble abode, which he built himself 30 years ago, on a dirt-track, and set up shop in an attached shed.
“Turn in at the Carpet-Store, and take the dirt-track out of the parking-lot. You’ll see it, where the grass has been beaten down.”
We drove to the Carpet-Store, but didn’t see the beaten grass.
Linda called clock-man on her cellphone, and her mother barged into the Carpet-Store.
“Parking-lot south of the Carpet-Store,” clock-man said. “Take the ‘road’ to the left into the woods. Ya can’t miss it; it’s where the grass is beaten down.”
So into the south parking-lot I go again, and I angle off onto a questionable dirt-track, which I guess is the path to a small woodsy neighborhood.
“This is a road?” Linda asks.
Over a short distance, we pass a ramshackle house with a carport, and a small sign clock-man had put up.
“Well, I guess this is it,” we all say.
I turn around and block the carport, and Linda’s mother gets out and starts poking around the house.
Linda and I strike out toward a second sign that may indicate the location of the shop.
It is, and we walk in.
“SURE ARE ENOUGH CLOCKS IN HERE!” Linda’s mother loudly observes.
A little old man in shorts and sweaty undershirt hobbles up, all knobby knees and blotchy, flaccid skin.
He pulls out the second-hand, and then unscrews the nut that secures the minute and hour hands to the central stud.
He tightens things and reinstalls everything.
“Now let me ask ya something,” he says.
“When we switched back to Standard-Time, didja spin the minute-hand or the hour-hand?”
Spin the hour-hand and ya loosen everything (the central stud is a cone).
No charge, but “ya gotta endure my 20 minutes of yammering about macular degeneration.”
“You’ve got macular degeneration? Well yada-yada-yada-yada. Shots, doctors, not FDA approved; live in Philly instead, and ya suffer compared to Floridy.”

—7) Breakfast at Dorothea’s
Tuesday, February 26, 2008 we ate pancakes with Jerry at a local Perkins.
Jerry/Nancy went home so Wednesday, February 27, 2008 it was breakfast at Dorothea’s.
She had a half-gallon of skim milk (what we drink — “I DON’T LIKE SKIM MILK; I ADD CREAM TO IT ON MY CEREAL”)

Epson 10000 XL.

I also noticed a giant container of quick-oats, so all I needed was bananas, which we bought at Publix (see scan of Visa-charge at left).
(Her single remaining banana was brown. — “I GOT A BANANA! IT’S A BANANA!”)
“DON’T YOU WANNA BIGGER PAN?”
“No, all I’m doing is warming the milk.”
“YOU’RE NOT COOKING YOUR OATMEAL?”
“No, I just pour the warm milk over the oats.”
“OH! (pause) WELL, I NEVER HEARD OF THAT!”
So I then sliced the banana, which presents the dreaded hairball of where to put the peel.
“So where do I put the banana-peel?”
“IN THE TRASH!”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “I’ve been through this before. Trash is garbage and garbage is messy stuff, and never shall they meet.”
(We’ve always thought it rather ironical everything was tossed together in the same dumpster, although it’s no longer separated indoors.)
What I call “the trash” was pointed out to me.
I threw a banana-peel toward the trash, but it partially overlaid the container.
“Uh-ohhhhh,” I said. “I’ve committed an unpardonable sin.”
Linda quickly intervened and redeposited the peel in the trash, without her mother noticing.
“AREN’T YA GONNA ADD SALT? I CAN’T EAT OATMEAL WITHOUT SALT!”
“No.”
“ANY SUGAR? DONCHA WANT SUGAR ON YOUR OATMEAL, BOB? I COULD NEVER EAT OATMEAL WITHOUT SUGAR!”

—8) “Daytona 500 Experience”

The so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.

The central stands at Daytona International Speedway.

For lack of anything else to do, we set out for Daytona International Speedway, which was about 16 miles away.
Our goal was the Daytona 500 Experience, a museum of sorts, along with souvenir shops and various electronical games, including a racing simulator.
Our first try at parking was the tiny dog-track next to the Speedway that was there when the Speedway was built.
We finally found “Daytona 500 Experience,” and parked in an available spot near the entrance.
A sidewalk viper accosted us as we walked toward the entrance: “Don’t worry; I won’t bite!”
“I can get ya in for free if ya visit our beachfront hotels, and listen to our 10-minute spiel.”
“No, thank you,” I said. (Memories of Grand Central terminal.)
$19 each for seniors; we used our credit-card.
Wandering around, we stepped outside where track-tours were being given.
“Welcome to Daytona International Speedway;” a big place — a sweeping 2&1/2-miles with 33° banking on the curves.
The facility has been considerably expanded since the early days (see picture above), and now seats hundreds of thousands.
The track was built by racer and race-promoter “Big Bill” France, Sr., and is a huge monument to auto-speed.

The so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100 with flash.

Dodge Charger (ahem) “stock-car,” that won the 2008 Daytona 500.

“I think stock-car racing has considerable entertainment potential,” France said; which it does, but the racecars are no longer stock.
They’re not even based on stock-cars any more.
Since when do ya find a Dodge Charger anything like the 2008 Daytona winner pictured?
It’s not even close. The Charger grill-piece is a plastical sticker.
So are the headlights.
Yet the rear axle is still Johnny Popper — it ain’t independent.
The IMax movie said the motor was “stock” but “hand-made.” HMMMMMMMNNNNNNN........ This sounds like REPUBLICAN LOGIC. Try to get 800+ horsepower out of a stock car-motor and it pukes its innards.

The so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100 with flash.

Still a tractor-axle.

“Any race-fans here?” our tour-guide asked.
“Yes!” everyone cheered.
“So who’s your favorite driver: Tony Stewart, Little E., Jimmie Johnson?”
“Mario Andretti,” I said. (They never heard of Mario.)
And every time the name of Jeff Gordon was dredged up, we said “that little twerp.”
Ear-splitting slam-bang wheel-to-wheel car racing was shown on the IMax movie, but the cars looked smaller than stock. A Volkswagen Golf with a souped-up Small-Block.

-Conclusions:
-A) Linda’s mother gets older and older, but is still pretty spry at 92.
Out of the car and ZIP. She’s halfway across the parking-lot before I can lock the doors. (She ain’t waitin’ for anyone, although I think this is more a social thing — us kids are reprehensible.)
“MY LIFE IS ALMOST OVER, AND IT WAS A COMPLETE WASTE! YOU KIDS USED TO BE SO CUTE WHEN YA WERE SMALL, BUT NOW LOOK AT YAZ! I HAVE NOTHING TO SHOW AT THE PEARLY GATES! NO STARS IN MY CROWN!”
-B) 50¢ toll off East-West expressway onto Semoran. “Exact change please!”
I deposit 50¢ and “no fare.”
“G-head; take our picture. Send in the blazing Uzis. You’re not getting a penny more; and I’m leaving!”
-C) I can’t go anywhere without mucking something up. I goes with being a stroke-survivor.
I have to be careful climbing curbs and descending steps, like inside the Daytona 500 Experience IMax theater.
My lumbar roll has been left behind in numerous rentals (and on airplanes), so this time I took my oldest one — which I left behind in our CR-V.
This time my CR-V key remains in Floridy; probably in the Daytona 500 Experience parking-lot.
-D) This trip didn’t cost us much: just the airfare, the car-rental, parking and dog-boarding.
Every time we tried to pay for eats we got sent packing.
I tried to pay at Perkins, since we’re loaded and Jerry isn’t.
“Just shaddup and we’ll do what he says,” Linda said.
-E) I checked my e-mail on the ‘pyooter at De Land Public Library.
We had to use Linda’s mother’s library-card.
AnMari (one of the vaunted Ne’er-do-Wells) pointed out I had “Angie” spelled as “Angle.”
An OCR scanner will do that, and “Angle” is acceptable to spellchecks.
So I fixed it on FlagOut and the blog, but I can’t fix it on e-mail already sent.
All I can do is resend the e-mail, which I’ve done occasionally when the fixes are bad enough.
AM was apparently on at the same time, and immediately took me to task.
“For crying out loud, AM. I’m at the De Land Public Library. Go change your kid’s diaper.”
-F) And the person who actually fixed Linda’s mother’s clock was The Keed.
the second-hand was hanging up the minute-hand when it drooped (like at five-of), so I bent the hands so they wouldn’t jam.
“I THANK YA, BOB.”
I guess our visit was not in vain. Star for us! (Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk.....)
-G) I’ve read about half of a book I dragged along: “Fuel and Guts” about top-fuel drag-racing.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

I always say my wife’s 92-year-old mother lives in a retirement community in “the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower” in De Land, Florida. The retirement complex is next to the water-tower. We were visiting to show her that my wife is not at death’s door — she has folicular lymphoma (cancer) and will survive.

RE: “puke-green ‘57 .... Elz and I abandoned it to get to BHS.......” —The “puke-green ‘57” is a two-tone green (my family always calls it “puke-green”) 1957 Chevrolet Belair four-door sedan our family had when I was in high-school: BHS (Brandywine High School in northern Delaware). The “Blue Bomb” is the navy-blue 1953 Chevrolet Two-Ten two-door sedan I learned to drive in. At that time we had both cars. “Elz” is my sister Betty (Elizabeth). She’s second after me, 62 (I’m the oldest at 64). She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. Betty and I were in high-school at the same time: me class of ‘62, and her class of ‘64. I used to drive her (and me) to school, along with one of her girlfriends.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

RE: “Memories of the Daze Inn in Altoony (‘that ain’t no B52; that’s a B24’).......” —Altoona (“Altoony”), PA has a Days Inn (“Daze Inn”), since converted to a Holiday Inn Express. It was founded by a WWII B24 pilot, and there was a picture in the lobby. A clerk identified it as a B52.

“17/92” (U.S. Route 92 and U.S. Route 17) is the main north-south route through De Land; both on the same road.

“Nancy” is Linda’s brother Jerry’s fourth wife.

Linda’s mother called her husband (“Harold”) “Pa.”

“Publix” is the local supermarket in De Land.

“Aldersgate” is the place in Floridy my wife’s parents first lived at. It’s near De Land.

About a year ago, De Land suffered tornado damage.

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, owns a 1971 “454 Chevelle” (a Chevelle SS with a 454 cubic inch motor — a classic car).

“Hooks” are tow-trucks.

The “HHR” is a special Chevrolet model styled like the early ‘50s Chevy trucks. It competes with the PT Cruiser. We rented one last visit.

“The so-called soccer-mom minivan” is our 1993 Chevrolet Astrovan, traded two years ago for our current Toyota van. My loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston called it a “soccer-mom minivan” as a put-down.

“Honeoye Falls” is a small village near where we live.

“Windoze” is the Microsoft Windows operating-system for PC computers. My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, claims I am inferior and stupid because I prefer the MAC platform.

Linda’s mother has “macular degeneration” and is legally blind, but can still see. RE: “Shots, doctors, not FDA approved; live in Philly instead, and ya suffer compared to Floridy......” —The clock-man has macular degeneration in one eye, and was given unapproved shots to repair it. His brother in Philadelphia has it, but had to go untreated.

“Dorothea” is my wife’s mother’s first name.

RE: “Trash is garbage and garbage is messy stuff......” —Years ago I tossed a grapefruit-rind “in the trash” where I was told, and thereby caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I should have put it in the so-called “messy stuff.”

RE: “Daytona International Speedway......” —I used to be a car-racing fan.

RE: “Memories of Grand Central terminal.....” —During the ‘80s I visited New York City, and caught a train at “Grand Central Terminal,” where I was accosted by panhandlers.

“Johnny Popper” is the nickname for the old John Deere two-cylinder tractor — called that because of the sound it makes: “B-Dah, B-Dah, B-Dah, B-Dah!” NASCAR still uses the beam rear-axle; like a tractor-axle.

Racecar driver Mario Andretti was the best when I was a racefan. My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, badmouths racecar driver Jeff Gordon as “that little twerp.”

The Chevrolet “Small-Block” V8 was introduced at 265 cubic-inches displacement in the 1955 model-year. It continued production for years, first at 283 cubic inches, then 327, then 350. Other displacements were also manufactured, including the engine used by Chevrolet in NASCAR.

RE: “You kids used to be so cute when ya were small” is something Linda’s mother actually said to Linda and her brother.

RE: “I have nothing to show at the pearly gates!” —Linda’s mother is a martyr. She’s useless because both her children are non-believers.

“G-head” is something my Down Syndrome brother used to say. He died in 1968.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV. We used it to get to the airport.

“‘Pyooter” is computer.

The “Ne’er-do-Wells” are an e-mail list of everyone I e-mail my stuff to.

An “OCR scanner” is an Optical-Character-Recognition scanner; that converts scanned text into a ‘pyooter text-file. I have OCR software I use in conjunction with my regular image scanner.

“FlagOut” is our family’s web-site, named that because I had a mentally-retarded kid-brother (Down Syndrome) who lived at home, and loudly insisted the flag be flown every day. “Flag-Out! Sun comes up, the flag goes up! Sun goes down, the flag comes down.” I fly the flag partly in his honor. (He died at 14 in 1968.)

RE: “Go change your kid’s diaper......” Ne’er-do-Well AnMari Linardi has a baby.