Florida 1974

Memories from a trip of long ago

C O N T E N T S

Appendix A: The Memo Book Entries

Appendix C: Spreadsheet Overview

Introduction:

I’ve composed quite a few travel accounts over the years, and almost always while the trip was in progress or very soon afterward, when memories were still fresh and vivid. Often I’ve gone back years later and revised and expanded those accounts, and found that the memories previously recorded were an invaluable aid to recalling the scene and the times. This account is different. Completely. The events recounted here occurred 35 years ago. And not only was no log maintained at the time or created afterward, but there wasn’t even a single photo taken that I’m aware of. And the mementoes and records (such as receipts) are very few. So it is that with so little to work with, I attempt to record what for the most part has been long forgotten. I’ll give it my best shot but I can’t promise anything more than a hazy fuzzy glimpse of what was once the greatest adventure of a lifetime.

The resources to aid my memory include the following:

♠ Van

♠ Steve

♠ The Internet

♠ A 1974 Calendar book in which I recorded daily events until July 24th—two days before we began our travels. The book does have some vague references to our planned trip.

♠ A Memo book that I kept sporadically during the trip to record expenses and who paid.

♠ One Trailways bus ticket from St. Petersburg to West Palm Beach dated 8/6/74.

♠ Maps

And that’s it. Fortunately Van had a good recollection of certain things, which he recorded on 1/24/08 in some depth in a two-page piece titled “Memories of Florida Summer 1974.” And there’s the Internet now. Both of those sources were a fount of information to aid in the creation of something from next-to-nothing. If only there were cheap digital cameras back in ’74 . . . and if only we had taken one along.

Calendar:

Itinerary:

Pre-trip Events:

Sometime before we graduated from high school, Van, Steve, and I made plans to motor down to Florida and celebrate our freedom. Right after graduation, however, I started going out with Debbie Brandt. I didn’t want to leave Debbie for even the shortest period, so instead of leaving her, why not take her along. She was game, and so too were her two friends Janet Farrell and Sue Davis. But I still had to sell Van and Steve on the idea (not to mention that Debbie had to somehow hoodwink her dad).

A few days later I was shooting hoops with Van & Steve at Paxon Hollow Jr. High School and laid the news on them that I thought it would be a great idea if Debbie came along with us. (I’m not sure if Debbie’s friends were onboard yet, or if they were, whether I mentioned them to Van and Steve.) At any rate, both Van and Steve were rather incredulous and intimated that this was either a pipedream of mine or just ruined all our well-made plans. After a few days, however, the prospect of having three young honeys along for the ride didn’t seem like such a bad idea to them after all.

So we made our final plans and readied to go, which included designating trip theme songs:

► Van = “Blue Sky” by the Allman Brothers Band

► Steve = “Listen to the Music” by the Doobie Brothers

► Me = “Time of the Season” by the Zombies

CHRONOLOGY

~ Day 1 (Friday, July 26, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Leave Broomall about dusk or later and drive through the night.

Van, Steve, Debbie, Janet, and I gathered at my parents’ house on 101 Holly Road in the evening and loaded up the folks’ 1973 Ford Gran Torino station wagon, which we called “da Bomb.” Sue Davis was going to fly down and meet us in Florida. Van recalls that our getaway was earlier than planned, by which I gather he means we intended to depart the following morning. But we were all there and all set to go, so we all piled in and took off. Van also recalls my sister Gwen frantically proclaiming, “He’s not coming back!” It struck him at the time as an ill omen. Now I don’t recall Gwen’s prophecy myself, but I trust the record will show it proved to be unfounded.

I believe Steve was the first to take the wheel, and Steve concurs; meanwhile I fixed up things in the back. I took off my shoes to get comfortable, and everyone else told me to put them back on because my feet stunk, so I just hung ‘em out the window.

We decided to take the coastal route to Florida instead of I-95 in order to appreciate the country better—my dad had suggested taking routes US 13 & US 17, so that’s what we did. We crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge at night, so it was not all that memorable.

Somewhere along the way, I took over the driving, while some of the others tried to get some shuteye in the back. Van remembers it being rather crowded back there, which made it difficult to avoid bodily contact, which he shunned owing to his reserved nature. If the sardine-like conditions weren’t making things too close for comfort, Debbie made sure that she did, or as Van recounts:

Debbie picked up on what I was doing and playfully busted my stones by making sure that no matter how many times I moved to avoid the contact, within seconds a leg or arm was against me again. The first few times I was getting frustrated, but after hearing muffled giggles realized I was being “had.”

We drove straight through the Carolinas on Route US 17, a desolate stretch of two-lane highway for the part that rolled straight through swampland and the like. I remember cruising in either North or South Caroline as the sun came up and everyone else in the station wagon was asleep. That was real cool. Everything in the world was ahead us—and I was awake at the wheel. My passengers may have had momentary doubts about my state of wakefulness at the wheel a bit later on when I went to overtake a car in our lane by going into the oncoming lane; meanwhile a car coming in the opposite direction ran off the road apparently fearful that wouldn't get back in my lane in time. Personally, I though the guy overreacted.

Photo Comment: Pictured above is a 1972 Ford Gran Torino station wagon. Ours looked the same except I think it was a darker green.

~ Day 2 (Saturday, July 27, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Camp at a huge campground on the ocean near Myrtle Beach.

The Memo book notes that we stopped for gas four times on Friday 7/26/74 and for breakfast. No doubt several of the gas stops and undoubtedly the breakfast stop were on Saturday 7/27/74. One of the few descriptive entries in the Memo book mentions this breakfast, stating “Janet did not eat, Debbie paid $5.00, I paid $2.00.” Unfortunately, such detailed records would not be kept with any consistency.

When we gassed up for the fifth time on Saturday, the mileage on the Gran Torino read 26,067. We set off on the trip with the Bomb’s odometer reading 25,560 miles, which meant we’d now traveled 507 miles. Per Google Maps, it is 590 miles from Broomall to Myrtle Beach, SC, via routes US 13 & US 17, so it figures we drove another 83 miles or thereabout and then found a campground to hitch our tent and cool our heels. The name of that campground, of course, is long forgotten . . . heck, we probably didn’t even know the name of the place when we camped there. But I wish I knew it so that I could look for photos of the place on the Internet and maybe go there one day for old time sakes.

The Internet site htomc.dns2go.com/myrtle/motel.htm contains a treasure trove of information, photos, and postcards about motels and campgrounds in the Myrtle Beach area from the early 1970s. Why anyone would go to so much effort about something so obscure is beyond me. (On second thought, I guess it’s for the same reason I’m writing this log—it’s about chronicling the past to preserve it.) Anyway, the site lists five campgrounds in the Myrtle Beach area. All five appear to have the basic characteristics of the place we stayed: along U.S. Route 17, on the beach, with wooded areas and lakes and other waterways, and huge. The postcard of the Sherwood Forest Family Camp Ground (copied below) seems to bring back memories, and Van concurs. But then I vaguely remember there being an amusement park across the street, and Pirateland campground once had such an arrangement, so maybe that was the site. But Van has no such recollection and vaguely recalls passing other campgrounds when we left and resumed heading south, which would seemingly rule out Pirateland because it was the southernmost of the five campgrounds. I suppose it doesn’t much matter—most of these places are gone and transformed into gated communities. And the rest are probably no longer recognizable since campgrounds in the past 35 years have gone from primarily places where campers pitched their tents to places were people park their RVs.

The Memo book notes that we bought a fair amount of food on this date. And other entries make it clear that we stayed at the Myrtle Beach campground for two days. I have a couple of vivid recollections about our time there, but I don’t know if they happened the first day or the second, so I’ll record them under the second (i.e., Day 3). I suspect on this day I caught up on my sleeping after driving through the night.

~ Day 3 (Sunday, July 28, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Stay at Myrtle Beach Campground day no. 2.

The Memo book has as much narrative for this day as any and records the following:

Stay at campground 2nd day – Ocean. Steve paid $4.00 for spot.
Everyone paid for their own dinner.
Steve bought watermelon.
On beach at night.

The Memo book clarifies that we stayed at the enormous Myrtle Beach campground a second day, a matter which neither Van nor I could recall. Also the entry stating “on beach at night” strongly suggests that the indelible memories I have of the place, which I’ll recount in a moment, took place on this day (or more accurately night).

I don’t remember what we did during the day or anything about dinner, though evidently everyone bought their own, excepting Steve’s communal contribution of watermelon. But I remember very well two events, the first in the early evening and the other late at night. It was an absolutely gorgeous evening, and Debbie and I went down to the beach, likely with a blanket in tow. There we lay down side by side on the dunes and dreamily took in the lovely scene. While doing so, I was absent-mindedly rubbing her chest, until a few passersby gave us some funny looks. Debbie caught on to what was going on and told me to knock if off.

Later that night after the others had gone to sleep, I headed down to the beach by myself to smoke a doobie. It was sublime sitting on the dunes and listening to the roar of the surf. There I was out on my own for the first time in life, and with my beautiful girlfriend and good buddies. Being stoned probably added to that sense of sublimity . . . and it sure as heck had everything to do with what followed. I got up and started back to camp. What should have been a walk of a few hundred yards became what seemed to be an endless quest to find our tent in the dark among the thousands that were in the campground. I walked and walked in circles, crossing the same footbridge time and time again. I began to fear that I would never find our tent. At long last, I finally stumbled upon it.

Aside from the events recorded, it remains unclear to Van, Steve, and me what we managed to do to entertain ourselves in the campground for two days or if we ever drove into town.

~ Day 4 (Monday, July 29, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Drive to Vilano Beach, Florida, and camp on the beach.

The Memo book records, “Left campgrounds at 10:00 AM.” Next stop Florida. Actually the next stop after leaving the Myrtle Beach campground was probably breakfast somewhere along U.S. 17 in either South Carolina or Georgia. And quite possibly it was this breakfast that featured a “My Cousin Vinnie” moment involving grits. Although I’d eaten grits for as long as I can remember, several members of our crew had never encountered a grit in his or her entire life. Imagine the mind-altering experience encountered at the counter of that southern eatery.

The rest of the drive down to Florida is largely a blank, but I do recall being at the wheel most of the way, and I remember Debbie reading a book during much of the drive—I even seem to recall it being Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, although I could be wrong about that. Thanks to Van’s recollections, the locale of our next camping spot can be identified—it was on the beach in Vilano Beach, Florida. Vilano Beach was and is a small town on an inlet just north of St. Augustine. In all the drive would have taken at least seven hours plus probably two more hours in stops, meaning that we would have gotten into Vilano Beach about 7 PM on Monday night.

Florida was a very different place back in 1974, most notably there were not nearly the number of people as there are now (in 1970 the population was 6.85 million, by 2003 it was 17.2 million(1)). In keeping with this, the beach was mostly deserted, and there being no ordinances against camping on it. (As the satellite photo below attests, Vilano Beach amazingly enough still has some open space.) Sand back then, however, as sand is now, can be tricky. It was here, I’m sure, that I got the car stuck in the sand soon after our arrival, and we had a god-awful time getting it unstuck. We pushed, revved, and crammed driftwood and anything else we could find under the rear tires trying to create traction. Eventually we freed da Bomb, but it may have taken its toll . . . time would tell.

It must have been nearing twilight when we pitched our tent and, it seems, took a dip in the ocean. Van recalls that somebody saw a shark while swimming. I don’t know who it was who saw the shark, but doubtlessly that would have lessened the joy of frolicking in the surf. I guess we made an early evening of it since I don’t recall there being much else to do, other than swim with the sharks.

Van also recalls it being here that we encountered, or first encountered, the infamous Florida “no-see-um” bugs, although evidence of this discovery would have to wait until the following morning when we awoke to find our bodies covered by small itchy red insect bites. And on the topic of insects, we encountered more than one scorpion during this trip. The first may have been here.

Elsewhere in the World: On this date the Grateful Dead played the Capital Centre in Landover, MD, closing with “Casey Jones,”(2) and in Chicago, IL, St. Louis Cardinal outfielder Lou Brock stole his 700th career base in the first inning against the Cubs (the Cubbies had traded Brock in 1964).(3)

~ Day 5 (Tuesday, July 30, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Move to St. Augustine campground, while Van & Steve tour El Castillo.

I don't recall staying on Vilano Beach a second night, but we no doubt stayed in the area at least another day since Van and Steve both recall visiting El Castillo in St. Augustine. Most likely we moved to a campground in or near St. Augustine Beach—this would certainly jibe with the Memo book entry for this date stating “Campground St. Augustine - $5.25.”

So it seems it was on this date that Van and Steve and perhaps Janet took off in the station wagon for a tour of El Castillo. I have no recollection at all of visiting the place on ts vacation, so I must not have accompanied them but rather stayed at the St. Augustine campground with Debbie. It is not entirely clear whether Janet accompanied Van and Steve. Van's initial recollection on 1/28/08 was, “I recall taking an organized tour of St. Augustine with Janet and maybe Steve.” During a get-together on 9/20/08, however, he and Steve doubted Janet was with them. My guess is that the three of them drove off together leaving Debbie and me alone, although I have no recollection of this or of what Debbie and I did while they were gone. I seem to recall that they got back to camp rather late.

It should be remarked that one of the reasons much of our time is so jumbled and fuzzy now, aside from the obvious fact that it was 35 years ago, was that we stayed in campgrounds most of the time. And mostly KOA campgrounds. One Florida KOA campground is pretty much like another, so there were few distinguishing characteristics to make their mark. The photo here depicts the St. Augustine Beach campground today. We may have stayed there, but the photo doesn’t beckon any memories of the place, although it looks like it would have been a pleasant place to spend the day.

~ Day 6 (Wednesday, July 31, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Drive to Orlando, stop by Grandma's, and proceed to motel dive.

Although it was never a source of in-depth reporting, the Memo book begins its decent into minimalism at this point. The only entry for this day is the following:

As little as this information imparts, the fact that we got gas, and close to a full tank at that, does suggest that we were on the move again. And since I don’t recall even the one day we spent in the St. Augustine Beach campground, I have to conclude we didn’t stay two but rather moved on to our next destination—Orlando, where my Florida grandma lived in the old house at 1025 Webster Ave. (pictured below in 1975).

My grandfather Andrew W. Evans had bought the house when he came down to the Florida in the late 1950s and had lived there until about a year or two before when he moved out to live with his brother Bill in Denver. He wasn’t, however, living in Denver anymore because he’d died there less than a month before of a heart attack on July 4th. My Florida grandma and I had always been as close as could be, but given the recent death of my grandpa and our rather unexpected arrival at her door, set her back a bit . . . particularly given that two of the five of us were girls. Soon after we arrived, she told me that we couldn’t all stay there because, you know, it would have been sinful in the eyes of God (and if anyone I ever knew had a direct pipeline to God, it was my Florida grandma). So I suspect I gave the crew a quick tour of the very unusual house my grandpa had constructed around the little house he bought all those years ago. And knowing my grandma, I’m sure she fixed us a bite to eat. Then we drove into town to find a place to spend the night.

I believe we ended up in the area where US Route 17/52 intersects with State Road 50 (aka Colonial Drive). Wherever it was, there may have been a seedier part of town and there may have been a bigger dive than the motel where we stayed, but it would have taken some doing to find just such a place. I reckon it was cheap if nothing else. The place came equipped with one room and one small bathroom, thus qualifying in the broadest sense as a motel room. I don’t recollect what all we did there for the evening, although I do recall getting rather buzzed, and I suppose we watched TV if there was one in the place. And although I don’t recollect all that we did, I do remember what Debbie and I did on the floor in that little bathroom. And what we did was play canasta, of course.

~ Day 7 (Thursday, August 1, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Drive to Brooksville to drop the girls off. Probably return to Orlando.

The next three days are perhaps the biggest blur of the entire trip. There are fragments of jumbled memories and inklings of what may have happened, but there’s no framework to give them order. The Memo book is of little help since it doesn’t contain another dated entry until Wednesday, August 7. It does, however, have these undated entries:

As best as I can determine, this is how it went.

We left Orlando in the morning and drove Debbie and Janet to Brooksville, which is about 70 miles west of Orlando and 50 miles north of Tampa, and where Debbie’s grandparents lived. One thing we couldn’t recall was whether Sue flew into Orlando or Tampa, but it was probably Tampa. She flew because her parents wouldn’t let her drive down with Debbieand Janet. Since Debbie’s reputed destination was her grandparents’ house in Brooksville, then it makes since that Sue’s flight was to the nearest airport, which would have been Tampa’s. I suppose it is also possible that Debbie and Janet took a bus to Brooksville, but I highly doubt that we’d have been so unchivalrous. Also, how would Debbie have explained what became of the car in which she drove down to Florida? So we must have driven them. I’m not sure if Steve came along, and he doesn’t recall either, but why wouldn’t he have?

Van and I both recall camping in Brooksville, and the Memo book appears to verify this; however, the biggest mystery of all is did we camp there on this date or two days hence (i.e. August 3rd) when we returned to the area? My best guess is that we dropped the girls off and returned to Orlando, which seems to be consistent with the Memo book notation “Debbie stayed in Brooksville. We left Thursday.” This could, however, mean that we left Orlando on Thursday, but I don’t think I’d have phrased it like that. Or maybe I meant to write, “She left Tuesday,” meaning that Debbie stayed in Brooksville until Tuesday, August 5. And why is the “Debbie” comment after the entry for the campground fee? I have no idea, but we’ve got a tale to tell, and the story is we left the girls in Brooksville and drove back to Orlando. It makes the most sense and comports the best with the Memo book and my memory and Van’s, who wrote, “I think we dropped off Debbie and Janet with Sue. We then went to your Grandmom’s in Orlando.”

Another uncertainty is how Debbie showed up at her grandparents. I believe she initially stayed there with Sue and Janet, but they had no car, unless they rented one, and at age 18 without a credit card, that seems unlikely. And I couldn’t have driven them up to the door since that would have given away the ruse that Debbie was traveling with just her two girlfriends. So my guess is, and as I recall it, we devised a charade in which Van pretended to be Sue’s cousin (or brother), and he drove Debbie and possibly also Sue and Janet up to the house while I waited down the street. I don’t think I could have dreamed this sequence up, so it must have happened, although Van doesn’t remember being in on the gag. One thing is clear—I didn’t how to spell “paid,” as Janet corrects in the Memo book.

As our return trip to Orlando did then, this narrative will take a brief detour. I’ll try to explain: For 35 years I’ve had a vivid memory of driving through a small backwater town in rural Florida in which nearly everyone I saw seemed to be touched, in a lobotomized zombie kind of way. As if there’d been way too much inbreeding for way too long . . . or something bad got in the water . . . or a government experiment had gone awry. I guess I always knew this detour through the twilight zone was during this trip, but I couldn’t place where it was. Down around Lake Okeechobee was one possibility, since back then that was one of the most rural areas in the country. But back in 1974 most of inland Florida was rural with a Deep South ambience right out of “Deliverance.” And I guess I always I knew Van and Steve were there too. Van recently reminded me of our excursion through this otherworldly town. So obviously he was there. If indeed Steve was as well, then it all fits the suspected sequence of events on this day, and the place had to be located somewhere along the road between Brooksville and Orlando, as Van recalls it being. Now it just so happens that there’s a little hamlet on Old State Road 50 about midway between Brooksville and Orlando called Tarrytown. That might have been the place. We, of course, dubbed it “Tardytown,” which perhaps says more about us than the folks who lived there.

And who knows what we did that evening back in Orlando. I probably took the guys around to some of my old haunts, such as Edgewater High School, where there stood* an 8-foot tall totem pole that my grandfather carved. (The photo is of me in October 1974 beside another of my grandpa’s totem poles, this one in the backyard at 1025 Webster Ave.)

* I was under the impression that the 8-headed totem pole at Edgewater HS was still in place, as it was when I last saw it in 2004; my brother, however, said it was gone when he visted in July 2009. I'm not so sure about that though—it seems to appear on 2009 aerial maps at google.com and bing.com.

~ Day 8 (Friday, August 2, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Visit Aunt Tina’s during day and stay at Grandma's at night.

Thanks to Van’s 1/24/08 recollection of events, wherein he reports, “We spent one afternoon at a pool in the apartment complex of one of your female relatives,” I was reminded that we visited my aunt Tina. At the time she lived in an apartment at 5800 Dahlia Dr. in Orlando (pictured below). I was a frequent visitor there during a stay in Florida about three years before. I spent most of my time hanging out with other kids at the pool or in the adjacent pool house seen in the photo below. The kid I remember most was a perky girl a couple of years younger than me named Teri Fitzgerald. I’d often sing songs for her, mostly “Pink Shoe Laces” and “Hound Dog,” and she seemed to get a big kick out of my gestures. I sure as heck got a big kick out of Teri Fitzgerald bank then, and despite being gaga over Debbie at present, I’m sure I had an eye out for Teri. But she wasn’t there that day. I may have even inquired about her and was told the family had moved. Also as I recall, the pool house and changed some since I last hung out there. Perhaps the pool table was gone.

Van’s account also records the doings of a most daunting encounter, which I highly suppose went down this very evening:

Also, at your Grandmom’s, you killed an absolutely gigantic spider in the bedroom, only to be told by your Grandmom the next day; aw, you killed Charlie? (not sure about exact name). How big does a spider have to be to be killed with a baseball bat??!! [When I lived in Tallahassee in 1978 I killed one of similar size. You could actually hear its footsteps as it crossed the floor. Yuck!]

I have no recollection of killing a large spider; however, Steve recalled that he had. So without further ado, we award Sir Steven McCarthy the “Order of the Slayer of Humongous and no doubt Deadly Arachnids.”

Although we surely spent the night at my grandma’s house (our second), our sleeping arrangements escaped my memory. They didn’t, however, escape Van’s—he had some ideas, and once again they resurrected the scene. The “left” side of the house was the part my grandfather built by hand and had lived in. It was sunken and cool and dark and like no other place on earth I knew of. I always loved being in there, and after my grandpa died, it was where I always stayed. Here’s what Van had to say about it and our time there:

I think we all slept, or at least some of us, in the spider room, which was on the left side of the house as you face the house from outside the front. I've also recalled another anecdote which takes place in this room, which night I don't know. Again, maybe I said it before and forgot. We were shooting the shyte and one of us proposed a question: There are 3 people in a raft on the ocean, but only 2 can survive. One is you, one a baby, and one an old man. You get to choose who survives. I remember you twirling the idea around in your head before arriving at the conclusion that you'd throw the old man overboard. Of course Steve and I found this a bit cutthroat, as the "correct" answer would be to take a dive oneself and leave the supplies to the old man and the baby. Of course, in retrospect, there's no way I'm taking a dive off that raft, I certainly don't have the moral fiber to take one for the team like that. I might, however, keep the old man around for possible food after I strangled him.

~ Day 9 (Saturday, August 3, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Brooksville bound to join the gals, leaving Steve behind in Orlando with Mickey.

While Steve stayed behind in Orlando at my grandma’s house, Van and I said our goodbyes and took off for Brooksville to meet up with the girls. Presumably we had made prior arrangements about where and when to meet. That or we contacted them when we got into town. In the meantime, Steve would make his first visit ever to Disney World (which had opened less than three years before) and then fly home either this day or the next.

One of the undated entries in the Memo book covering this period notes that we spent $15 for “Eric Clapton tickets.” The entry further states they were $8.50 apiece, which of course does not add up, but we no doubt purchased two tickets to the Clapton concert and planned to get two more at the concert in West Palm Beach. I suspect it was this day that we purchased the tickets since I seem to recall milling around at a local mall and stopping by a Ticketron outlet there.

My guess is that we got into Brooksville in the late morning or early afternoon, and Van again pretended to be Sue’s cousin or brother and picked up the girls at Debbie’s grandparents’ house, while I waited out of sight. Then we went to the local mall and did our business there. From there we drove to a local campground and set up camp.

I vaguely remember the campground in Brooksville, not so well that I know its name or would recognize a photo of it, but I’ve got a mind’s-eye picture of the place. As already stated, I’m not even sure that we spent this day and night there rather than the day and night of Thursday, August 1, but that topic has been exhausted and decided—it went down just the way we say it did. What I remember about the Brooksville campground is that it was in a shady wooded area; that and Debbie and I retiring to the tent in the afternoon while the others hung around outside.

What I don’t remember at all is returning Debbie to her grandparents’ house, but I’m pretty sure that we did. Nor do I have any recollection of whether Janet and Sue again stayed with Debbie at her grandparents or spent the night with Van and me at the campground. I don’t recall camping alone with Van or camping with just Van, Janet, and Sue. You’d think I’d remember once scenario or the other. In other words, just about everything other than a few trees and a little afternoon delight is long forgotten.

Van’s recollection of the events in and around Brooksville are recorded below:

Somewhere along the way here, I think before the infamous Clapton concert, we were in a campground. I have the following vague memories involving hanging out with Janet and Sue (I imagine you were doing something with Debbie). Had my first alcohol buzz in the form of jug wine; was walking to the car with the keys at dusk, and somehow they just ‘exploded’ off the keychain. We had to search for them in the dark . . . This happened after Steve left us. He had been telling us that he was “supposed to be getting laid” with Sue but missed the connection (maybe we picked her up late after dropping him off at the airport?). But I accidentally spilled the beans to Sue and Janet in a most funny way. As I was relating the story, I was keeping secret [about] who was the person that Steve was “supposed to be getting

laid” with, but they guessed at someone—or some chain of events—and I said to Sue “No, because you . . .” and immediately trailed off with chagrin as they both burst into excited chatter and laughter as they realized Sue had been the one to whom he was referring. Naturally Sue denied the allegation.

Van goes on to say that he couldn’t remember “exactly when Steve left the caravan and when Sue joined up.” I think the account provided so far, however, pretty much clarifies that matter. Furthermore, Van’s account above, which he recalls with uncharacteristic clarity for something that happened so long ago, fits nicely into the account that has been crafted for the day as a whole.

Van adds a couple of asides that could be included elsewhere in this account but perhaps best fit here. One of the things about this trip that made it “intriguing” from the perspective of us 18-year old males (although Steve was actually still 17) was the fact that we were traveling with three young and attractive females (Debbie and Janet were 18, Sue was 17). And as everyone knows, 18-year old male hormones are famous for one thing. I had Debbie, so all was well on that front. But Van and Steve were left to their own devices to make of it what they could with the other two gals. As has been said, I don’t think Steve and Sue were ever together on the trip, or at least no more than one afternoon on Day 7. Those two might have hit it off pretty well since they were both outgoing, talkative types, so maybe there’s something to Steve’s claim that he was “supposed to be getting laid” with Sue, even if it wasn’t exactly written in stone and even if she didn’t know about it. Alas, time was not on his side.

Clearly I was too absorbed in my own world and love life to heed the flirtatious goings-on of the others. Van’s account, however, intimates that Sue was making moves on him at the time. But his interest lay with the dark and mysterious Janet. Nothing much came of this interest during our travels, but the two of them did have a few dates the following summer of 1975. For those who must know such things (and you know who you are), no, he and she never went all the way. The farthest they got, I’m told from reliable sources, is the “sloppy kiss stage.” Alas, in time that died too.

Van also mentions that he saw Sue at the Marple-Newtown 20-year high school class reunion (as did Steve and I). During a brief exchange, she commented to him, “Did you know I had a crush on you back then?” Van replied, “Actually, yes, I did know.” What he didn’t say (probably because his wife at the time was with him) but very well may have been thinking was “by any chance do you still have that crush?” Quite possibly Van was kicking himself in the butt for not having answered the opportunity that knocked 20 years before because Sue looked real sharp that night.

~ Day 10 (Sunday, August 4, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Head to West Palm Beach for Clapton concert, but only two of us will make the show.

I suppose we broke camp in the morning; that is whoever, if anyone, camped in Brooksville the night before. The Clapton concert for which we had already purchased two tickets was August 4th, so there’s no question we set off on the 240-mile journey from Brooksville to West Palm Beach today. Before we got underway, however, I vividly remember a short and secret but impassioned meeting with Debbie by a shopping mall near her grandparents’ house. Debbie was going to remain with her grandparents for two more days, so that meant two more days we’d be apart. That made for a sad meeting by the mall.

I figure it was a little before noon when Van, Janet, Sue and I began driving south/southeast in route to the Clapton concert at the West Palm Beach International Raceway. We were all excited about the show, none more so than Van, who considered Clapton something of a god. Janet was a big fan of his as well. I don’t remember the route we took, and unlike almost every other trip I’ve ever taken, I didn’t keep a highlighted map of the path taken. But the route between Brooksville and West Palm Beach back then had very little in between other than roadway and flat expanses of Florida brush. It was along one of these flat expanses that da Bomb started having fits, and they got worse and worse until we could go no farther. I pulled off onto the shoulder of the highway. We were, of course, all bummed by this turn of events, which wasn’t entirely unexpected because the car was da Bomb after all, and we’d had some car trouble a few days prior as evidenced by the undated entry in the Memo book stating “car trouble - $3.70 – Steve paid.” The fact that Steve paid confirms that it was a few days prior.

We weren’t all stranded by the side of the road for very long. In the space of just of few minutes, it was decided that Van and Janet should take the two tickets and hitchhike to the concert while Sue and I dealt with the car. No sooner had we decided on the plan than Janet starts hitchhiking and immediately a car stops to pick her up. And just like that Van was right behind her. As they were climbing in the car, I grabbed a hotel directory we had with us, flipped to the page for West Palm Beach, and ran up to the car and told Van to meet us at the Days Inn in West Palm Beach after the show. And off they went to see Eric Clapton.

Sue and I hung around until a tow truck arrived. I don’t know how we got a hold of one, since I doubt there were any phones in the vicinity. As I recall, one was just cruising by and stopped and took us to the nearest gas station a few miles away. We hung around the shop for hours waiting for the car to get fixed. It was almost evening by the time we got back on the road and well into the night by the time reached West Palm Beach and found the Days Inn. I suppose given our desolate locale, we were lucky we had the car back on the road that day and not a day or two later.

At the Days Inn, we parked in the parking lot and hung out in the car waiting for Van and Janet to show up. I believe I had a headache from the day’s ordeal, and Sue gave me one of her Darvocet, though I don’t recall it doing much good. We chatted a bit and eventually fell asleep in the car. For a thorough account of Van and Janet’s adventure, see Van’s recollections below. Also, lots of information about the concert is available at http://www.tapecity.org/showthread.php?t=19080.

Now the infamous Clapton concert in West Palm Beach. One of the most memorable events of my entire life. As I recall we were headed there when the car broke down. Janet started hitchhiking so fast that she had a ride before we had developed plans for hooking up again. (No doubt that had I been standing next to her it would have taken longer . . . but an unaccompanied female is a whole lot more alluring than a male and female). Anyway, you rushed up and informed us of plans to reunite, how you figured it out is a mystery to me. It involved meeting at the Days Inn in West Palm.

So, off we went. The event was at West Palm Beach Speedway to the west of WPB. As we got off the highway, we hitched and joined a convoy of vehicles heading west. It was a 2 lane road and it was traffic like Woodstock (same with the freaks going). Eventually people started using both lanes to go west. Eastbound traffic was screwed. Then they started using both shoulders as well!

Finally we go out and walked the last ½ mile or so. When we got to the Speedway, the whole infield was packed with people. I have no idea how many were there, but it felt like I was at Woodstock. The infield turned out to be a sea of puddles and mud, which we proceeded to trudge through, getting our feet, shoes and lower pants soaked.

We did make it to the fence at the front right of the stage. There, before the show started some skydivers came out of a plane – they spared no expense to make this a spectacle – I was craning my neck to see them and the next thing I knew I was lying on my back with Janet leaning over me asking did I want to go to the medical tent? I seem to have passed out. Well, the tent was behind the stage past the chainlink fence. So now we were backstage. They asked me if I had had anything to drink or eat – suddenly I realized I had had no food or drink since breakfast. Funny how when you’re 18 you can forget little details like food and water. Someone offered me a carrot and half a tuna sandwich. I hated both at the time (still hate tuna) but ate them anyway, although the tuna made me gag.

The show was some band called Ross, then Joe Walsh and finally Clapton. I don’t remember much of the show except this riff Ross played which still goes thru my head today.

When it was over Janet and I hitched part of the way to the Days Inn, then ended up walking for miles in the middle of the night along a deserted Military Trail highway. Who knows how may miles? You’re sleepy, exhausted, putting one foot in front of another, it’s dark, the highway is deserted, it’s 2 am, then 3 am, 4 am, who knows? Finally we attained the Days Inn at dawn, but it was full. We walked down the street a little and crashed on the front steps of a store. A little later we found you in the car in the parking lot at Days. When we checked in finally, I think I slept the day away.

I remember watching a Dodgers game on TV in that room that night. Steve “Gravy” Garvey played.

~ Day 11 (Monday, August 5, 1974) ~

Synopsis: A lazy day after a crazy day in West Palm Beach.

As I remember it, Van and Janet stumbled upon Sue and me in da Bomb a little after dawn. Van recalls crashing on the steps of a nearby convenience store before finding us and then sleeping for a bit in the car until we could check into a room at the Days Inn. I don’t even remember staying there, but Van has a clear recollection it. Since I don’t recall going any place else, that must have been it. Van and Janet no doubt needed sleep, and so they probably slept most of the day. I don’t know what Sue and I did, but we probably got in some shut-eye ourselves since the night in the car was not the most restful. The aerial image below from bing.com shows the Days Inn at 2300 45th St., West Palm Beach facing east. By all accounts this was the place. It’s about 25 miles SE of the Palm Beach International Raceway via the Bee Line Hwy. How Van and Janet reached it by walking north along the Military Trail is a mystery, but then so are a lot of things. Maybe they got a lift.

Though very little is recalled about this day, I must have talked with Debbie to make arrangements to meet her at the West Palm Beach bus station the following day since she would be arriving then. Also, as we most assuredly watched a baseball game involving the LA Dodgers in our motel room. Since so little is recalled of the happenings during our travels one this date, let’s see what happened elsewhere in the world on August 5, 1974:

t In the Ardoyne district of Belfast, 67-year old Martha Lavery was struck by a bullet and killed while watching TV in her living room with her son and his six kids—whom she reared after their mother died. At the time a gun battle, thought to be between the Official IRA and the British army, raged outside her Jamacia Street home. At her inquest, the Official IRA denied killing the grandmother and it was said the bullet that killed her was “probably” a British army one. One thing for certain is that on this date, Ms. Lavery became another innocent victim in what is known as “the troubles.”(4)

t In Los Angeles, the LA Dodgers hosted and bested the Cincinnati Reds 6-3. The big blow being a Steve Yeager grand slam off Don Gullett in the bottom of the 7th. For the losing Reds, Rose, Morgan, Bench, Perez, Foster, and Griffey all had hits. While for the winning Dodgers, Steve “Gravy” Garvey went hitless in the game and failed to reach base . . . it is not reported, however, at retrosheet.org whether Garvey scored after the game with any of his lady friends, as his Barbie-dollesque wife Cyndi has alleged he was prone to do.(5)

t And throughout the land on August 5, 1974, the long sought after “Smoking Gun” audio tape was made public, revealing conclusively to all that President Richard M. Nixon had been deeply involved in the Watergate cover-up and had ordered Haldeman to halt the FBI investigation only six days after the Watergate break-in. This revelation resulted in a total collapse of support for Nixon in Congress . . . Time was growing very short for Tricky Dick.(6)

~ Day 12 (Tuesday, August 6, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Pick up Debbie at bus depot, then check into a downtown motel and propose.

Unless the Trailways Bus System used the wrong date-stamp, this was unquestionably the day that Debbie rejoined the group.

One of the very few mementos I have of this trip is her bus ticket from St. Petersburg to West Palm Beach. I don’t know why I would have kept it and almost nothing else, yet I did. Perhaps I did so as a reminder of what almost happened in West Palm Beach.

The bus ticket doesn’t indicate the time of day that Debbie arrived in town, but it was probably in the early afternoon. I picked her up at the bus station, although I don’t know if the others were also there or if they were still hunkering down in the Days Inn. I do know that Debbie and I got a room by ourselves in a swank hotel in downtown West Palm Beach near the inland waterway. I believe it was either Janet's or Sue’s idea that we be treated to a little extravagance and solitude given our days apart. Who's ever idea it was, it was a magnanimous and welcome one. Once Debbie and I were inside that swank hotel room, we quickly made up for lost time, quickly indeed. Then we went outside and walked down to the water. From pouring over on-line maps with close-up aerial views of West Palm Beach, I’ve concluded that the hotel was probably across the street from Lake Worth, which is really an inlet separating West Palm Beach from Palm Beach. I was unable, however, to locate any hotel or locale that reminded me of the place we stayed. In all likelihood, the place has been torn down and something new has gone up in its place. Most of downtown West Palm Beach along Lake Worth appears to be relatively new construction. I have a distinct memory of the area being downtown, shady, well manicured, and quiet. I also remember there being a stone wall upon which we sat, much like the one pictured in the postcard displayed here, although that card appears to be from the vantage of Palm Beach looking toward West Palm Beach rather than the other way around.

The reason I make so much of the area is in part because it was quite beautiful, but more so because of what I did there. What I did down by the water’s edge on that stone wall was propose. Time and again I asked Debbie to marry me right there and right then in West Palm Beach. At one point, she seemed to come close to relenting and granting my wish (or perhaps more accurately my insane, juvenile fantasy brought on by love-sickness from being apart for a few days). But in the end, she said we should wait until we could have a church wedding with our families present. In the months following the trip, we would plan that church wedding and even set May 10, 1975, as the date, but of course it never came to pass. West Palm Beach was as close as we ever got.

I don’t know what Van, Sue, and Janet were doing all this time. And I don’t recall if we all hooked up again that evening or if Debbie and I spend the night in the hotel room while the others spent it elsewhere. So much is forgotten, but I’ll never forget West Palm Beach.

~ Day 13 (Wednesday, Aug 7, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Leave WPB, tool across Alligator Alley, and kick back for a bit in Fort Myers.

If we didn’t all reconnect last night, then we must have this morning because today we left West Palm Beach and headed west across Florida over State Route 84, also known as Alligator Alley. For most of the way, Alligator Alley traverses through the Everglades. The road was built in 1969 and in 1974 was only two-lanes (one each way) with almost no traffic and absolutely nothing but marshland all around. That and, of course, ‘gators, ‘gators everywhere.Alligator Alley ends in Naples, Florida. From there we drove up to Fort Myers Beach, where I believe we stopped for lunch. I can still picture us (or at least Van and I) sitting on a wooden deck overlooking the beach, drinking a beer, and watching a couple of long-haired fellows down below toss a Frisbee. I was amazed by the precision of their throws and their fancy catches. At the time, I wasn’t very skilled with a Frisbee in hand, but in time I got the hang of it. These guys deserve some, if not much, of the credit. Van recalls that the name of the bar was “The Rooftop of Times Square.” To this day there is a section of Fort Myers Beach called Times Square, so the bar no doubt got its name from being there. I couldn’t find any establishment by that name in existence today, but it might have been the place pictured below. Van also recalls repeated announcements over a loudspeaker advertising Busch beer for 50 cents or 2 for a dollar. What a bargain! I’ll take 2.

Given that it was mid- to late-afternoon when we kicked back in Fort Myers Beach and that we filled the gas tank twice this day, I suspect that we drove on, although how far I don’t know. Up the road a piece from Fort Myers is the very lovely town of Venice, Florida. I remember driving through it and marveling at all the little canals and the quaintness of it all. I wonder if it has retained that sleepy town charm. Our visit to Venice, however, could have been on the following day. The Memo book corroborates that we checked into a campsite, but where it was, I don’t recall. The book also confirms that I paid, or as some comedian or comedienne added to the entry—“payed.” Below are the entries from the Memo book for this day, the first with dated entries in a week:

~ Day 14 (Thursday, Aug 8, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Watch the President announce his resignation on a little TV in a KOA campground.

There would be four more days before our trip was over, but for the most part the memories have ended. There are, in fact, only two more that are distinct—one historic and profound, the other merely amusing. The historic one was today, or more accurately this evening at 9:01 Eastern time.

I don’t recall what we did during the day and there are no entries in the Memo for expenditures or where we stayed at night. The lack of entries provides solid evidence that we stayed put because the one thing I religiously recorded in the book was gasoline costs and usually the odometer reading at the time. Since there are no such entries (and the following day’s odometer reading was only 150 miles above Day 13’s last reading), I assume we spent the day and a second night in the campground near Fort Myers. But neither Van nor I need a Memo book to remember where we were when the President of the United States of America told the nation he was resigning. It was one of those rare instances in life, like Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas, and Elvis’s Graceland exit, and Lennon’s appointment with Chapman, in which you never forget where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news. We were at a KOA campground in Florida. The campground office included a small bare-bones lounge area, which contained among its few amenities a little black and white television set.

Either by chance or a tip from another camper or however, I became aware that President Nixon was going to address the nation. Somehow I knew this wasn’t going to be another of his inebriated rambles that had become common over the past year and half, so I ran and got Van and off we went to watch history be made. I don’t recall if any of the three girls joined us, although I have a very vague recollection that at Debbie did (Dallas).

There was already an assemblage of campers in the office lounge, consisting of a broad spectrum of America, although decidedly heavy on redneck folks, which was to be expected in a southern campground. Folks were minding their business waiting for the president to say his piece. And he did—Richard Nixon came on television and said he was resigning effective noon tomorrow. It was a tough speech for anybody under the circumstances, and to his credit, Tricky Dick gave a good one. It can be seen here →http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6614232706596655378 and heard here →http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/91/Nixon_Resign.ogg

On the one hand, it shouldn’t have been hard to see it coming, but on the other, it was a real “wow” moment—the President of the United States resigned, the only one ever to do so. No matter where they stood in the political spectrum and regardless of their ideology, the folks in that lounge and no doubt folks throughout the land were numbed by the news. Nobody said hardly a word, no cheers, no jeers, no boos, nor hoorays. But there was a palpable since of relief, a relief that for better or worse, it was at long last over.

Years later Van and I concluded that what had ended on the evening of August 8, 1974, was what had began on November 22, 1963. It’s usually called “The Sixties.”

~ Day 15 (Friday, Aug 9, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Still diddling around in Florida, doing god knows what.

The memo book confirms that we bought 12.9 gallons of gas on this day, at which time the odometer read 27,722. The fact that we got gas suggests we left our Fort Myers area campground and moved on . . . the fact we only filled up once proves we didn’t travel too far. Per Google maps, it is 1,165 miles from Fort Myers to Broomall, and it was probably a little more than that back in 1974. So if you figure it was about 1,250 miles by the route we took and given that we would eventually travel another 1,082 miles between our fill up today and our final fill up on August 17th, that pretty much confirms that we didn’t make it out of Florida today since its only about 825 files from the Florida-Georgia border to Broomall, and we had at a minimum 880 to go (that’s figuring that we drove at most another 200 miles after we filled up, which was the maximum range of da Bomb at 55 mph, coasting downhill with a good tail wind).Other than purchasing 12.9 gallons of leaded gasoline, for which Sue paid $6.95, I can’t tell you one other thing that we did this day. It’s a total blank. My guess is that we camped somewhere in the northern part of the state, perhaps we even returning to the St. Augustine area, which I seem to have the faintest of recollections. But then I have no idea if we even took that route home. Although I don’t what I did on this date, the history books tell us what Richard Nixon did—he handed his resignation to Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, thus making Gerald Ford the President.

Lord, I was born a ramblin' man, Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can. And when it's time for leavin', I hope you'll understand, That I was born a ramblin' man.

Well my father was a gambler down in Georgia,

He wound up on the wrong end of a gun.

And I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus

Rollin' down Highway 41.

(Words & Music by Dickey Betts)

~ Day 16 (Saturday, Aug 10, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Travel at least 400 miles and stay at Days Inn motel.

I gather that we pretty much just drove all day this day. We drove from wherever it was we camped the night before, believed to have been around St. Augustine, to some point in North Carolina, at least 400 miles away. The Memo book shows that we stopped three times for gas, setting a daily trip high for fuel cost ($27.04) and gallons (~45). There are no memories at all of what we did during the day, but I still remember the circumstances surrounding our night’s lodging. It was at a Days Inn somewhere in North Carolina. We stayed at relatively few motels during the trip so that may account in part for the lasting impression, and there’s also a Memo book entry confirming our stay at a motel costing $12.50. But mostly I recall staying at the Days Inn because in order to save us a few bucks, I told the clerk at the front desk that I was staying alone. She didn’t question me, so I got the rate for one person. Then all five of us surreptitiously piled into the room for a good night’s sleep in our two cozy beds (except maybe Van, who slept on the floor in a sleeping bag). I can’t say for sure where it was we stayed this night, but it may have been at the Days Inn in Lumberton, NC, seen here (it looks like the place at any rate).

~ Day 17 (Sunday, Aug 11, 1974) ~

Synopsis: Travel at least 400 miles and make it home to Broomall.

The only thing I remember about this day is fooling around with Debbie in the motel room early in the morning while the others slept . . . or so we thought. And I would have probably forgotten that too had Van not mentioned it later in the day.

Mr. Jones’s final memory of the trip is of something I said, perhaps not on this day, but seemingly so:

Coming home we stopped to eat and you said this:

Marc: “Van munches out on his one millionth hamburger.”

So Van ate his millionth burger, and we filled the gas tank a few more times, and we drove the final 400 miles until we were back where we started 17 days earlier.

I figure we pulled into Broomall in the early evening, maybe 8 or 9 PM, since I don’t see how we could have covered the distance any sooner than that.

I don’t recall if I took Van or Sue or Janet home of it any of them had left their cars at 101 Holly. I do know that Debbie didn’t go home. She and I took off the next day to spend a week camping in the wilderness somewhere in the Catskill Mountains of New York. That was quite an adventure too, but it’s another story. As for this adventure, the story is over.

THE END

Coda:

You don’t usually remember much about events that happened 35 years ago. And sometimes it’s kind of funny the things you do remember, like Van and the hamburgers. And it’s kind of sad the things you forget, most stuff at least (I guess we all have a few memories we’d rather not have). But for better for worse, there’s a lot more forgetting than remembering. And in the words of Eric Clapton, who unbeknownst to him, played a special role in this gig, “Remember, this fact, you can not get it back.” I racked my brain trying to recall who went to Brooksville and when. But it’s gone.

So it is that most of what we did and saw during our adventure in Florida in 1974 is long forgotten. All the same, I was amazed while writing this account how much of it was recalled. With practically no notes, no mementos, no photos, nothing but memories, it came back to life. Really, I suppose it never went away. The memories were always there, but they were fragmented. And fragmented ideas by definition are scattered and fleeting. The preparation for this log and the writing of it put the events of the journey in order and in the process revealed a whole greatly exceeding the fragments. The memories were always there because the mind does not forget what is truly momentous. And this adventure was indeed that.

The reasons it was momentous are not hard to figure: I was fresh out of high school and traveling with my closest high school chums and three pretty girls (or handsome young women if you prefer), one being my girlfriend, whom I was wild about. We traveled down the open highway to the land of palm trees and sunshine. Add to that, this was the first trip any of us guys ever took on our own. This was our first taste of freedom. Let me tell you, it tasted delicious. And I was 18 years old. What more could anyone ask for? I suppose you ask for the wisdom to fully appreciate it, but that's just not in the nature of being 18.

I said at the beginning of this account that this trip was once the greatest adventure of my lifetime. It was. For a while. It lost that distinction five years later when I spent 53 days on the road. And there have been other travels which for various reasons have had greater meaning. But this trip was the first great adventure, and for that it will always hold a very special and very fond place in the pantheon of memories.

One last thing, I’ve played lots of different card games in my life, but canasta is not one of them. And that’s the end of our tale. Ballgame over. Account closed. All bills paid in full . . . or “payed” as I used to like to say.