The religious purveyors of the notion that God intended conception to be a free-for-all with no interference using pharmaceutical products take just the opposite position when it comes to providing pharmaceutical assistance to the males in our society that will allow them to overcome the dreaded erectile dysfunction that goes with getting older. That is interference plain and simple, yet ED drugs are cheerfully covered by religious institutions.

Perhaps ED is God’s way of letting males know that their days of procreating are at an end.  ED drugs supposedly help keep the hope of procreation alive – even if it has to be done with chemicals.  After all, many still live in the dark days of seeing women as simply child-bearing vessels to be carriers of one child after another per God’s wishes. I don’t see anywhere in the Old Testament that God said how many children are acceptable or unacceptable. In fact, the Bible, in Genesis 1:22, says to “be fruitful and multiply.” That certainly is open to interpretation. Is multiplication one child? Two? Ten?

If the Catholic church and a few other churches see birth control as interfering with the natural process of procreation, they should also view ED drugs in the same way since these drugs interfere with the natural process. And that process includes slowing down as well as the inability to continue to procreate.   And, let’s be honest here, the ED drugs are not really there to enable procreation by men who have reached the outer limits of that task;  they are to enhance the sexual experience.

Watch the ED commercials and one understands that these couples are not looking to have more children. Instead we see youthful looking “older” couples lost in the bliss of each other’s company, happily running along beaches, sitting in bathtubs, lounging on porch swings – you get the picture.  The message?  One of them has a problem, and it isn’t the female partner.  The panacea?  Pop an ED pill, and intimacy can return to the relationship.  Intimacy, not procreation.

But let the thought that women want to enjoy intimacy without the fear of pregnancy cross the minds of the religious institutions fighting coverage of birth control, and the patriarchs of the institutions shudder in horror and run for cover under the faux  argument of “religious freedom.”  Where better to take shelter than in the House of the Lord?

SAN ANTONIO AND FORT WAYNE – A STUDY IN RIVER DYNAMICS – THE SAN ANTONIO RIVER AND THE ST. MARYS RIVER

San Antonio:  Over the years of river front development discussion, opposing views have arisen of just what, how, and where development should occur.  Often leaping to the forefront of the discussions is reference to the San Antonio River Walk.  Many would like to see a San Antonio-style river walk, and rightly so, given its beauty.  But the San Antonio River Walk is not the appropriate overall type of development for Fort Wayne although a limited application of some of its aspects into the proposed Headwaters 2.0 “Garden Rooms” might be feasible.

The San Antonio River, created by about 100 large springs, originates four miles above San Antonio.  Its history is colored by efforts similar to those visible along our rivers in Fort Wayne:  efforts to save through numerous plans, benign neglect of banks and of the river itself, and efforts at flood control.  By the time it reaches San Antonio, it is a mere canal over which one can easily cast stones and hit the other side.  At one time, the San Antonio city planners actually considered sealing over the river with concrete and turning it into a sewer.  It is just that narrow as it flows through the City.

Although the river was small, flooding issues occurred over the decades.  In order to resolve flooding issues, the Olmos Dam and a cutoff were constructed.   The Olmos protects the city itself from flooding and the cutoff diverts the flow of the San Antonio’s regular pathway so that the River Walk is not flooded.   The “Great Bend” forms the basis for the River Walk, thus the cutoff was created to divert the San Antonio River – with its potential for flooding – from its original course so that it would bypass the area that had become the River Walk.

Finally, San Antonio has one river; we have three.  A plan based on San Antonio’s success is not possible for our river front development – not unless engineers plan on rerouting the St. Marys and somehow cutting its width in half.  Even that would not alter the fact that two other rivers impact our downtown albeit to a much lesser extent than the St. Marys.

San Antonio River – note the cutoff which takes the river past the “Great Bend” to allow for the River Walk.

Fort Wayne: Fort Wayne is not San Antonio, and the St. Marys River is not the San Antonio River.  The St. Marys – the river which most impacts downtown Fort Wayne and will be the primary focus of development – begins 100 miles away with its source near the Grand Lake St. Marys in Ohio.   By the time it reaches Fort Wayne, 75% of its journey has been through farmland. Farmland runoff – called a nonpoint source of pollution – creates pollution in the St. Marys.

The St. Marys River as it enters downtown. Note the width of the St. Marys as compared to the width of the San Antonio.

As the St. Marys reaches Fort Wayne, it is loaded with nonpoint source pollution – including large amounts of e. coli from manure runoff.  As it enters Allen County from the southeast and makes it turn into Fort Wayne, urban runoff from the numerous subdivisions now add to its load of pollution.

This is in stark contrast to the San Antonio River which has a mere four miles until it reaches the City of San Antonio.  This 96-mile difference in length has tremendous impact on the size and the pollution of the St. Marys.

Note the St. Marys and its source in Ohio.

The Great Black Swamp:  Fort Wayne is at the end point of two incoming rivers – the St. Joe and the St. Marys. These two form the Maumee which flows northeast to Lake Erie.   Another factor that impacts the way in which the river front will be developed is what was once the Great Black Swamp.

The Great Black Swamp was a virtually impassable morass of 100 miles in length by 40 miles in width. Fort Wayne lay at its western-most point.  Although the Swamp was drained and conquered, the nature of the soil remains heavy clay due to the Great Black Swamp. This composition has a bearing on absorption of water when the St. Marys does flood along its river banks.

While it is all well and good also to look at other cities with three rivers – Pittsburgh sports the Allegheny and the Monongahela rivers which join to form the Ohio River in Pittsburgh – Fort Wayne must make its plans and prepare its designs based on the topographic, geographic, and geologic constraints specific to this area. Far too many people eye the river banks and see them merely as plots of land to develop with businesses and high rises and condos.

After all, who doesn’t love waking up in the morning and looking out at river scenery? Or dining by the edge of the water? But the areas prime for development downtown all lie in a flood plain. That will not change, and, we cannot continue to build walls, levees, and berms all around the City which only rearrange the volume, velocity, and overflow location of the St. Marys.

Developing the St. Marys must be done with an eye to the reality of river behavior. Eric Kuhne’s Headwaters Park 2.0 takes into consideration the fact that the area lies in a flood plain. The creation of “Garden Rooms” piggybacks off the Headwaters Park plan of compatibility with the river in non-flooding and flooding periods. Minimal commercial building should be strategically placed in those areas that are least impacted by the flood plain.

One of the earlier architects and urban planners I admire most is Daniel Burnham, often referred to as the “Father of the City Beautiful Movement.” Of visions, he said:

“Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men’s blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will never die, but long after we are gone will be a living thing, asserting itself with ever-growing insistency. Remember that our sons and grandsons are going to do things that would stagger us. Let your watchword be order and your beacon beauty. Think big.”

And, while times have changed – we certainly would now include daughters and granddaughters capable of making big plans – Burnham’s words still ring true.   He did not shy from big plans claiming among some of his most well-known works the 1901 Plan for Washington, D.C., 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, and the Plan of Chicago.

We have legacies of Kessler, Robinson, and Shurcliff, all great men with visions and plans – and Fort Wayne is a testament to their plans. We also have the diagrams that never die, and now, just as Burnham said, is the time to “make no little plans.”

The thought of raising taxes on their primary contributors was just too much.   After defectors started popping out of the woodwork, the Speaker realized he would not be able to muster the votes necessary to do – well, really – anything.  The trek to the multitude of waiting news media microphones had to be terribly humiliating for Boehner, especially since he has not had an exactly glowing term as Speaker of the House.

Raising taxes on those who make over $250,000 just doesn’t seem like it should be a stopper – especially since the number is about 2% of total households.  But that 2% is critical to campaign funding, and, what’s the saying?  You “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” or wound it for that matter, either.

So, the fiscal cliff is still looming – just over the horizon.  And, Congress wants to skitter home for the holidays and forget about the rest of the country.  Term limits is the only way to resolve this grid lock, and this unending philosophy of entitlement to an office.  But, unfortunately, the branch in charge of imposing term limits is Congress.  The fox guarding the chicken coop?  Not even that.

These are the chickens who have decided to morph into fearless buzzards who do not see any reason to worry about a fox – or the American people for that matter.

Not to be outdone, the equally hate-inspired group, the KKK, countered that, in its desire to reflect its all-American attributes, it would counter-picket against the Westboro Church.  I wonder if the rest of the world is laughing sadly at us?  The picture of two hate groups battling it out at the funerals of Newtown victims is – well, really more than my mind can imagine.  Just exactly what do we call this match of the bigots?

The block contains several homes that at one time were magnificent specimens with their turrets and grand designs.  Yet, over the years, speculators have entered the picture, snapping up the homes through tax sales or foreclosures.  And, the focus of speculation?  Betting on the City’s appetite for implementing its “Around the Square” plan initiated several years ago.  According to the media, the plan is to demolish the homes and build new – either condos or rentals.  Not one mention of restoration.

The above home is one of my favorites.  Although I have not been inside to see what it looks like, I have pressed my face against many of the windows to try to see what remains of a once-grand interior.  Hardwood floors, wood trim not found in new homes, pocket doors and French doors.  All will be lost to the wrecking ball and with little notice by many of our Fort Wayne residents.

It just doesn’t seem to matter to many in the City who would rather see cookie-cutter subdivisions spring up than undertake the effort to save and restore these older, once-magnificent, historic homes.  Not one person from the City bothered to communicate with us here in West Central to apprise us of the plans.  I, as president of West Central, have emailed the head of the department responsible for these decisions.  That was last Wednesday and, so far, no response.

Working quickly and without communication, of course, prevents the formation of opposition.   How many times will be subjected to this method of planning?  The bottom line is that our urban core neighborhoods deserve better.

Another home in danger of a rendezvous with the wrecking ball.

Americans will cry, express outrage, stomp their feet, mourn the Newtown loss, call for change, but, just as with so many other mass shootings, the frenzy will soon pass, and Newtown will fade into history – until another mass shooting occurs and the vicious cycle is begun again.

Citizens will go back to their everyday lives, and the tragedy given birth by the American “gun culture” will fade into the background because this country has bought into the fallacious Second Amendment argument made by powerful interests that we are entitled to carry any and all types of weapons imaginable because, by God, the Second Amendment “says so.”

Contrary to gun-rights advocates, the Second Amendment was not passed to provide ownership of guns simply to provide individual, personal protection but rather to ensure protection of the community, in general.  The Amendment as ratified by the States and authenticated by Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of State:

A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed

The Amendment was established because in the early days of our country, we had no standing Army such as exists today.  Citizens had to ensure that they had to have a way of protecting themselves from invasion or attack from outside forces.  The gun-rights advocates would have all believe that this Amendment passed in 1791 is applicable to all manner of arms and for a reason other than community protection.  Yet, not one of the weapons used in so many of the mass killings existed in 1791.

But, not to worry, our cowardice as a Nation, our impotent responses to dealing with gun control will ensure that the NRA and the gun mentality will survive despite the fact that the writers of the Second Amendment would be appalled at our twisted interpretation of what they intended.

We will continue to have mass shootings, mourning parents and communities, and dozens of funeral services. We will continue to sit in our living rooms riveted by media coverage of devastated parents and families, listening to platitudes paid to the kindness of others, hearing about the bravery of those involved, watching visits by officials, hanging on every word to try to understand the warped mentality coupled with the ease of obtaining semi- automatic and automatic weapons, and, ultimately, turning our eyes upward to murmur prayers.

And, we will continue to hear the tired, worn “saw” that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people.” And, cars don’t kill people, and knives don’t kill people, and baseball bats don’t kill people.  Yet, how many mass killings have involved baseball bats, knives, or cars?

I am not advocating the banning of all guns. Hand guns do provide protection, and rifles are used for hunting.  But the argument that assault weapons and other automatic and semi-automatic weapons should be easily obtainable is absurd. One of the arguments usually made as to why ownership of military-style weapons is necessary is that they might be needed if the government decides to use the military to take over.  Really? Really?

Or, another argument that if a “good” gun owner (however that is interpreted) is packing, that would put a stop to the offending individual. A handgun against assault weapons?  Unless we want to become a Nation of trench-coat wearing individuals hiding rifles and assault weapons, a hand gun is not going to do the trick. Reminds me of the scene from Indiana Jones where the opponent was cutting the air with a whip threatening Jones, and Jones pulls out his gun and shoots the opponent. Not much of a contest.

Arming an entire Nation to become nothing more than a society of “quick-draw McGraws” is absurd.  What better way to lead to chaos and anarchy?

So, as each day passes and the droning of the media continues, I have to wonder, once again, will we learn anything? Or will our citizens retreat from working on a solution, driven by their fear of the NRA and other gun lobbies and the notion that support of gun control is somehow “un-American” and “unpatriotic.”

This country needs an honest and frank discussion about gun control unimpeded by special interests and their money – driven instead by the desire to make this a safer and wiser Nation where we do not suffer these frequent tragedies.

The weak effort was cobbled together from news paper headlines, a few head shots, and funeral music.  Of course, we had a good laugh at the hypocrisy of the entire situation – especially since the FSSA is still riddled with issues, Charlie White was convicted and removed from office, the Duke Energy scandal popped up, the Republicans “lost” a half billion dollars which had apparently decided to take a hiatus into cyberspace, and the Republicans couldn’t even figure out how to “figure out” what the counties had coming back to them.

But, the commercial wasn’t the only form of sour grapes spit out by the Republicans.  A truck with a large sign paraded through the streets to remind everyone that this was “Republican Country.”   The really sad thing is that Shine and his followers are so shallow that they just had to figure out some way to demonize this convention.  Never mind that this convention was extremely good for Fort Wayne and brought in around $500,000 to our economy and led to greater exposure of northeastern Indiana, which often gets left sitting on the sidelines.  Democrat,  Republican, or independent, this is our City.  Our visitors were very impressed with all the attractions and the amenities we have.

I suspect some of the sour grapes and childish activity was triggered by the impotency of Steve Shine and the Republicans to accomplish what was a major feat – bringing a state party convention to Fort Wayne for the first time in its history.  After all, does anyone remember when the Republican convention was here.  Anyone??

Job creation will be temporary with estimates ranging between 7,000 to 20,000 jobs depending on the source.  Earlier this year, a lawsuit was filed against TransCanada  alleging it mislead its investors by inflating job numbers.  Even if benefit is given to a higher number of jobs, those jobs would disappear once the pipeline was completed.  Only a minimal number of jobs would be permanent.  But job creation is not the only factor that has been fudged.

Big oil and its toadies know full well the oil will be transported to the oil refineries of the Gulf Coast with nary a stop in between.  Once snuggled in the bowels of the Texas refineries, the tar sands will gobble up huge amounts of energy to turn the sticky mess into oil to be shipped overseas via a widened, improved Panama Canal.

The United States has already made some headway in increasing production of oil in the field.  And, it should be making progress given it leases roughly 41,000,000 onshore acres and 38,000,000 offshore acres with only 18,500,000 acres total currently producing.  But big oil is still crying foul that it has been thwarted in its efforts to bully its way into the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) and additional offshore sites.

Field Production of Oil increases

With access to ANWR pretty much a dead issue – at least for now – the Republican “Friends of Oil” swear that the tar sands oil is needed to ease dependence on foreign oil.  But, if that were the case, why not refine the oil in the Midwest?  The Midwest is home to about 20 oil refineries capable of processing oil and tar sands oil at that.

But the 20 odd oil refineries sprinkled throughout the Midwest pale in comparison to the 28 in Texas alone.  Once transported to Texas, the oil will be refined at a great environmental cost - two tons of tar sands are required to obtain one barrel of oil using a much more complicated process than simply pumping oil from the ground.  In addition to the enormous amount of tar sands needed, three barrels of water are needed to extract one barrel of oil.  Water is minimally used in the typical extraction of oil, thus a significant amount of unrecoverable resources are used to extract tar sands oil.

But the KXL is not the only project on the horizon.  It is happening in tandem with another major construction project – one of which most Americans have little awareness.  The widening of the Panama Canal has been planned for years and is now coming to fruition.  While its planning predated the KXL, the two projects intertwine in that they were to be completed at about the same time – the Panama widening in 2014, and the KXL in 2014.  How convenient!

The master plan should be clear.  Construct the KXL based on false and fictitious numbers, ship the environmentally harmful tar sands oil straight through the heart of America and over one of the world’s largest and most critical aquifers, refine the tar sands in Texas, and place it on ships headed to a widened Panama Canal throughway to head overseas for sale.

Enormous job creation?  Freedom from foreign oil dependence?  Not on your life.   That is the fallacy of the Keystone XL.

And, in no area are his lackluster efforts more apparent than in the area of helping our veteran population.  First, a little history.  In 2004, then Secretary of Veterans Affairs, Anthony Principi, announced that the inpatient beds at the local VA hospital would be closed.  That one announcement triggered a firestorm of opposition and a struggle lasting for years to rally support to save the inpatient beds.  Our small group, Veterans for Better Health Care, participated in dozens of parades, wrote letters to the editor, handed out thousands of flyers, attended town hall meetings, and argued our case to anyone who would listen every chance we got.

I was fortunate enough to be further included in two studies done by Booz Allen Hamilton, a Washington-based research company, addressing the future of the VA hospital, both as to outpatient care and inpatient care.  The final recommendations included a spacious new 220,000 square-foot Community Based Outpatient Clinic (CBOC).  The inpatient issue was still somewhat up in the air, but at least we had been told our new CBOC would add a much-needed component to the care our veterans deserved.

Then, abruptly, in April 2011 we were told we had understood “incorrectly” and that, instead of a 220,000 square-foot, we would now get a 27,000 square-foot mental health and addictions clinic.  When pushed on the issue, Representative Stutzman simply rolled over, put on a happy face, and called the decision a great advancement for the care of veterans in our area.  While I agree we need a mental health and addictions facility for our veterans, Stutzman made no effort to find out what happened to the original plans.

He simply accepted the new decision and twisted the situation to match his inability to make a difference.  At the Republican Lincoln Day dinner in April 2011, Stutzman said “he was pushing for a new, 27,000 square foot expansion for a mental health annex.”  Pushing?  Pushing for something that we had already been told would be shoved down our throats?  He should have been outraged that the fight that had gone on for years had been totally disregarded sending us back to square one and that the promised 220,000 square-foot clinic had been sliced by almost 90%.

But, Stutzman has taken the path of least resistance not only as to veterans’ issues but also in other issues affecting our Third District.  With this approach, he is establishing his “modus operandi” of hovering under the radar, poking his head though when absolutely necessary – leading to the question of  “Marlin Who?”

I dug out my trusty Rand McNally and began scanning the route I would take although I have driven back and forth to Florida so many times I know the route like the back of my hand – including the dreaded trip around or through Atlanta.  I have driven every mega-city and metropolitan area from north to south and east to west, but not one has the ability like Atlanta to send me into a full-scale, anxiety-ridden state of mind that doesn’t stop until I see the Atlanta skyline in my rear-view mirror – either way.

I have a plug-in GPS that my youngest son gave me a couple of years ago, but I have only used it a few times.  Frankly, I know where I am going 99% of the time, and I get really annoyed at that nagging voice constantly telling me it needs to “recalculate” because I have messed up. I didn’t mess up, and I don’t need to recalculate – I know where I am going, thank you very much!  And, with the advent of the Allstate “Mayhem Man” screaming “recalculate” every few seconds, can anyone really trust a GPS anymore?

Comfortable in my travel route, I loaded my truck with my belongings on Saturday morning – satchel of clothes, laptop, camera, CDs, a cooler with some veggies for snacking, and a bag of odds and ends such as a curling iron and make-up.  I attended our Third District Democrat Breakfast meeting first, and, once it was over, I hopped into my truck and headed south, all set to wind my way through gloomy northern skies and snow towards the mild breezes of southern Georgia and northern Florida and then into the full warmth of the southern Florida sun.

I headed south on I-69, jumped onto State Road 9 to I-74 to Cincinnati, and then to I-75 to Knoxville, Tennessee.  Every so often I would lower my window a tad, stick my fingers out to feel the air, and roll it back up with the thought that, “nope still cold out there.”  I looked forward to the next day when I knew somewhere along the route, I would run into that breaking line where the air would change from having a northern chill to a southern warmth.

I always have a debate with myself about whether to drive all night or not.  It sounds like a good idea when I first take off, but when I hit the northern border of Georgia, I get discouraged – such a long state.  I did not get nearly as far as I had hoped by that Saturday evening – only to Knoxville.  I was tired, and it was dark, so I decided to stop for the night.  I picked what I thought would be a fairly cheap hotel – I don’t need exercise gyms, pools, saunas, in-house restaurants, or any of the other amenities that drive up the cost of a room.

Give me a bed, a Wi-Fi hookup, and a drive-through to pick up a cheap veggie meal, and I am happy!  Knoxville was really cold that evening, and, at 6:00 a.m. the next day, it wasn’t any better.  I put on my Green Frog heavy-duty sweatshirt, scraped the truck window, grabbed a cup of coffee when I filled up with gas, and I was on the road again.  It was Sunday, so I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be too busy on the interstates.  Little did I know what I would encounter on the remainder of my trip.  But first, Atlanta, here I come.

I am not sure what it was in the past on one of my journeys that has made me so anxious about Atlanta. It had to be something like a near-death experience, but, honestly, I don’t remember.  All I know is that once I hit the outer realm of Atlanta, I can feel myself drawing into a fetal position, which really makes driving difficult.  My shoulders hunch, I put a death-grip on the steering wheel with my hands at perfect 10:00 and 2:00 positions, I turn off the music, I stop talking to myself, my eyes start darting left to right to the rear-view mirror on such a frequent basis that I get dizzy, my palms start sweating, I start counting the number of lanes – eight on each side – my God how can they do that to us – and I start sizing up how many maniac drivers are on all sides of me.

I pace my breathing remembering full well my training as an EMT about hyperventilating and passing out – not good with dozens of cars and those monster semis flying by.  As I approached the I-285 bypass, I had to make a decision.  Did I want to go around or through?  Either way, it was a no-win situation for me:  it was simply a matter of deciding which avenue of horror I wanted to take.  So I gripped the wheel tighter and said to Atlanta, “I’m coming through.”

The first few miles heading into the middle of purgatory were not too bad.  I actually felt myself relaxing somewhat, but then the lanes began to multiply like the proverbial “rabbits” and the traffic began to pick up.  I found myself thinking, “People go home, it is Sunday, a day of rest.”  It takes a long time to get through Atlanta – a long time.  The one thing that makes it somewhat worthwhile is the skyline.  But who the heck has time to really look at it if you’re worrying about a pile-up and the crazies around you?

One thing I always think about as I pass through Atlanta is the landmark Constitutional law case we studied in law school – Heart of Atlanta Motel v. United States – a case where the Supreme Court upheld the authority of Congress to use the Commerce Clause to enforce the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and apply it against private businesses.  But, I digress!

I kept to my pace of 55 to 60; I am sure the other drivers were ready to climb right over me and be on their way, but the signs give speed limits, and I follow them to the best of my ability.  I found myself wondering why on earth this country spends millions of dollars on speed limit signs when no one cares one whit about them.  As I drove along, I watched with relief as the lanes dropped from eight to six to four and finally back to two.  I was through, finally, and on my way.  Nothing to stop me now! Little did I know about the horrific accident that had occurred on I-75 at 3:45 a.m. Sunday morning, taking the lives of 10 people and injuring 18 others.

The rest of my drive into northern Florida was uneventful until I reached Gainesville.  As I approached Gainesville on I-75 the traffic slowed to a snail’s pace, and I thought “okay, another tie up – I will be through in a short time.”  As the miles drug by, I began to wonder what on earth had happened to slow it down this long.  It was about 5:00 p.m. Sunday evening, and I wanted to get to Sebring before dark. I still needed to get onto 27, the four-lane highway that would take me to within a mile of my destination in Sebring.

I called my son, and we talked a minute.  He suggested I hop off at an exit and find another way around the traffic jam.  I followed his advice, found an exit and headed east toward Gainesville to find a way around.  I stopped at a gas station and was told there had been a horrendous accident and the scene was still being cleaned up. I checked my Rand McNally and saw that 441, a four-lane highway to the east, would take me around and actually merge into 27, which is where I needed to be.

With a sigh of relief I headed off toward 441 thinking I was now through the worst.  I hadn’t considered that 441 just might be the option every other driver was also taking.  The going was slow and then I noticed that a haze was building over the road; it was close to twilight, and I was really tired.  It was now about 7:00 p.m., and I had been on the road for 13 hours.  Then I saw more red lights stabbing through the haze; fire trucks were lined up on the road and fields were still smoldering.  Later I learned that this was what had caused the horrific pileup on I-75.  Someone had started a fire and the resulting smoke turned visibility on I-75 to zero causing vehicles to slam into each other like dominoes.

I was terribly discouraged; I was tired; I just wanted to be in Sebring. The going was agonizingly slow, but, as I looked back the next day after learning about the accident, I knew I was blessed to have arrived safely.  Ten people left their homes that Sunday morning, never suspecting that it would be their last time to talk to family or to see friends or to open their eyes to another day.  After 17 hours on the road, I arrived.  It was 11:00 p.m., but, of course, I was so keyed up, we stayed up and talked for quite a while.

My next three days – until I headed to the Everglades – were filled with many conversations with Scott and Lora, poking my head out the door each morning to smell the wonderful softness of the warm breeze, running errands with my son or daughter-in-law, and cooking.  I love to cook, so I cooked several meals for them, and I think they got kind of spoiled.  It was so relaxing!!  On Thursday morning, I loaded up my belongings and headed south towards the Everglades.  I would spend two days in the Glades and then head back to Sebring for a day before heading home on Sunday.

Scott and Lora (my son and daughter-in-law)

Thursday morning was another beautiful morning; I was so excited to be heading into Glades territory. I would stay at a hostel – something I had never done before in my life.  But for $22 a night, it was a great way to go. After an easy drive down around Lake Okeechobee and then onto Florida 997, I arrived at my hostel, the Everglades International Hostel, in Florida City.  I was in for a pleasant stay although upon arrival I wasn’t quite sure I had made the right choice.  This was a new experience for me, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.  I checked in and went to my room to see what it was like.  Six bunks, and I would have two roommates – a park ranger who was recovering from a broken hip, and a photographer.

I was still a little leery since I had never stayed at a hostel before, but I was also tired, so I unloaded my truck, relaxed a few minutes in my room, and walked across the street to a small Mexican restaurant to eat.  On my return, I decided to scope out the hostel and its yard. What a beautiful yet simple place!  The yard contained stone paths, all manner of small decorations, hammocks strung between palm trees, a detached kitchen for preparing our meals, people seated at long wooden tables chatting, and a wonderful enormous tree that caught my eye immediately.

My concerns allayed, I went inside to take a shower and relax the rest of the evening and plan my next day’s adventure into the Glades.

What a tree! These are such amazing creatures. This one is in the backyard at the hostel.

THE GLADES

The next morning I was up early to head to Everglades National Park.  The Park was established in 1947 to preserve the largest sub-tropical system in the United States – already well on its way to devastation and ruin by the continuous drainage of the land.  The park ranger staying in my room told me I could get a senior life-time pass for $10.00 at the entry point to the park. The road to the Park was nondescript, but I always find things to look at on the way, so the drive went quickly and smoothly. I purchased my senior pass – good for my lifetime and for free entry to all national parks and many national monuments – and headed for the first stop on my lengthy journey – the Anhinga Trail.

The Anhinga is a fairly short trail of about a half mile one-way meandering along a wetland area where birds come up to the path and alligators lie just feet away sunning themselves – motionless and oblivious to the visitors who stand and stare.  Mangroves and saw grass and water populate the landscape for as far as the eye can see.  Signs are posted along the trail to warn hikers not to feed the animals.  Benches are located along the trail for those who may want to rest and enjoy the beauty of the environment. I spied a huge mangrove with a bench in front of it, so I sat down to mull over the way in which all of nature enriches us with its amazing inhabitants – both flora and fauna.

A mangrove tree along the Anhinga Trail.

No protective fencing has been placed between the critters and the walkers. As I headed to one of the board walks that lead out into the “river of grass”, I saw several alligators lying in the sun.  They didn’t move!  They didn’t appear to breathe!  I found one I really liked – if that is an option with a toothy, scaly reptile  – and I stood and watched and watched, hoping it would move to let me know it was alive.  It finally accommodated me with a sluggish lifting of its left “arm” just a few inches off the grassy bed on which it was lying and then dropping it as if it had exerted too much energy just so I could ooh and ah.

My "buddy." This is the gator that I spent so much time watching. He was about seven feet long. I find them so fascinating, but I am not sure why.

The gators were resting, the sun beating down on their dark gray-black skins giving them energy for their later hunt for food – all, that is, but one sneaky gator effortlessly sliding through the water from under the boardwalk.  It was slowly approaching “my” gator, and I wondered what would happen as it invaded.  The “on-the-move” gator slid up on the grassy plot beside the sleeping gator and lay there for a few minutes.  Nothing happened, and it probably sighed and thought “no action here” and left.  I can see how gators are hard to distinguish from the water – they are the same color and they truly glide with little disturbance of the surrounding water, their eyes and tops of their heads just barely breaking the surface.

See the sneaky critter sliding through the water? It would try to bully my "buddy", but it didn't work.

The gators along the Anhinga were not huge – about six to seven feet long – but still scary enough that I found myself wondering how I would escape if a gator charged up the bank after me.  Two hikers who had stopped beside me on the boardwalk told me that the gator – the “chasor” – can only run in a straight line – so the “chasee” (me) should run in a zig-zag line.  I thanked them for that bit of advice but somehow was not able to see myself trying to calculate the angles and degrees needed to avoid becoming lunch.  I felt pretty comfortable on the boardwalk – I mean, really, how high can gators jump?  It was the trail itself that posed the problem.

But we had also been assured that we are not the first entrée choice for gators – they really don’t like us and will only eat us if they are desperate.  Small birds and animals are their mashed potatoes; we are their broccoli.  Again, not terribly comforting.  I headed back to my truck to visit my next stop – the Mahogany Hammock.  A hammock is a small rise of land surrounded by water and provides shelter for many animals.  It was a mass of trees, brush, and vines with a boardwalk circling around the island.  Benches sprinkled the hammock so that walkers could rest. Some time ago, I saw a nature show which had pictures of strangler figs.  I actually found one in the hammock, and it was doing its “job” entwined around the trunk of a larger tree and strangling it.

Mahogany Hammock entrance - the boardwalk goes into the hammock then branches either left or right. It encircles the hammock and then brings you back out at this location.

From the hammock, I headed to the end of the drive – the Flamingo Trail – almost 40 miles from the beginning of my journey.  The area was devastated by Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and still bears the scars with little rebuilding of what had been destroyed.  The Flamingo trail is at the end of the Everglades route and leads to the Florida Bay.  Across the Bay lies State highway 1 – the two-lane highway allowing access to the Keys.  I snapped my pictures and headed back to Florida City – absolutely enamored of the sights I had seen.  Such beauty and wonder in this world!!

The Florida Bay. Across the vast expanse lies Highway 1 - the only way in and out of the Keys.

I was exhausted – hiking and driving had worn me out, and I was anxious to get back to my room.  But, I was also hungry.  When I got back to Florida City, I started looking for a good place to eat, and I found one – the Capri Restaurant – a wonderful Italian restaurant with excellent food.  And, I might add a crusty bar tender who doubled as the waitress in the lounge area.   She was German and still sported a fairly noticeable accent.  I had asked to be seated at the bar, and, as I was waiting to be shown my seat, I watched as she confronted another waitress.  I heard her snapping that she was overworked; I was seriously considering withdrawing my request when she turned her gaze my way and said, “Sure, I guess I can take one more, no one cares about how hard I work.”

I was feeling like the husband in the Goodwill commercial who is just about to enter the bedroom as the wife is sorting through her clothes and making hostile comments – the husband turns around and silently skitters away.  But, I had missed that chance, so I figured I would just make the best of it.  Two women who were sitting beside me at the bar must have seen my “deer in the headlights” look and told me she is just that way, and you have to get to know her.

I have to say, I am glad I did not cut and run – throughout my dinner, she and I continued to chat. By the time I had finished eating she had joined me for her break, and we had a great talk.  She is my age, and we talked about her home town in Germany and where I had lived in Germany.  She is a “staple” at the restaurant, and everyone loves her.  You just have to take the time to get to know people!  I truly love meeting people.  I can’t wait to go back to that restaurant; I just hope she is still there.

Tired, happy, exhilarated, and well-fed, I returned to my room to get ready for my trip back to Sebring for one more day with Scott and Lora.  It was still light out, so I scavenged the hostel’s yard for some leaves that I had seen earlier – large, beautiful, plate-shaped leaves with a maroon color.  I picked up a few and put them into books to press them flat for their trip home.  They will eventually grace my large Syacamore limb in my foyer.  I have decided that I will collect leaves, cones, and other wonderful bits of nature when I take trips.  They will accompany me home and be added to my branch – a wonderful way to remember my journeys around this great country.  In my room, I packed everything up – ready and anxious to head back to Sebring the next morning and then back to the Fort.

But last on my list for this trip was a drive on the Tamiami Trail – called the poor man’s Alligator Alley.  Miles and miles of highway cutting through the Glades.  The Trail lies south of I-75, and runs almost parallel to I-75 across the lower part of Florida from east to west.  I learned on a trip in 2001 not to run low on gas – there are few gas stations in this part of southern Florida.

The Tamiami - miles of road through southern Florida running from east to west.

My last day in Sebring – Saturday – was another wonderful day.  My son had made me some signs for my reading room, cleaned my laptop taking it back to its original state so it would run more efficiently, and my daughter-in-law had picked a huge bag of lemons from their tree to send home with me.  I bought some fresh – and I mean fresh – vegetables at one of the nearby farmer’s markets to bring home.  I fixed one more meal for them, we watched TV that evening and talked, and then it was time to go to bed.  I never sleep well the night before I head home; that Saturday night was no different.

My lemons from Florida. Absolutely no comparison to the store-bought ones. I want a lemon tree!! They may not have that fake yellow color, but that just goes to show you how much we have damaged our natural food supply. But juice? The amount is unbelievable.

Sunday morning was my day to start home.  Leaving always triggers alternating states of emotion.  I had such a good time, and I was sad to leave, yet I was happy to be on the road heading back to my beloved home.  I get so homesick, and I worry about my home.  So I hit the road at about 8:00 a.m. with veggies and lemons and with many good memories of a wonderful visit and an amazing opportunity to see an ecosystem beyond compare – thanks to my Everglades Adventure.