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Actually, you can go home again
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In a recent newspaper article I revealed that after 1½ years living in the north Georgia Appalachians, family, unemployment and homesickness was calling us back to the Tampa Bay area. In addition, my longing for lazy days fishing the flats, Buc & Rays’ playoff games and belly-busters in the pool on Christmas Eve had overcome the eclectic experiences of cross-country travel in our RV and the rural Appalachia lifestyle of north Georgia.
In the aforementioned article I said that we put money down on a new home in the Hernando/Pasco area and hoped to be the community’s newest residents in a few weeks. Today, I am penning this column from a modest den in the new Hernando County home albeit we are no longer the newest citizens. I noticed at least one more moving truck parked overnight at the clubhouse since we arrived.
At times, I made light of the denim ensembles of hard working ranchers and farmers of rural America. After all, the bib overalls and pointy cowboy boots are not indigenous to the turf and surf of parrot heads who are more concerned about blowing out a flip-flop while walking on super-heated sidewalks. However leaving Florida and returning over a year later has lent me the advantage of perspective.
For example, yesterday I noticed a man and woman standing and talking along a nearby sidewalk as I drove to the drug store to purchase some ace bandages – a story within a story that I shall shortly share.
Not since our last visit to Key West in ‘98 have I witnessed a more disparate couple. The woman (thirty-something) with long dark hair was leaning against a yard-rake and wore a tiny black bikini and wide colorful Indian-style headband. While doing yard work in a tiny black bikini may seem strange to some, it was the fact that she appeared to be more than 8-months pregnant that briefly captured my attention. Her thin frame made her condition all the more apparent.
The scene reminded me of a former neighbor from Land O’ Lakes – we lived there for 19 years before moving to the Appalachian Mountains. Much to the chagrin of parents on our otherwise quiet street, nearly every warm Saturday he wore a loin cloth while mowing his lawn. It was actually a relief when he donned leathers and barreled through the ‘hood on his Harley Saturday nights - but I digress.
Standing next to the nearly nude and very pregnant woman in our newly developed neighborhood was a portly older man sporting a long white Santa beard and wearing bright red suspenders (over a white tee shirt) that supported a loud pair of green trousers. The man’s thumbs were locked around his suspenders. A handlebar mustache over his toothy smile matched his white beard. Summer Santa waved with four fingers at me without unlocking his thumb. I nodded and steered the Jeep wide – trying not to react to a sneaky thought regarding what the two might wear to the community pool – a ponder that did not linger.
I mentioned that I was in route to the drug store for Ace bandages when I came upon Santa and Lady Godiva with child. This relocation was the last that I will participate in as a featured laborer; I’m too old - testimony my wife eagerly affirms.
Two trips from the Georgia house in a 26’ Penske rental truck was the basic plan, but alas, the devil is in the details, right? The problem is that our Georgia home is on the side of a mountain and after I backed the big yellow truck as close as possible to the front porch, the elevation of the cargo door and loading ramp was eight feet above the sidewalk. This meant that I would need to slide the ramp across to the porch and load the truck from the perspective of a circus high-wire performer.
I suppose I’m fairly able for an old guy, so eventually with sporadic help from friends and much assistance from my wife, Leigh – who has since warned she will never again lift anything heavier than a shopping bag - I placed the last item aboard the truck. It was the expansion panel for our maple dining table. Finally I was ready to reposition the vehicle for a quick exit come morning.
“Wait, you should put the dining-table-thingy on the floor. That’s the most expensive table we have ever owned,” said Leigh.
Moving the heavy maple panel would require me to extend my ladder from the sidewalk to the ledge of the cargo bay and climb back aboard. A little voice in my head told me that I was too weary for such a climb, but being a man I was able to ignore reason as I planted the ladder’s rubber feet on the sidewalk and leaned it against the rounded steel of the truck bed.
The little voice screamed even louder about angles and slippage but I nevertheless climbed toward the truck in a punchy state of utter fatigue. Suddenly, my world literally tumbled down. The feet of the ladder kicked loose from the sidewalk and the part that rested against the truck slid violently to one side. As the ladder caught the inside of the truck, I fell. For a second I thought it would be a simple eight-foot tumble to the concrete below, but then I realized my leg was caught between two steps of the ladder.
Amazingly nothing broke but as I rolled in the grass holding my knee while groaning and swearing like a gut-shot cowboy I realized the tendons and ligaments in my left knee had been pulled laterally as much as possible without snapping. My wife was concerned about the scrape and instant swelling around my elbow but I assured her that the searing pulses of pain emanating from my twisted knee would keep my focus off that injury for some time.
Three weeks later I have ditched the cane and my gate is slowly returning to normal. We have taken the grandsons to Weeki Wachee and walked in the rain while the sun is shining. Soon, my knee will be strong enough to climb stadium steps and I will no longer fear being caught with one foot on the dock and the other on the deck.
It’s good to be back in Florida; it’s good to be home!
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