Wandering Tourist here ,and glad to be back. Wondering what I have been doing lately? For one thing, I  have not been writing, as you can see. No new posts since August. The only excuse is, well, you know. Just not enough time. Yes, I know that is not exactly true. I am retired from full-time work, so there should be plenty of time to write a few lines.

So, let’s get to it. My latest trip was to Key West. My wife and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary at the end of March in the nation’s southern most city. While it did not equal the experience in our favorite destination spot — Aruba — it may have been the next best thing. Key West has a lot of things that other historic destinations in Florida and the Deep South have — and a lot  more.

First, there are lots of places to take your money — expensive restaurants, chic gift shops and too many excursions for a mere week’s time.

The main thing you want to do when you visit Key West is the watch the sunset from Mallory Square. The rumor that everyone in Key West drops what they are doing and heads to Mallory Square at sunset is just not true. The two nights we were there, I would estimate the crowds at maybe 1,500 to 2,000. Most of them were tourists, I am sure — except for the vendors and street performers, who amaze with their sword-swallowing and gravity-defying antics.

I hav e to say that the sunsets in Key West are every bit as good as advertised, even when there is a slight haze, which we encountered both nights we watched them — once from the dock at Mallory Square and the other from a sailboat a mile or so into the Gulf of Mexico. Fortunately, we visited during a cooler part of the season, so heat wasn’t a major concern. I would not want to be there later in the summer when temperatures often hover around 90 degrees even as late as 8 or 9 p.m.

We strolled down world famous Duval Street, which resembles some of the historic streets in Fernandina Beach, St. Auguustine, Savannah and Charleston with gift shops, restaurants and night spots galore. Narrow streets were the hallmark of city planners in the 18th and 19th centuries and Key West is no different.

One thing that helps separate Key West from other historic sites is the number of motor scooter rentals available. Everywhere you went, motor scooters were sure to follow. I even fell to the temptation of renting one, much to my wife’s surprise. I kept remembering the fun I had as a teenager tooling around Clark AFB in the Philippines on the motorbike my father bought me on a TDY trip to Hong Kong.

We made two mistakes renting the scooter. One, we got it for four hours ($65, I think) and two, we both tried to ride around town on it. If you haven’t ridden a scooter in more than 50 years, you don’t need to try to get reacquainted with a passenger on the back. Especially one who has a fear of scooters and motorcycles. After an hour and a half into our rental, my wife suggested I take her home and ride the scooter by myself for a while. But after I took her back to the condo, I only used it for another hour, leaving another hour and a half on the rental. Oh, well, lessen learned.

One thing everyone needs to know about Key West is that there are virtually no good beaches there — except one, at Bahia Honda State Park 35 miles north of town. We found out about the park through a brochure and planned to rent kayaks and explore some of the lagoons around the park. Unfortunately, the wind was too strong the day we went and kayak rentals were unavailable.

Apparently two couples had brought their own kayaks with them. They tried but failed to reach a small island about a quarter mile into the Atlantic Ocean from the beach at Bahai Honda.

Bahia Honda may be the best kept secret in all of the keys, from an excellent beach, to amenities, to visual splendor. Highly recommended for a day’s visit.

The Florida Keys were definitely worth the nearly 600-mile drive from Jacksonville, but we won’t be going back anytime soon. Our next tropical visit will be a return to Aruba. You know what the Beach Boys say, “Aruba, Jamacia, oooh I wanna take you, to Kokomo.”

If you’ve ever been Key West, let us know about your experience.

A view of the beautiful Lake Toxaway, N.C., from the porch of a rental house.

The Wandering Tourist finally got back to business recently with a week’s vacation to the shores of Lake Toxaway, N.C. Funny that I combine business and vacation, but that is the way it is with a travel writer. Getting down to business means going on vacation. This time it was to the southwest corner of North Carolina, between Brevard and Cashiers.

Lake Toxaway, the first artificial lake in the Appalachians, was built in the early 1900s and was a vacation getaway for such luminaries as Henry Ford, Harvey Firestone and Thomas Edison. The lake is three miles long and one mile wide with a 14-mile shoreline. Perfect for tubing, water skiing, kayaking and canoeing. We made good use of a boat that came with our three-story, four-bed room rental.

There are plenty of affordable vacation rentals on the lake’s shores, especially if you share the costs with others, as we did this year and on our previous trip to the area in 2008.

A you can have a piece of the luxurious life to be found on Lake Toxaway, NC. for — are you ready for this? — mere $17.5 million.

There are also plenty of expensive homes to buy if you are in the market, including a 10,00-square foot mansion that was within a well-hit four-iron distance from our place. We found out it was for sale at a mere $17.5 million. Calling Oprah, Tom Cruise, Tiger Woods! Anyone with lots of money.

Our trip this year was with my wife’s sister Betty, her husband Gary, a son Tony and his companion Brandy. This was about the fifth or sixth trip to the same area for Betty and Gary and they are considering purchasing a lake-view lot that comes with an extremely affordable price tag in these economically challenged times.

Activities in the area are plentiful, and we took advantage of many of them. Tubing was a big hit for Gary, Tony and I. Not so much for the ladies, although my wife took a shot at it and enjoyed the experience. The boat wasn’t as fast this year as the one we had two years ago, so we couldn’t bounce the tubers around as much as we did before. Still, there were times when the water was choppy and it became difficult to remain on the tube, especially for me. I think Tony, who is only 20, could have stayed on the tube all day. Gary and I were only up for so much punishment. Gary had a knee replacement recently and I am slowly (or maybe rapidly) growing old and just not up to as much physical activity as I used to be.

Another physical activity we engaged in was white-water rafting on the Nantahala River with a company called Wild Waters Rafting. We all enthusiastically endorse them as a vendor. They were very organized, professional and customer-oriented in their approach. And our guide, Ali, was super, even though she was in her first year.

Tony quickly got the hang of tubing on Lake Toxaway, N.C.

The only bad thing about the experience was how long the trip lasted. We were on the river for more than two and a half hours, and that is just too long for older people with arthritis and other aches and pains to sit on the side of a raft. When the ride was over, my wife and I could barely get out of the raft because our backs and legs were so sore, not so much from the ride itself but from just the amount of time. I recommend shorter routes for those of you who are like us.

The good thing is that Ali twice kept my wife from flipping head first into the 48-degree river water by quickly grabbing her as she became to tumble. Needless to say, Ali got a hefty tip from us.

Dining was a mixed bag during our stay, with the highlight for me being the Brown Trout restaurant just off Highway 64 near our rental. I am not a big fan of trout, so I opted for the chicken marsala. OMG! I thought Carrabba’s had the best chicken marsala in existence, but this one tops anything I have ever tasted. Other dining experiences were not as successful, but I will leave it at that. Suffice it to say, customer-service left a little to be desired. One meal lasted as long as the rafting trip.

There was another meal worth mentioning, but it occurred on the way to the mountains. It was Maurice’s BBQ in Columbia, S.C., with a mustard sauce worth raving about. I am normally not a fan of mustard sauce, but this one was mouth-wateringly delicious. Unfortunately, Maurice’s is peppered with elements of the old Confederacy and associated racial suggestions. Be that as it may, the sauce was great; the politics, not so much.

In closing, let me say this about the trip. North Carolina is one of the top destinations for Floridians and since a great many of us have to travel through South Carolina, I have one piece of advice for the Palmetto State — learn to build six-lane highways.

]]> http://www.wanderingtourist.com/north-carolina-%e2%80%94-floridians-favorite-vacation-spot/feed/ 1 http://www.wanderingtourist.com/jax-beach-girls-sand-and-did-i-mention-girls/ http://www.wanderingtourist.com/jax-beach-girls-sand-and-did-i-mention-girls/#comments Thu, 27 May 2010 17:59:40 +0000 Lamar Thames http://www.wanderingtourist.com/?p=420

By LAMAR THAMES

It was the summer of 1958 and I had just turned 14. Elvis was in the Army, and Perry Mason and 77 Sunset Strip ruled the television airways. Jerry Lee Lewis shocked the music world with his song Great Balls of Fire and his marriage to a distant 13-year-old cousin. James Dean had died before most of us even got to know him, and my Davy Crockett coonskin cap still occupied a prominent niche on the shelf in my room. But things, as Bob Dylan said, “they were a’changing,” and a simple trip to the beach no longer meant a romp in the ocean. There were also girls to consider.

We lived in the backwoods mountains of Northwest Georgia, five miles from Tennessee’s tourist-laden Rock City, but a million miles from nowhere. It was about as far from the ocean, philosophically, as you can get. I had lived near the shore before and would do so again, but most of the people in the quaint communities of West Brow and Hinkle would live and die within a few miles of where they were born — modern recluses in a mobile society.

Some of the parents of the teenagers in our church group were aware of the trap and arranged summer trips to expose their children to other cultures and possibilities. The year before, it was a camping trip to the Great Smoky Mountains. In 1958, it was a trip to the beach — Jacksonville Beach, Florida, to be exact.

While I can’t say I recall a lot about Jax Beach from that visit, several things are still vivid in my mind. Girls, the wide sandy beaches, and did I say girls? I was a teenage boy and I was in love. I loved anything and everything about girls — their flashing eyes, ruby lips and hair that smelled like fresh-picked peaches. I loved the way they pranced up and down the hard-packed sand, their arms, legs and hips moving in hypnotic fashion, demanding to be noticed. And I noticed. Lord, did I notice.

The anticipation of the trip was almost too much for me. I dreamed of girls in two-piece bathing suits, glistening with suntan lotion. I loved their smooth skin, their cherry cheeks, and their rounded shoulders.

The trip from Lookout Mountain to Jacksonville Beach seemed longer than the Eisenhower Administration and our stay was shorter than the Big Bopper’s career. We rented a couple of cottages on what I remember being somewhere around First Street North, near where the pavilion used to be and not too far from a movie theater. On screen was The Robe. Being a church group, we had to go see it.

Arnold, Eddie and I slept on the unair-conditioned porch and the girls in our group slept inside. I remember a distinctive smell to the cottage, rustic and outdoorsy. The memory of that odor stayed with me a long time, and I recaptured it on the Redneck Riviera, a.k.a. Panama City, years later after I joined the Air Force. A buddy and I drove down from Montgomery, Ala., to do some girl-watching.

The hotel we stayed at was one of those funky beach rentals with seashells on the walls, fishnets hanging from the ceiling and the smell I remembered from Jax Beach.

“What’s that smell,” I asked as we entered the lobby.

“Uh, that’s mildew,” my buddy informed me.

Mildew? Huh. Even now, whenever my nostrils encounter mildew, I am reminded of that long-ago vacation and how much innocent fun a 14-year-old on a long leash can have.

Our days began early and lasted until late in the evening as we swam, ate, slept, talked to girls, slept, ate, went to bed and started the process over again. We would walk the streets at night, unafraid, and dazzled by the lights and the electricity in the air. We were on vacation, and we wanted to act like tourists, even if we didn’t have a true appreciation for what the word meant. Being naturally shy and lacking in social graces, I nonetheless screwed up my courage to talk to some of the girls we would see listening to music or dancing at the pavilion.

The pavilion was at the end of a pier, jutting into the ocean. Our group would hang around the perimeter, watching the older teenagers do the bop and having a good time; the boys with greased duck-tails hanging our over their turned-up shirt collars and the girls in pedal pushers and short-sleeve cotton blouses, looking fresh-scrubbed like Sandra Dee or Debbie Reynolds.

Music blared from kiosks along the beach, designed to attract teens with money to buy whatever they were selling. One day C.C. Rider spoke to me with its mournful, bluesy sound of unrequited love. A pretty blond also stopped to listen. She had an inviting face, and I smiled at her. Amazingly, she smiled back. My knees grew weak.

She said she was from Ohio.

I said I was from “Nufgahbuh.”

“Huh?”

“Uh, North Georgia,” I said. “You know, around Lookout Mountain and Rock City?” I didn’t want to say West Brow or Hinkle.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I’ve seen those signs on the barns. See Rock City. Have you been there?”

“Sure, lots of times,” I said, surprised she was still talking to me. Her name was Sandy, not Sandra, and her father was a minister from a rural church outside Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. She was wearing pink pedal pushers and a white, sleeveless blouse.

“Would you be going to the pavilion while you are here?” I asked, innocently.

“Oh, no. My father wouldn’t allow that. But I am going to the movies tonight to see The Robe. Have you seen it?”

“No,” I lied. “Maybe I’ll see you there?”

We sat in the middle of the theater, her mother and father two rows behind. I bought her a drink and a candy bar and a box of popcorn to share. Our hands touched once when we tried to reach into the popcorn box at the same time. After the refreshments, I got up enough nerve to try to hold her hand, which she had carefully placed on the armrest between us. Just as I touched her hand, however, she sneezed. She said something about the mildew in the theater affecting her allergies.

When the movie was over, I asked her how long she was staying in town.

She said they were leaving the next day, but would be back next year at the same time.

“Do you come here all the time?” she asked.

“No, this was a one-time trip,” I said.

“Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

It was a long trip back to the mountains of Northwest Georgia, and there was little to do but think about the sun and the sand and the little fair-haired girl. I promised to write, but you know I never did. That’s the way it goes with those short summertime romances.

But I did return to Jacksonville Beach — about 35 years later as the editor Shorelines, The Florida Times-Union’s community news edition for the Beaches. A wave of nostalgia swept over me on a stroll up First Street, remembering my first visit so long ago. The movie theater and the pavilion were long gone. So was the minister’s daughter from Ohio.

She had the bluest eyes . . .

By LAMAR THAMES

The Wandering Tourist took a different turn last week and wound up at a Jimmy Buffett concert in Orlando. Of course, it wasn’t an unexpected adventure. My son Jeff’s wife gave him two tickets to the concert for his birthday and he asked me if I wanted to go with him.

Of course, I did. It is one of the things that Jeff and I have in common and I was anxious to share the experience with him. Needless to say, it probably made a few other people in his life jealous that he had asked me to go, but I was the logical choice since I am the next biggest Buffett fan in the family after him.

Ironically, this was the second Buffett concert I have attended with one of my children. The first was in the early 1980s with my daughter, Wendy. I think this speaks volumes as to why Buffett is still such a huge concert draw, even though he hasn’t had a top 10 solo record in decades. His appeal crosses generational lines and has reached such cult status that it possibly exceeds even the Grateful Dead.

But why? What is it about a Buffett concert that makes it so fascinating, considering the fact that he is a marginally talented musician and song writer and has only a passable singing voice? That is one of the questions I set out to learn during the recent concert at the Amway Center in Orlando.

IT ALL STARTS WITH FUN

Mary, Delaney, Morgan and Matt are proof that being Jimmy Buffett fans runs in the family. (Photo By Lamar Thames)

Perhaps the biggest thing you can take away from listening to Buffett music or attending one of his concerts is that it is so much fun. Buffett has cornered the market on a laid-back island lifestyle and music genre that resonates so much with his fans. No one else has made that connection with as much intensity as Buffett.

Buffett exudes a perpetual party atmosphere and as he says in one of his songs, It’s 5 o’clock Somewhere. The pre-concert atmosphere in the Amway Center parking lot  featured RVs, pick-ups and partiers, some from as far away as Oklahoma, and, of course, margaritas and Land Shark beer in abundance. I have to say, though, that I didn’t see any knee-walking drunks; just a lot of people having fun.

Among those were Suzanne of Melbourne, Fla., her 30-something year-old sons Chris and Nick, and her sister Teresa.

“I have never been to a Buffett concert,” said Suzanne, decked out in a coconut-shaped brazier matching the ones Chris and Teresa wore. Of course, the bras were worn over warmer clothes underneath because it was cold outside, baby!

Chris is a dedicated Parrothead (one of the self-anointed Buffett devotees) and attends Buffett concerts religiously. His mother had never attended a Buffett concert and were surprised when they found they both had bought tickets for the Orlando venue.

Among the other sights witnessed during my pre-concert tour of the parking lot was a group of troubadours singing (badly off key, I might ad) Boat Drinks, while sitting on a small dry-docked row boat.

My son Jeff said there is just no on else like Buffett. “He has the laid-back, island style genre all to himself.”

FOR SOME, IT IS A FAMILY THING

In addition to the ones already mentioned, including two of my children and me, I met a family with  9- and 14-year-old daughters in attendance at the concert.  The girls were not mere tag-alongs either. Both of them were decked out in prerequisite Hawaiian leis and each had their own favorite Buffett tunes.

For 9-year-old Morgan, it was Fins, and for Delaney, One Particular Harbor. Mom Mary and dad Matt, from Satellite Beach, said the girls were the ones who played Buffett around the house and even had his music on their ipods.

While the crowd was decidedly older (some appeared to be approaching their 80s), there were plenty of younger people in attendance,

Janet, Donna and Ray had a family thing going, too, but in a different fashion. Sisters and long-time Buffett affectionadosJanet and Donna were introducing Donna’s husband “Mustang” Ray to the whole phenomenon and he seemed to enjoy it. Janet’s favorite is Barometer Soup while Donna favors Come Monday. Ray said he hadn’t found a favorite song yet, but if there is anything about Mustangs, he’d be all for it. He was wearing a cool looking shirt adorned with Mustang drawings.

IT IS ALSO ABOUT THE MUSIC

Most of Buffett’s music is catchy with a lot of sing-along-anthems, which, unfortunately, entice the audience to do that. Listening to the soundtrack on some of the very grainy live video I took during the Orlando concert, you can hear some poor sing-along voices in the background. I am not saying who it is (but I definitely thought I sounded better than that. No wonder the church choir rejected me.)

Buffett’s appeal ranges from the raunchiness of Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw (which he didn’t sing in Orlando), to the silliness of Pencil Thin Mustache and the thoughtfulness of  Come Monday. He also throws in homages to soul-searching (He Went to Paris); generations (Son of a Son of a Sailor); and lost opportunities (A Pirate Looks at 40).

In a 2004 article, Rolling Stone magazine sums up Buffett’s appeal like this:

“A former journalist and history major, Buffett unassumingly puts his literate background to good use. His story-songs resonate with sharp observations; his travelogues include a strong sense of time and place; his shaggy-dog tales stay on the leash. And most important, he applies his wry sense of humor to his brand of counterculture hedonism, even as he celebrates it.”

Buffett has gone through several reincarnations of himself from country pop to island fantasy and most recently to more pure country and western with License to Chill, an album that Rolling Stone praised as “a mature artist getting his second wind.”

While that is satisfying to a lot of fans, it is still the old standards of Cheeseburger in Paradise, Margaritaville and Fins that keep the crowds crying for more.

Sing on, Jimmy. We love you, man!

EDITOR’S NOTE: Let me apologize for the quality of the video attached to this report. I didn’t think I would be able to get into the Amway Center with a camera or video equipment, so I brought along a cheap version of both that just didn’t work out too well. So, if you skip the video, I will understand.

By LAMAR THAMES

Travel can take on different meanings and dimensions for different people. For me, one of the lures to being a Wandering Tourist is that a particular destination can be what you want it to be. By that, I mean I can go where I want to, when I want to — in my mind.

My recent visit to Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ homestead in Cross Creek, Fla., evoked memories of a long ago place in a long ago time: my father’s parents house on the outskirts of Geneva, Ala., circa 1940s and ’50s.

This s a photo from a family gathering at Grandma Thames' house in Geneva, Ala., in the early 1950s. Here are the people I can identify, from left: My mother Blanche Thames, Grandma Thames, Bernice Trim, unknown, unknown, Gladys Gilmore, Dora Lee Thames and Clara Thames. (Family photo)

It was a magical place of childhood memories exaggerated by the passage of time, with the certainty that Grandpa and Grandma’s house is as I remember it, not as it really was. And that is OK with me because the warmth that stems from distant times is part of what makes me me and you you. My childhood was idyllic, blissful, marred only by a few unpleasantries that would spoil those cherished moments if I allowed them to.

So, let’s get on with this walk down memory lane and a tour of the old homestead.

TREASURES FROM GRANDMA’S HOUSE

There wasn’t much to the old place, but in my mind’s eye it was a mansion, housing treasures that one still dreams about. There was the old pot-bellied stove in the middle of the living room that served as the primary heating source for the whole house.

Boy, would that thing crack and roar when stoked with a new piece of fat lighter pine. It would get so hot that you couldn’t get closer than 5 feet or your skin would practically start to burn. Of course, while the front side was roasting, the backside would suffer from frost bite. Therefore, you had to keep turning around. Then when the fire went out in the middle of the night, you would have to dig yourself deeper into the pile of quilted blankets set aside just for that purpose.

The only other thing in that living room was a single over-head bare lightbulb, two beds, Grandma’s rocker, a white plastic Phillips radio for listening to gospel music, a firewood storage bin and a plastic-covered sofa that made into one of the most uncomfortable beds you ever spent the night on. That is where I slept until a I graduated to one of the feather beds in the back bedroom, which I shared with several other cousins.

My all-time favorite memory from Grandma’s house was her pie safe, in which she kept day-old biscuits just for my enjoyment, I think. Those fresh homemade biscuits were an epicurean’s delight, and especially so the next day when Grandma would remove one of them from the safe and sprinkle a spoonful of sugar over it just for me. That may have been the start of my diabetes, but hey, the biscuits were delectable.

My father inherited the safe from one of his brothers or sisters after Grandma passed away. He eventually dismantled it with the intention of refinishing the wood and restoring it to its former glory. To make a long story short, he didn’t finish the job and I took possession of the safe, only to see it rot outside my house years later. Too bad. I miss that old safe. And the sugared biscuits inside it.

A CHINABERRY TREE AND THE GRASSLESS YARD

The outside of the old homestead housed another treasure trove of memories, from the washtub on the back porch, to the hand-pumped water well in the backyard, to the outhouse (yuck!) down the path and finally to the chinaberry tree, which I learned to climb one summer and where I think one of my cousins broke an arm in a fall.

For some reason, the chinaberry tree resonates as a fond memory for me. Maybe it is the sing-song nature of the name, or the large shady spot it cast on a yard as barren of grass as you can imagine. In today’s world of manicured lawn perfection, it does my sensibilities well to harken back to the image of Grandma “raking” the dirt in her yard, creating quilted-looking patterns wherever she went while rooting out the little patches of “crabgrass” that would try to take hold of her otherwise pristine landscape. As I recall, that crabgrass looked suspiciously like St. Augustine. Think of the untold amount of money we spend nurturing our crabgrass patches. I think Grandma had a better idea.

I always looked forward to pumping water from the well out back. I would always get a favorable comment from Grandma about how “smart a young man that Lamar is,” as well as a sugared biscuit for my efforts. I know that my cousins who lived with Grandma liked to see me coming, too. That would mean they didn’t have to pump water while I was there.

THE STORY OF MY COUSIN OLEANE AND THE CREEK

Oleane and I were proverbial “kissing cousins,” and while I don’t ever remember actually kissing her, I do remember that I would have liked to if it hadn’t been such a taboo subject. Her mother Aunt Gladys once almost made a mistake by allowing Oleane and  to sleep in the same bed together because of a lack of sleeping space at their house. I think I was 5 or 6 at the time while she was a year older. I thought it would be a good idea but Aunt Gladys thought better of it and had me sleep with Oleane’s brother, who was about 4. Rats!

Anyway, most of Grandma’s children and grandchildren gathered at the homestead one Easter for a reunion and egg hunt. After church, the cousins were dressed in our Sunday finest after church waiting for the meal to be served and for the egg hunt. We were told we could wander down to the creek nearby but with stern warnings not to get our clothes dirty or wet.

Right away, daredevil Oleane fell into the creek and soiled her brand new white Easter dress. I felt so bad for her that I suggested we all jump in the water, too. “They won’t spank all of us, will they?” I suggested. Boy, was I wrong! Our parents not only could spank us all, but they did. I don’t think any of my other cousins spoke to me the rest of the day. Except for Oleane, of course.

WHAT ARE YOUR MEMORIES?

This piece is getting fairly long so I will bring it to a close for now. I would like to suggest, however, that if you have memories of long ago days that you would like to share, please feel free to add a comment to my piece, or send me an email at lthames@mac.com and if I can, I will publish it on this site. From time to time, I may add more of my own memories of childhood places.

The internet is a great way to archive the past and leave a lasting legacy for your children and grandchildren, who surely have their own memories  to share with others. Thanks for reading and if you enjoy this, please let me know. I will add some images to this post when I find some more of them.

NOTE: This story was originally published in The Florida Times-Union in March 2000.

By LAMAR THAMES

Webster defines travel as a journey to a distant or unfamiliar place.

And, as Michael J. Fox learned, you can travel back in time.

My wife and I did both on a trip to the North Georgia mountains a couple of summers ago in a desperate attempt to escape the oppressive heat.

It was so cool!

Our first stop was a side trip to a place I lived 40-something years ago — Lookout Mountain, Ga., the site of that vintage tourist institution, Rock City.

It was deja vu all over again for me. Almost nothing had changed since I was there in the 1950s, when Elvis was king, Ike was in the White House and Vietnam was just another country in Southeast Asia.

The only major difference I saw was the enlargement of the school I attended in sixth grade. There were no new restaurants, no new motels, and certainly no other tourist attractions on the mountain. Just the usual fixtures – Rock City, Ruby Falls, the Incline and Point Lookout, where the Battle Above the Clouds was fought during the Civil War.

”That’s because the townspeople won’t let anything else be built up here,” said the manager of the Chanticleer, the motel where we stayed. The motel was built in 1923 and seemed like a bargain at $40 per night. Remember, that was a few years ago and rates may have changed.

”I’ve been wanting to build a restaurant next door, but they won’t let me,” she said. Zoning restrictions was the explanation.

Indeed, the only way we could get something to eat that night was to go to St. Elmo at the base of the mountain, or have pizza delivered from there. Since I didn’t relish driving back up the dizzying Lookout Mountain Parkway after dark, we ordered pizza from Mr. T’s. It arrived within 15 minutes, hot, fresh and tasty. Amazing!

Another shop manager put a different spin on the lack of change.

”It’s always been a residential community,” said a clerk in the Cornerstone Station at the entrance to Rock City. ”Almost every available parcel has a house on it.”

The truth lies somewhere in between. Officials with the city of Lookout Mountain, Ga., population 1,600, and the town of Lookout Mountain, Tenn., population, 1,900, said both municipalities have restrictive building codes, but both also have little room left for commercial development.

”We are starting to develop some now,” said Brenda Miller, city clerk for the Georgia side. ”There is a subdivision of some 400 homes southwest of here along West Brow.”

But no new commercial development?

”Not that I am aware of,” she said.

Even the attraction prices at that time were relatively 1950s-like — $10 for Rock City, $9 for Ruby Falls, $8 for the Incline and $2 for Point Lookout. Like everything else, they have gone up, too. Rock City, for instance, is now $16.95, according to their web site.

The quaint streets in the neighborhood surrounding Rock City have a fantasy quality to them. In fact, Rock City’s founder, Garnet Carter, and his wife, Frieda, began the resort community in the 1920s, calling it Fairyland after her love for European folklore.

While other attractions have undoubtedly surpassed it in the number of visitors, Rock City still pulls in a respectable 400,000 tourists a year.

For those unfamiliar with it, Rock City has massive rock formations, lush gardens, storybook themes and gnome villages. If you don’t remember at least hearing about Rock City, you are probably a few years younger than I am.

Ever since the Rev. Butrick wrote in his diary in 1823, ”I ascended Lookout Mountain to visit a citadel of rocks,” tourists have paid homage to the Enchanted Trail, Mushroom Rock and Fat Man’s Squeeze while at the same time being awestruck by Balanced Rock, a 1,000-ton balancing act of seemingly impossible proportions.

At one time, See Rock City signs adorned approximately 900 barns and other rural structures from Michigan to Texas and Florida. It was one of the most ingenious public relation campaigns ever devised. You couldn’t drive anywhere, especially in the South, without seeing one of those signs.

The man who painted most of them, Clark Byers, tended a farm about an hour’s drive from Rock City until he passed away in 2004. Interstates and changing times have altered that landscape forever, however. Now, See Rock City logos are painted on almost all the trinkets sold at the Rock City gift shop.

I may take my grandchildren to see Rock City and let them experience the same things their papa did many years ago. It surely won’t have changed any more.

Blairsville waterfalls

After my little swing on the nostalgia grapevine, we proceeded to our main destination, rental cabins just outside of Blairsville, Ga., 20 miles from the notable Helen, Ga.

Blairsville is a nondescript small town whose chief claim to fame is that it is in the Blue Ridge Mountains, with several scenic waterfalls nearby. It, too, was a trip back in time, with a courthouse in the center of town and a dime store just off the square.

Be careful when you go. We took advantage of a three-day discount rate early in the week and found that most of the restaurants were closed either Monday or Tuesday, or both. We ate at the same place for lunch and dinner on a Tuesday, and not because the food was all that good.

I have to put in one plug for the area, however. The restaurants served the best sweet iced tea I had tasted in a long time. It must be the cool mountain water. If you want anything stronger, however, go somewhere else or bring your adult beverages with you. Blairsville is in the middle of a dry county.

Escaping the heat was one of the motivations for our August holiday that year, but there wasn’t a lot of relief. Temperatures were in the high 90s when we left Jacksonville and in the mid 90s around Blairsville until we began descending into mountain valleys in search of waterfalls.

The first stop we made was to Helton Creek Falls on Georgia 129, south of Blairsville. The sign said it was a 1.1 mile-hike down the side of the mountain to the falls. Piece of cake, we said — until we realized that meant 1.1 miles back UP the trail as well.

As we made our way down the looping trail, trees began to block out the sun, a bubbling mountain stream beckoned, and, yes, it grew noticeably cooler. Finally, without breaking a sweat, we reached the viewing platforms at the base of the falls, where the cascading froth fell hundreds of feet from the collecting watersheds above.

I wouldn’t call the falls dramatic, but they were compelling, especially the rocks of the creek beds, which took on driftwood-like appearances from millions of years of erosion.

A pleasant surprise was nearby Vogel State Park. There were picnic benches, a large lake with a marked-off swimming area, general store, bathing facilities and 30 or so cabins for rent at reasonable rates.

Alpine Helen

I wasn’t prepared for Helen, which is one big Alpine gift shop with hotels, motels and restaurants, all trimmed in the same Bavarian motif. Even city hall and the police department had chalet written all over them.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a strip of gift shops and a few German restaurants. But a whole town?

It was colorful, charming and predictable. Most of the items in the gift shops were baubles you can find within 50 miles of Jacksonville, except for some finely tuned, and expensive, grandfather clocks. In fairness, we didn’t have time to visit all of the shops, but the ones we did were garden variety.

According to a brochure produced by the Alpine Helen/White Convention & Visitors Bureau, Helen has a deep, rich history of Cherokee Indians, a gold rush and a productive timber business. The Indians, the gold and the timber were gone by the early 1960s, however, and the only thing left was a row of concrete block structures.

An artist urged what was left of the townspeople to transform Helen into an Alpine village. Now visitors by the thousands make the annual trek to Helen for its Oktoberfest, which usually starts in mid-September. You generally have to make reservations early because the place fills up fast.

The night before our too-short stay ended, my wife and I drove into Blairsville to walk off some of the calories we had consumed at Pappy’s Restaurant, where we were served more barbecued chicken than anyone could possibly eat for $6.95.

We parked on the town square and walked around the courthouse. On one side of it we saw a sign displaying the town’s success at a fund-raising effort. It had accumulated $80,000 toward its $250,000 goal to restore a clock and bell tower on the old courthouse.

We did a double-take and sheepishly glanced about, wondering if we could catch a glimpse of Michael J. Fox passing by on a skateboard.

NOTE: This was written about a decade ago, so some of the information might be outdated. I thought some of you might be interested in reading it. — Lamar Thames

BY LAMAR THAMES

I used to envy people who took vacations to exotic-sounding places. Ask them where they were going and they would pause dramatically before making the big pronouncement:

”Hawaiiiii!” ”Cancuuun!” ”The south of France, dahling!”

And where are you going?

”Uh, well, we haven’t made any major plans yet,” I’d answer. ”Probably just visit family, maybe a side trip to Wally World.”

This year was different. We finally had some place to go, and I couldn’t wait for the first person to pop the question.

”Going on vacation, huh? Where to?”

A pause for affect.

”ARUBA!” I would practically shout, making sure as many people heard me as possible.

“Aruba, Jamaica, oooo, I wanna take ya.

Key Largo, Montego, baby why don’t we go?”

A street scene in Aruba, where cleanliness is a hallmark. (Photo by Lamar Thames

I’ve been fascinated with the sound of the word Aruba since the Beach Boys recorded Kokomo, their major comeback hit, in 1988.

When my brother-in-law Ron Johnson asked my wife and me if we would like to share a two-bedroom condo with him and his wife, Judi, for a week in Aruba, I said,  ”Are you kidding us? Of course, we would.”

To be truthful, we didn’t even know where Aruba was. I was vaguely aware it was in the Caribbean and after consulting a couple of atlases, we found it about 15 miles north of Venezuela.

An island formerly belonging to Holland, Aruba is 77 square miles of mostly desert, with one major exception. It has about 8 miles of one of the most beautiful, uninterrupted coastlines in the world.

If long stretches of clean, white sandy beaches and an ocean of turquoise salt water are your thing, stop right now and book the next passage to Aruba. You won’t be disappointed.

Contrastingly, most of Aruba is covered with large cactus strands, huge boulders

Aruba is mostly desert with cactus and rocky outcroppings dominating the landscape. (Photo by Lamar Thames)

and divi-divi trees, emblematic of the island’s casual approach to life.

”Don’t worry about getting lost on the island,” residents told us. ”Just follow the bend of the divi-divi trees and you will always know how to get home.”

Indeed, the trees all bend to the southwest, in the direction o the prevailing gusts that are propelled by the southern trade winds. As long as you know the direction to your accommodations, you’ll be fine.

Divi-divi trees are all bent toward the southwest because of the constant 20-mph trade winds that prevails throughout the island.

That I would be this excited over a trip to a beach resort is ironic. I am the original recluse when it comes to sun worship.Give me a hat, towel, umbrella, several layers of T-shirts and a factor 175 sunscreen and I’ll sit, literally, for minutes in thehot sun at the beach. Heat and sun are just not my thing. Of course, neither is cold weather, but that’s another story.

What we found during our seven-day stay in Aruba, however, was an island with an 85-degree year-round average temperature very low humidity and the almostconstant 15- to 20-mph wind that keeps ocean waves and mosquitoes to a minimum. And get this! Even at the height of the noonday sun, you can walk for miles barefooted on the beach sand. It just doesn’t get hot.

ACTIVITIES

Sailing ships like this are available to take tourists on snorkeling excursions off the coast of Aruba. (Photo by Lamar Thames)

As you might expect, there are plenty of things to do on an island dedicated to the proposition that all tourists are good tourists. With 650,000 people making extended visits annually, and another 300,000 docking aboard cruise ships, tourism is Aruba’s No. 1 industry.

Because of the number of options available, gambling is apparently the most popular activity among visitors. There are 12 casinos scattered among the island’s 29 major hotel and timeshare facilities along the southwest coast of the island, where all the development is.

On the night before we departed, my sister-in-law pocketed $125 after just three pulls of the quarter slot machine. Her sensible husband said, ”OK, that’s it. Let’s quit.” He didn’t tell her until later he dropped $80 at the blackjack table.

While the gamblers in your party are doing their thing, the rest of you can browse the endless variety of gift shops, offering wares from the Delft ceramic collection of Holland to T-shirts and hats and native arts and crafts. Shop around. Bargains can be found. But don’t haggle over posted prices. The islanders consider it an insult.

Other entertainment options include scuba diving, snorkeling windsurfing, personal water craft riding, golf, musical variety shows and a crazy experience you won’t want to miss called Kukoo Kunuku. More about that later.

SNORKELING

For around $60 per person, the snorkeling trip aboard one of the two commercial sailboats sounds expensive, but we considered it worthwhile. The one we chose was a 4 1/2 -hour trip on an 80-foot, two-masted sailboat named the Mi Dushi, built in 1925. The venture included lunch, an open bar and two snorkeling stops. The first stop was over shallow coral reefs and the view was spectacular. You could see all the way to the bottom, about 15 feet deep, and it looked like you could reach out and touch the sand.

I was warned, as were the others with beards, that I might have difficulty keeping the water out of my mask because of the hair. They were right. I had to empty the mask frequently, which was tiring, and that made snorkeling a less-than-satisfying experienc for me. The others said they loved it and my wife said she saw a large eel, a squid and an octopus. I didn’t see them because I couldn’t get the mask on over my glasses, and I don’t wear contacts.

The next stop — near the wreck of a World War ll German cargo ship called the Antilla — was better, and worse. The wind had picked up, making it more difficult to navigate near the dangerous wreck, but I got a different mask and it didn’t leak as badly.

You can bring your own equipment, but the price is the same. In fact, you can go snorkeling by yourself, but you won’t have the experience of sailing aboard a 75-year-old ketch or watching the crew members expertly handle the sails and masts.

The crew consisted of Mario the captain, Ziggy the first mate, Ester the sailor and Evangeline the bartender. At the time, Ester was one of the few female sailors on the island. She was born in Aruba, but spent most of her life in Holland.

”I only meant to stay for six months, visiting relatives,” Ester said. ”I’ve been here two years now.” Who could blame her.

KUKOO KUNUKU

An alternative spelling would be to substitute the Ks with Cs. Either way it was an experience none of us will forget. The name literally means crazy country. And crazy it was. It helped if you were not opposed to a little [or a lot] of drinking and dancing. The trip started when a Rastafarian-looking, Cat-in-the-Hat wearing bus driver named Richard picked us and some 40 others up in an open-air bus that had a funny-sounding horn.

My sister-in-law Judi (left) and my wife Barbara pose with our Kukoo Kunuku tour guide Richard, who was from Brooklyn. (Photo by Lamar Thames)

We proceeded to the California Lighthouse atop the highest point on the island for a sunset champagne toast. Richard’s timing was perfect and the sun slipped below the horizon as the last bit of sparking champagne drained from our glasses.

Then it was on to the house of the island’s minister of Port of Call where we had a dinner of sweet and sour chicken, beef tips, rice and vegetables on a huge outdoor deck at the rear of the marbled-floor home. The first generous drink was free (well, it was included in the $55-per-person price) and the others were only $2 each.

I took this opportunity to try to talk to a ”real Aruban,” which I thought Richard was. With his dreadlocks (actually a wig) and island demeanor (easy-going, laid back) he certainly looked the part.

”Came here from Brooklyn 18 years ago,” Richard said. ”Don’t plan to go back.”

‘”We will get there fast, then we’ll take it slow,

That’s where we want to go.”

Then it was back on the bus, more horn blowing, some music (Hot, Hot, Hot) and shaking of maracas. The maracas were part of the ambiance and the more vocal ones in the crowd finally shamed the timid ones into participating.

The next two stops were at interesting, local drinking establishments, where the music blared and the drinks flowed. To my wife’s surprise, I displayed my line-dancing expertise (yeah, right) and made friends with a couple from Erie, Pa., who said they found their vacation package on the Internet for $600, which included air fare and hotel accommodations for a week. She looked like Marie Osmond. He didn’t look like Donny. I was a little miffed because I was sure we had paid more than than for our air fare.

The last stop was a tourist nightclub for more drinks and dancing and where everyone got to know everyone else a lot better. All too soon the night was over and we were loaded (literally) onto the bus for the trip to our hotels, shaking our booties and waving our maracas. A little side trip to the hot tub when we got back to the condo and the night was done.

RESTAURANTS

Any discussion of Aruba would be incomplete without mentioning dining.

Aruban restaurants pride themselves on their culinary expertise and boast several awards in a Caribbean cooking competition. Our collective experience was that the overall quality of the food was above average, but you wouldn’t want to make it the focus of your itinerary. Chez Mathilde, an expensive-looking French restaurant, was not on our itinerary so that opinion might be a little biased.

The usual fare is available — steak, lobster, seafood and chicken — at prices you would expect to find in resort areas. There didn’t seem to be an Aruban cuisine, except sweet and sour chicken, rice and beef tips.

For those on a more frugal budget (and diet), there was the usual variety of American-grown fast-food and full-service restaurants. A lot of restaurants have open-air dining and I would be remiss if I didn’t mention one particularly interesting establishment, Senor Frog, in downtown Oranjestad, the capital city. We were dumb-founded when our waiter, Umberto, delivered our order of two Margaritas and two beers balanced on three fingers. A gust of wind added to the drama. His showmanship garnered him a hefty tip, naturally.

PEOPLE

A couple we met from Oregon who own a timeshare condo in Hawaii said they prefer coming to Aruba.

”There is more to do in Hawaii, but the people are so much more friendly here,” the man said. That was our experience, too. Happy, smiling faces greeted us almost everywhere we went. I asked the manager of an Aruban department store if he knew where the local Rotary Club met, and he spent half an hour trying to help me and apologized when he was unsuccessful.

The residents speak Papiamento, a combination of Spanish, Portuguese and

Signs like these all over the island let tourists know that Arubans are very concerned about keeping their island clean. (Photo by Lamar Thames)

Dutch, as well as Spanish and English. The island is very clean, and even in some of the more remote areas, you don’t see trash-ridden streets. An official with the island’s marketing division told me the government stages seminars

at schools to emphasize the need to keep the island tidy.

IGUANAS

Iguanas are a protected species on Aruba, and as a consequence they are prevalent all over the island, even at poolside of the resorts. (Photo by Lamar Thames)

An intriguing part of our experience was the presence of iguanas, some very large, around the pool in the resort where we stayed. Startling at first, they soon became part of the landscape. We watched them nibble on the pungent vegetation, take sips of water from the hot tub and occasionally swim to an island in the middle of the pool. Some of the smaller ones were even brave enough to walk across our feet as we sunbathed.

The iguana is a protected species on the environmentally friendly island and anyone caught harming them is subject to a fine. That apparently didn’t include the many pre-teens who tried to catch them by the tail. Some of them partially succeeded, as evidenced by the short-tailed iguanas we saw.

PASSPORTS

One precaution before you go to Aruba. You must, and I repeat, must get a passport. Some of the airlines and travel agencies will tell you all you need is a raised-seal birth certificate from the vital statistics bureau of the state where you were born. But don’t believe them. GET A PASSPORT.

One member of our party, I’m not revealing who it was, showed up with a certificate of live birth from the hospital. It wasn’t good enough, even though it had been accepted in the Bahamas a year earlier.

The clerk at Air Aruba in Miami was adamant. ”You aren’t going anywhere with that! Aruba will fine the airlines $3,000 if you show up without proper documentation and you’ll be on the next plane back here.”

And I, uh, we weren’t the only ones affected. At least three

other couples had the same problem, even though all of them seemed to have the type of birth certificate the airlines said they needed.

The answer to our problem was an exasperating trip to the passport office in downtown Miami, a $20 cab ride one way. We also had to pony up $15 for two passport photos and $95 for a rush job on a passport, expenses we weren’t counting on. But at least we got the passport and we were on our way to Aruba on a 5:45 p.m. Air Aruba flight that had been twice delayed from its original 1:30 p.m. planned departure. Thank goodness for that! A weekend stay in Miami wasn’t on my agenda, especially with the wonderful Aruban beach beckoning.

IF YOU GO

Aruba is 990 miles from Miami and that’s where we found the best air fares, from Air Aruba at $425 a person. That was an average savings of about $150 apiece over the average fares we were being quoted from American Airlines and ALM Antillean Airlines.

Plan ahead to give yourself lots of wiggle room in making transportation arrangements. When we first called, American gave us a price of $495, which we thought was too high. We waited a few days and called Air Aruba and ALM, thinking they would be cheaper. Not so. In fact, they were considerably higher, with ALM at $605. It didn’t take us long to realize that our initial quote from American was the best, so we called them back. But it was too late. That was a special rate just for that weekend, we were told.

But why didn’t you tell us that then, we asked? They said theynever know when the reduced fares will be lifted. We tried a couple of on-line services, like Priceline, where you bid for plane fares and that didn’t work. We tried to underbid the $495 quote from American, but didn’t get any takers. Finally, a month before our vacation, we found on the Internet at www.previewtravel.com an Air Aruba fare out of Miami for $425. We didn’t hesitate making a reservation this time.

Air Aruba: 1-800-882-7822

American Airlines: 1-800-433-7300

ALM Antillean Airlines: 1-800-327-7230

Prices: You’ll find items in Aruba priced somewhat higher than the local discount store, but not priced so high you can’t bring back some souvenirs. We found some reasonable, quality T-shirts at the typical three for $10 bargain.

The price of beer surprised me, however. I paid $25 for a case of 10-ounce Coors Light at a grocery store. Here you can get a case of 12-ounce cans for about $14.

Most of what is consumed on the island has to be imported since there is very little agriculture or manufacturing there.

Accommodations: There are 29 hotel and/or condominiums on the island, ranging from more than $300 per night to less than $150 during the busy season from December to April. The rest of the year is the off-season and prices are often discounted up to 40 percent, according to Fodor’s travel guide. We even saw ads in the Aruba Today newspaper featuring $55 per night rooms. Fodor’s suggests there are money-saving packages through airlines and travel agencies.

Transportation: Car rentals are available, but it is a good idea to reserve a car ahead. We didn’t do that and had to take what was left when we arrived at 8:15 p.m. on a Friday night — a $270 per week Mitsubishi Lancer. Smaller cars are available for less if you book ahead. The major discount car-rental companies such as Economy and Thrifty have offices at the Beatrix airport.

Taxis are easily found, but the fares can mount quickly, especially if you want to do any sightseeing. One couple we encountered said it cost them almost as much to take a taxi as it would have to rent a car.

By LAMAR THAMES

It is funny how intentions can sometimes lead down different paths. A couple of weeks ago, I went to

Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

Tarpon Springs to see my Uncle Bob. On the return trip, I stopped in Cross Creek for a travel article on one of my favorite authors, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.

Coincidentally, I rediscovered a connection to another writer deserving attention, if for no other reason than she was a relative of mine. My uncle gave me a copy of a book by Mary Lou Whitfield, who wrote community columns for the Perry, Fla., News-Herald and Tallahassee Democrat for more than 30 years. That was longer than Rawlings’ tenure in her beloved Florida scrub, before her untimely death in 1953.

Whitfield was married to my grandmother’s brother on my mother’s side. I had known for years that she wrote columns for a newspaper near Tallahassee but it wasn’t until Uncle Bob loaned me his copy of the book, which contained some of her columns, that I realized how good she was. Not Rawlings’ good, mind you, but good nonetheless.

I wish I could say that I inherited her writing genes, but since I am an in-law, that doesn’t compute. The book is called “815 West Bay, Views from the End of the Street.” I am sure it won’t win a Pulitzer or be on any best-seller list. It is just a good collection of stories from Whitfield’s life in Perry, sort of like Rawlings’ accounts of her experiences in Cross Creek.

First let’s explore more of Rawlings’ homestead and then I will tell you a little more about Whitfield.

A 1940s Oldsmobile, like the one Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings owned, sits in the carport at her Cross Creek homesite, which is now a state park. (photo by Lamar Thames

MARJORIE KINNAN RAWLINGS’ STATE PARK

The homestead where Rawlings wrote most of her major works, including her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel “The Yearling” and the book “Cross Creek,” basically a memoir, is on County Road 325, most readily reached from State Roads 301 and 20, right where a small creek flows between Orange and Lochloosa lakes. Thus the name, Cross Creek.

It is through Rawlings’ work that much of Cross Creek remains undeveloped and serves as a reminder of a different time and place.  It is now a part of the Florida State Park system and was designated a national historic landmark in 2006.

For many, Cross Creek is a return to grandma’s house, where outhouses, well water, screened porches

Many of us will remember a time when drawing water from a hand pump was the only means of getting fresh water into the home. (photo by Lamar Thames)

and wood-burning stoves were the norm, not items mostly seen in museums.

For Janet Leach, a recent visitor from Merritt Island, Fla., it is “what Florida had to be like in the old days.”

“I just love old Florida,” said Leach, who had stopped to get her state park passbook signed by the park ranger. “Cross Creek is a true treasure, so charming and peaceful. It is so pretty here, I could spend all day.”

Leach fondly recalled a relic of the past called an “ice box,” the forerunner of the modern refrigerator. “I remember those days well. It was such a treat to get a sliver of ice from the ice man,” who delivered the block of ice that kept the ice box cold.

Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' typewriter sits on the porch of her home in Cross Creek, where she did most of her writing. (Photo by Lamar Thames)

Leach’s passbook was signed by Park Ranger Lee Townsend, himself a direct connection to the Rawlings’ era. He was born “down the road apiece” and his grandparents were well-acquainted with the famous writer.

“They thought highly of her,” he said, outfitted in a pair of 1920-era overalls and work shirt. “She gave a lot of people jobs and helped them out a lot.”

Townsend’s father and grandfather were commercial fishermen, scouring nearby lakes and rivers for catfish, turtles, and even an occasional gator, selling their wares sometimes to The Yearling restaurant nearby, named for Rawlings’ book.

He also gives gives guided tours of the house, given Thursdays through Sundays, carefully pointing out

An "ice box" sits on the porch next to the kitchen at Rawlings' home in Cross Creek. (photo by Lamar Thames)

different facets that Rawlings often wrote about.

“Now here’s the guest bathroom that she called ‘an evolution of comfort,’ ” Townsend told a group of tourists. It was the first house in the area equipped with indoor plumbing.

Moving from the guest bath to the guest bedroom, visitors had to step up, a condition Rawlings referred to as “not friendly to the aged, inebriated or absent-minded,” according to Townsend.

The guest bedroom had many famous occupiers, including Robert Frost, Margaret Mitchell and Gregory Peck. One member of the crowd whispered that Rawlings is rumored to have “bedded Ernest Hemingway here.” Townsend didn’t respond to that, but he made sure to point out the closet next to the fireplace in the living room that Rawlings modified to store “firewood in the bottom and firewater above.”

The Rawlings state park is definitely worth a few hours of reminiscing about how things might have been and how some still remember that they were. It is open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily, except in August and September when it is closed for cleaning and maintenance. Tour reservations for large groups can be made for groups by calling 352-466-3672. Regular tours are given throughout the day Thursday through Sunday. Tours are $3 apiece and it costs $3 to just tour the grounds, a bargain for one of Florida’s unique tourist attractions.

MARY LOU WHITFIELD

Mary Lou Whitfield

I met my great Aunt Mary Lou and her daughter, Penny, at least once at a family reunion but didn’t get a chance  to talk with her at length about her writing. Uncle Bob remembers her as a “very nice woman,” and from the gist of her writing, she seemed all that and more. While not as gifted as Rawlings, “Her writing took my breath away in its E.B. White simplicity, laced with wisdom that I hope never goes out of style,” noted Mary Ann Lindley, an editorial page editor and columnist for the Tallahassee Democrat in an endorsement on the back of the book.

Indeed, I found  great delight in thumbing through the easy-to-read columns contained in the book, which is available through The Book Mart, 1708 S. Byron Butler Parkway, Perry FL 32348, 850-584-4969. The copy I received on loan from my uncle does not have a price on it, but it is a soft-bound book so it is probably very affordable if you are interested in reading it.

Whitfield, who died a couple of years ago at age 96, wrote about everyday life in Perry, first for the Perry News-Herald and then for the Tallahassee Democrat. She wrote with great clarity of her life in that small town and of family that extended back five generations. Included was a poignant tale of the help she offered three children, whose stepfather had been hospitalized with gunshot wounds from an incident at the traveling carnival where he worked and whose mother ran off with another carney worker.

She housed the children for two days until the local authorities located their grandparents and sent them on their way. When she put them to bed the first night, she asked them if they would like her to help them with their prayers and they said no, that their grandmother had taught them how to pray. Thinking about them later, she concluded they would fare well in the future, especially with such a strong role model as their grandmother. Similar homilies dot a book that so well chronicles the good things about life in Perry, similar to how Rawlings wrote about Cross Creek. If you get a chance, read it. I am sure you will like it.

BY LAMAR THAMES

ST. AUGUSTINE, FLA. — Dwight Eisenhower is the first (and most favorite) president that I remember and Arnold Palmer has always been one of my favorite golfers. The two came together on Nov. 2, 2009, at the World Golf Village’s Hall of Fame inductions.

The ageless 80-year-old Palmer was there to induct his friend and frequent golfing partner,

Merrill Eisenhower Atwater, left, great grandson of Dwight Eisenhower, with Arnold Palmer at the Golf Hall of Fame induction for the former president. (Photo by Lamar Thames)

“The President, Ike, or the General,” into the hall for his contributions to the game.

“His contributions to golf were immense,” Palmer noted. So much so that the number of golf courses doubled during his eight years in office and the number of golfers competing in the sport rose from about 3 million to more than 6 million during that time.

Also being inducted into the Golf Hall of Fame were Lanny Wadkins (who is a funny, personable guy), Jose Maria Olazabal (who is smaller and younger than he looks on television) and Ireland’s Christy O’Conner (who couldn’t make the ceremony because of his health).

DWIGHT EISENHOWER

The combination of Eisenhower and Palmer was a winning quinella for the game of golf in the 1950s and 1960s. At one time considered an elitist activity because only rich people could afford to play , the game grew under the tutorledge of a military war hero and a broad-shouldered athlete from Western Pennsylvania.

Separately, Eisenhower’s everyman persona and Palmer’s charisma would have been enough to accomplish the trick. Together, they proved to be formidable in bringing golf to the masses.

At a press conference before the nighttime inductions, Palmer revealed how he came to meet President Eisenhower.

“Ike called Cliff Roberts (president of the Masters Tournament) and asked if Roberts could arrange a match between the president and the winner of the tournament,” Palmer said. “Roberts told the president he would ask whoever won the tournament and let him know.

“After I had won and took care of some business, Roberts came over to me and asked if I would  be able to play a round with President Eisenhower. I said, ‘Well, if the president can arrange his schedule, I guess I can, too.’

“We played the round and hit it off real well. We were friends from then on and played together on many occasions,” Palmer said. “Later, when Ike was no longer playing because of his health, we would just sit and talk about golf and things. He would talk about some of the things he had done and I would tell him about some of my accomplishments. We just enjoyed talking to each other.”

Once when Palmer’s wife, Winnie, was planning a surprise birthday party for him, she got a call from Mamie, asking if she thought Palmer would mind if the president came to the party. “The day of the party, the door bell rang and here was this general standing at the door, asking me if I could put up an old man for the weekend. That is just the way he was.”

Palmer said he played with every president since Eisenhower except for John Kennedy and Jimmy Carter. Kennedy reportedly was a good golfer and Palmer had a round scheduled with him once, he said, but the late president canceled because of his bad back. Carter didn’t play golf.

LANNY WADKINS

When a reporter spotted a $4 check from Ben Hogan to Wadkins in the Hall of Fame exhibit, he said, “Hey, we got to ask about that.”

Lanny Wadkins (Photo by Lamar Thames)

The question turned into a humorous moment at the press conference. The accompanying video relates the story very well as to how Wadkins came to have the check after a skins game, but after I turned off the camera to save the battery, he continued with the story.

“Hogan’s secretary would call me every couple of months asking when I was going to cash that check,” Wadkins recalled. “Her name was Clara Belll. I told her there was not a chance in hell that I was ever going to cash that check.” It is a good thing he didn’t because now he has a priceless memento from one of the greatest golfers to ever play the game. And a good story to tell, as well.

When asked if there were things he would have done differently during his career, Wadkins said, “I would have taken better care of myself. Probably done more Pilates. We weren’t a cookies-and-milk crowd back then. We had our share of malted beverages and probably stayed out too late at times.”

Wadkins, who won 21 times on the PGA tour, won only one major, the 1977 PGA Championship, which may have kept him from being elected into the Hall years ago. He became eligible 14 years ago and was one year from his name being removed from the regular ballot.

Still, he is glad to be included among the best in professional golf.

“It wasn’t easy to win 20 tournaments back then, the conditions were so much tougher. I am proud to be here. I just should have won more majors.”

He recalled playing with Hogan in the early ’80s. He said Hogan told him, “You hit the ball so well,  I don’t know why you don’t win more often.”

That is when he decided, “Well, I need to get after it.” And he did, compiling a record to be among the top 30 percent of pros and building a record-sharing Ryder Cup career, with eight appearances and a 20-11-3 record.

JOSE MARIE OLAZABAL

Like Tiger Woods, Olazabal was introduced to golf at an early age. He was born in the

Jose Maria Olazabal beams while talking to Arnold Palmer. (Photo by Lamar Thames

middle of a 9-hold golf course that was built around the family farm and was given a golf ball and putter to play with at the age of 2, given to him by his grandfather, who got the job as greenskeeper at the new course.

By the time he was 7, Olazabal was winning amateur tournaments and told his parents at 16 that he wanted to become a professional golfer.

“You should have seen their faces,” Olazabal said at the press conference. “They didn’t know anything about golf. They did ask me to finish high school before turning pro, so I did.”

Olazabal, elected on the international ballot with 59 percent of the vote, won 29 times on the professional tour, including two majors, the Masters in 1994 and 1999. He is also the only amateur champion (the British Amateur) to win a professional major since World War II.

He was presented at the Hall via a video-taped introduction from his good friend, Seve Ballesteros, a 1997 Hall inductee who is suffering from brain cancer.

NOTE: The exhibits celebrating each member of the 2009 Golf Hall of Fame class is open to the public at World Golf  Village on Interstate 95 north of St. Augustine. The Hall of fame is open from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. Monday through Saturday and noon to 6 p.m. on Sundays. Admission is $20.50 for adults with discounts for seniors, students, military and groups of 10 or more. Admission for children from 5 to 12 is $10 and children 4 and under is free.

NOTE TO READERS: Former Clay County, Fla., school board member Wayne Bolla is on a sailing trip to the Mediterranean Sea, along with a couple of friends. He will chronicle his adventures in an occasional article on this web site. This is the third article, a visit to Granada, Spain.

By WAYNE BOLLA

Granada

The winner takes all and gets to tell everyone what happened. According to the Spanish, the last Moorish king to govern Granada surrendered the fortress Alhambra to the Spanish without a fight, and “cried like a baby” as he left paradise on earth.

We arrived at the airport aboard a Vueling Airlines commuter jet from Barcelona, Spain.

The Fortress Alhambra overlooking Granada at night. (Photo by Wayne Bolla)

Most Americans, of my generation will ask, “Why didn’t you take the train?” In Europe right now there is something of a price war going on between the railways and the Airlines. Flying, as in America, is roughly half the price of getting there by rail and a whole lot faster. A three euro bus ride brought us from the airport to the central business district with lots of new construction on the outskirts of the city and  stately four- to five-story older buildings downtown.

Our 50 euros hotel, the Molinos, turned out to be clean but a bit noisy. If you find yourself sitting around your hotel wishing you had a fancier room, it’s probably time to get up off of that thing and go do something.  The first order of business after the bus let us out on the Grand Via was to stop at the nearest newsstand and get a map so we could find our hotel. The second was to ask from the guy we bought the map from for directions. I read some place that you could get by in Spain on about 138 words of Spanish. With that I can just about carry on a conversation with the neighbor’s 3-year-old.  So when the next foreign tourist says to you with an anxious look on his face, “I like toileta?” give him a break.

A Granada street scene. (Photo by Wayne Bolla)

Most of the older sections of the cities in Spain are part of or were built over Roman ruins with narrow streets, which, although fairly straight, seldom run parallel to each other. After getting lost the second time, we spotted a young mother trying to negotiate a baby carriage down a flight of stairs.  After helping her we pointed on our new map to where we wanted to go and in perfect English she said just follow me.  She turned out to be from Southern California studying Spanish at the University of Granada. Granada has one of the biggest and best universities in all of Europe and has the feel of maybe Gainesville, Florida, or Madison, Wisconsin. Granada has a big student population with lots of young people and many businesses catering to the student condition.

That night we walked most of the way through narrow terraced residential streets to the walls of the Alhambra. On these walls graffiti has reached almost to a fine art form.  On the way down we stopped at an outdoor restaurant complex set up in the church courtyard. Maybe four cafes, which seemed to be working out

A restaurant on the way down from the Alhambra. (Photo by Wayne Bolla)

of the same kitchen, an apartment that opened onto a side street off the square.  I suspect dad worked the bar, the son was the waiter, and mom worked the kitchen.  She sure could cook!

A Little History

Granada, founded in pre-historic times, is located in the foot hills of Sierra Nevada Mountain chain in southern Spain, about 60 miles north of the channel that separates Europe from Africa. It has a great mix of new and old and each neighborhood has a unique feel. The Romans took over from the Visigoths, the Moors took over from the Romans, and then the Spanish took over from the Moors in 1492. It was a very good year for Ferdinand and Isabelle.

Parks andgarden at the Alhambra in Granada, Spain, one of the largest tourist attractions in Spain. (Photo by Wayne Bolla)

The Alhambra

By far the biggest and best attraction is the site of the Moorish Kings seat of government, the Alhambra.

You have to reserve tickets via the internet to get into parts of the Alhambra. Unlike Disney, they strictly limit the number of guests that are in sections of the Alhambra so you get a much higher quality of experience than jamming through serene spaces with 300 other babbling tourists. My impression was that the Alhambra was one of the first planned communities, combining a fort for security, private palace residents for the best of the best, and common gardens/parks throughout the complex. There was a common plumbing system in this near desert environment that to this mechanical engineer was nothing short of awesome. Every major room in the King’s palace had a “water feature.”

Granada was recommended to us by at least two “experienced” travelers as a not to miss place in Spain.  It has my vote.