The Places to Be in Live Oak

Live Oak, Florida. Present Day.

My favorite meal in all of Live Oak, and one of the best meals that I have ever had in my life, is the Rainbow Trout Special from the Dowling House, usually served on the weekends.

The Dowling House itself is a restaurant that has only been open for a little over six months. I was one of its first customers back in October when a colleague from work joined me for lunch outside on the back deck. The restaurant gets its name from Thomas Dowling, one of Live Oak’s most prominent citizens who made a fortune in the lumber business in the early 1900s. The house was his residence during that era. After his death, the property has been used for numerous things.



The Rainbow Trout is not on the normal menu. Most weekends, but not all, they get the fish in from Colorado and serve it as a special for as long as it lasts. The white meat is very tender and has an excellent combination of seasoning. There is no “fishy” taste to it. One does not need tartar or cocktail sauce with it, though I usually get a little tartar sauce because I like the taste of tartar sauce in general.

The meal comes with two sides. One that I recommend and almost always order is the green bean almondine. The beans are steamed, I believe, and also prepared with a delicious seasoning of sliced almonds and onions. I usually take a small bite of the trout, and then eat all of the green beans and almonds before going back to the trout. The other side dishes I have tasted are good, too. I have not tried them all- only the house salad, baked potato, or garlic mashed potatoes.

The Dowling House has a full service bar. On Friday or Saturday nights, it is a highlight of my week to settle in, order a drink from the cute blonde bartender, and then after about half an hour, put in my order for the rainbow trout special.

Sometimes the Dowling House has live music or karaoke outside on the back deck.

***

The most popular restaurant and bar in all of Live Oak is the Brown Lantern.

There is almost always a line out the door on Friday nights of people waiting for a table, but I can usually squeeze in ahead of the crowd and find an empty chair at the bar.

This was the first place I went to socialize when I moved to Live Oak back in June. Unfortunately, I tried to do it on a Saturday night. To my dismay, the Brown Lantern is closed on Saturdays and Sundays.

Established in 1977, they obviously do enough business during the week to be able to give their staff the weekends off.



The bar area is decorated to look a bit like a Margaritaville, with parrots and pelicans painted on the sky-blue walls and ceiling.

The owner of the Brown Lantern is a graduate of Florida State University, and the main dining rooms are full of FSU memorabilia, though he has also put up a fair amount of Florida Gator things. The owner told me that the town is pretty evenly split between Seminole fans and Gator fans, and there are also a number of Georgia Bulldog fans here, so part of a wall is dedicated to them.

I remember in June when I moved to Live Oak and met with the failed attempt to gain entry to the Brown Lantern on Saturday, I went back the following Thursday. I sat down at the bar and had a nice conversation with a beautiful waitress, who served me draft beer in a Mason jar.

“Yep,” I told her. “I think I’ve found my Friday night hangout.”

She smiled warmly at me, a smile I will probably always remember.



The food at the Brown Lantern is delicious, too. One of my favorite dishes is the shrimp sandwich. They also have great steak and on certain nights, barbecue and ribs. The hamburger steak is another tasty option, and I have not had anything yet off their menu that I disliked.

Even having lived here less than a year, I see many people whom I know when I go to the Brown Lantern on Friday nights.

***

A great place for lunch is the Downtown Café, just a short walk from the courthouse. They make the best sandwiches in town from all the places that I have been thus far. It is a large selection, from tuna to chicken and turkey, served with various toppings and styles from New York and Italy.

Typically only open from 10am to 2pm and closed on Saturdays, I believe, they also serve breakfast food during those hours.



The Downtown Café gave me the second best meal that I have had in Live Oak, and again one of the best that I have ever had in my life. It was the open faced turkey sandwich with red mashed potatoes. The turkey had gravy and was so tender that I did not need a knife. Unfortunately, the open faced turkey sandwich is not a regular part of the menu. They offer it as a special on certain days only, and I have not seen it on the dry erase board as an option since Christmas. The next time they serve it, I will order two.

The Downtown Café also has the best soups in town. In addition to everyday soups like traditional vegetable or potato and bacon, they have a “Soup of the Day.” Chicken and Wild Rice, Shrimp and Corn Chowder, Red Pepper and Gouda Cheese, and Lentil soup are some of what they will offer at times.

One of my coworkers really enjoys soup, and so he is always agreeable to eating here.

The Downtown Café also has the best milkshakes in town. They serve vanilla, chocolate or strawberry ice cream for the shake, and then you can add delicious flavoring from glass bottles that look like wine bottles. I have tried caramel, almond, hazelnut, and Irish cream thus far for the flavoring on a vanilla milkshake with whipped cream. That is less than half of the flavors they offer, so I look forward to trying the rest.

There are other great places to be in Live Oak. If I do not write about them next week, I will do it soon.

Saying Goodbye to the Mustang

Wilmington, North Carolina. January, 2004

I buy the 2003 Ford Mustang with $12,500 cash and my trade, a 1995 Nissan pickup.

It pleases me that I do not have to make payments. It also pleases me that I am driving such a nice car. As a kid, I never thought I would have a car like a Mustang or a Camaro, but here it is. I can immediately tell that this vehicle drives heavier than my little pickup that I traded in. I will also have to get used to the size of the Mustang. Though it is a sports car, to me it feels like I am driving a huge Cadillac.



I bought the car in part because I hope girls will be impressed by it. I do get a number of compliments, but so far not any dates. Maybe that will change…

Carolina Beach, North Carolina. September 2004.

My Mustang really looks beautiful, sitting in its assigned parking space below. I look down on it from the balcony of my condominium, one row back from the beach. The curves of the body, the shining white paint job, the sleek decals, all give me a good feeling. I own that car, I think to myself. That is what I drive. It is a cool car, no doubt.

Mom and Dad and are vacationing at Topsail Island, to the north of the beach where I live. I go up and have a good visit with them. When it is time for me to leave and return home, I roll down the windows and turn up the theme to the TV show, “Knight Rider” on my stereo as I drive away. Dad laughs and gives me a thumbs up.

America. January 2006.

Due to upheaval in my employment, on a whim I decide to move from North Carolina Las Vegas.

It is my brother, Adam, and me taking turns driving the Mustang on Interstate 40 almost all the way across the country. Dad and my Uncle Ken follow behind in the Penske rental truck.

The trip out there is one of the most memorable of my life. We stop and eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Hermitage, Tennessee, take in the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock, Arkansas, eat at a great Chinese Buffet in Van Buren, Arkansas, spend the night in Roland, Oklahoma, then Pizza and an overnight stay in Tucumcari, New Mexico, then the following night to Williams, Arizona and a little detour to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, then to the division between the Mountain and Pacific Time Zones at the Hoover Dam, and finally arriving at night at the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino on the Las Vegas Strip.



Once my family has left Vegas, flying back to North Carolina, it is just me and my Mustang out here in the Mojave Desert. I have come out here with no job, and eventually wind up as a salesman at a car dealership.

One morning as I am headed to work, one of the sales managers pulls up alongside me in his truck as we head down Sahara Avenue.
“Drive that Mustang!” he shouts at me. “Drive it!”

The apartments where I live have a really high crime rate. The zip code, 89109, is #2 in the country for stolen cars, according to my insurance company.

“Yeah, you’re not a real resident here until you’ve had a car stolen from you,” my neighbor tells me. “I’ve lived here for eight years, and I’ve had two stolen from me.”

I go to an auto parts store and by “The Club” to put on my steering wheel each night.



Almost every morning when I exit my apartment to start the day, somebody’s car has been damaged- a mirror or window smashed, tires slashed. My Mustang is just about the nicest car in the complex. To my amazement, no one messes with my car for the entire time I live in the apartments.

Alexandria, Virginia. October, 2006.

My Mustang rides me to work each morning at the Post Office- a miserable, stressful drive. I come home from work exhausted.

The weather is starting to turn cold, now, and I wonder if I am going to be able to keep doing this as I climb out of the Mustang around 10pm at the end of another long day.

I click the lock button twice on my key fob, to set the car alarm. The Mustang’s horn honks twice.

I have never known it to do that before. Normally, the horn just blows once to let me know the alarm is set.

I press the key fob twice again, and the horn blows twice in quick succession again.

Huh. That is puzzling, I think to myself. But I go on inside to my apartment.

Early the next morning when I go out to the car, ready to drive to the Post Office again, I see that I left the passenger side door wide open from where got out the Styrofoam to go boxes of buffet food.

To my surprise, no one has messed with the inside of my car. Now I know why the horn was blowing twice- to signal that a door was open.

Fayetteville, North Carolina. Spring 2007.

While I wait to start a graduate program in history at Western Carolina University in the fall, I work again as a car salesman, this time Fayetteville. It is a Chevy Dealership, though we sell a lot of used Fords as well. It amuses me that in Vegas, many of the salesman were professional poker players. They sold cars during the day and played in poker tournaments at night in the casinos.

At this dealership, no one is a professional gambler, but some of the salesmen are also ordained ministers. One salesman carries two cell phones on his belt- a phone for his customers at the dealership, and the other for the members of his church.

Cullowhee, North Carolina. Fall 2008

I have always done better in school than in the work world, which is a bit frustrating. If academic success does not translate so easily to success in the real world, then what is the point of academics? But the lack of a correlation is not true for most people. I am going to see if I can mix the two worlds by making a career in academics.

Anyway, here at Western Carolina University, I am in the midst of the happiest year of my life, and I fully realize it.



I am actually getting dates, now. Girls are riding in the passenger seat of my Mustang on an almost regular basis, which was the main goal when I bought the car.

Tallahassee, Florida. 2009

“You have that nice Mustang, and you take the bus to school?” One of my friends asks me.

In my first year of law school, I use the Tallahassee transit system to get to and from the campus. During all three years in Tallahassee, my Mustang gets a bit of a break. I do not drive it that much. The main trip I make is to the grocery store with my classmate and neighbor from New Zealand, who does not have a car or a license at this point.

Kissimmee, Florida. Fall 2011.

I park my Mustang under an oak tree at my residence and walk to work. The tree dumps a lot of dirt and leaves on it in the coming weeks and months. Dirt gets into crevasses and linings in the car which are difficult if not impossible to clean. It is beginning to become an old car, I understand, now.

On a trip to visit my family in North Carolina, my brother washes the car and peels off the decals of the horses on the doors.

“It makes it look like less of a girl’s car,” he says.

Miami, Florida. Summer 2012.

I almost get into a major car accident coming out of Miami International Airport. There is a lot of construction there. It is nightfall and raining heavily, and I miss seeing a Yield sign posted amongst the orange and white barrels.

A taxi cab traveling at a high rate of speed taps the front of my car, as I pull out into his lane. But he keeps on going and I do not try to catch up to him and flag him down. At first chance, I get out of my car and survey the damage. We traded paint. Black and yellow is scuffed into my bumper, and it will not buff out.

This year in Miami, I really grind the Mustang, driving all over the city in stop and go traffic. The trunk, back seat and passenger seat are all stacked with boxes of books and other supplies for my job. It is not what the car was designed for, and I apologize to it and tell it what a great job it is doing on a daily basis.



Live Oak, Florida. 2013.

The driver side automatic window has stopped working. It costs approximately $500 to have a new window motor installed to have the problem fixed. A short time after I spend that money, the “Service Engine Soon” light comes on. I find out what the problem is. Though it is not an urgently needed repair, it will be another $500 to have this fixed. At times, now, the Mustang is also not driving as smoothly as it once did.

It is time to get a new car, I know, though I keep putting it off. I like the Mustang. It has been with me for ten years, ten turbulent years.

Lake City, Florida. April 26, 2014.

Today I must say goodbye to the Mustang.

When I bought it ten years ago, I thought that it would help me with women, help me get into adventures.

I have been on plenty of adventures with this car, though the passenger seat has remained empty for them.

I could buy another, brand new Mustang if I wanted to. But what is the point? It is sort of like buying a nice large house with lots of rooms, and then living in it by myself.

Instead, I buy a new Ford Focus. It has a moon roof and a trunk that will easily accommodate a bike rack, two things I want that the Mustang did not have. The gas mileage will also be much better. Perhaps I will have this Focus for the next ten years. I will get into adventures with this car, too, though I hope the next ten years are not as rocky as the previous ten.

Just as I am about to drive off the lot in my new car, I see my Mustang parked in a visitor space at the dealership, the license plate removed.

I get out of my car, go up to the Mustang, and put my hand on it. The emotion that springs up inside me is genuine.

“Excellent job, Mustang,” I say to it. “You are the best car I’ve ever had. You have served me well. If there is a heaven, I would like to see you there with me. I will miss you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone walking toward me. It is the salesman who did the deal. I assume he is coming to move the Mustang to the back of the dealership and out of the visitor space, but he abruptly turns around and walks back inside when he sees me.

I am a little embarrassed. It probably looks like I am praying over my old car.

I tell the Mustang that I hope its new owner will treat it well. Then I hop back in my Focus and give the Mustang one last look before I head out on the highway back to Live Oak.

A History of Dog Bites

Lumberton, North Carolina. Fall 1998.

I drive my Nissan truck up the driveway of a home in the countryside of Robeson County. I know the house belongs to my old school principal. He is probably at work, now.

A white German Shepherd sits on the front porch of the house, quietly watching me, its ears perked up and alert.

I have no fear of dogs. I like dogs better than I like people, for the most part, and I certainly understand dogs better than I understand people. So I get out of my truck with no hesitation, I can see that the German Shepherd does not know what to make of me, its “fight or flight” instincts teetering back and forth.

“It’s all right, buddy,” I say.

The principal’s wife opens the door and steps out of the house as I get out of the truck. I hold up my identification card.

“Hello ma’am,” I say. “I’m working for the Census Bureau. I just need to verify the address of the house here.”

She comes down off the steps, and the dog follows her. He sits by her side looking up at me. I make a clicking noise at him, and his ears flatten for a moment in response. I assume he is satisfied that I am not a threat, now, because he casually walks off behind me.

The principal’s wife tells me the address to the home. I ask her a few more questions off my clipboard.

Suddenly, I feel a pinch on my Achilles tendon.

I turn and look down. The white German Shepherd has sneaked up behind me, very low to the ground.

“You bit me!” I say to the dog in disbelief.

The dog slinks away.



I look at the woman, and I am sure that the expression on my face shows her that I want an explanation. She looks back at me, her own expression a combination of shock at what her dog has done and concern over what I am going to do.

I decide not to make a big deal of it. Later that day, I look at my heel. There is redness and a small bruise, but it does not appear that he broke the skin.

***

Rochester, New York. June 2004.

The company that I work for is behind on its security clearance investigations in Rochester. As I am one of the few investigators who is single and without kids, I volunteer for these month long “details” in other parts of the country.

Part of my job as investigator is to go out to the places where the subject lives or has lived and find neighbors who will talk to me about them.

I knock on the screen door of a middle class home in a neat little Rochester community. A cute girl walks up from inside the house. I show her my badge and explain who I am.

She smiles at me and pushes open the door, holding it open with her hand.

I hear a dog barking inside the house. Suddenly, it comes flying out from inside, launching into the air, and biting me square on the left quad muscle above the knee. He bounces of and lands on his feet on the concrete.

“Oh my gosh!” the girl exclaims.

I am too surprised to react much. The dog and I exchange looks with each other, me looking down at him, him looking up at me. Then the dog simply turns and casually walks off, as if to say, “That’s right, I did it.” He disappears back into the house.

I am more amused by the whole situation than anything else, and I have to crack a smile. The young girl is too cute and friendly for me to get irritated.

Still, when I get back to the Strathallen Hotel, I look at my leg and see a neat circle of teeth marks. He broke the skin in a couple of places. I call my boss about a worker’s comp claim.

“I doubt anything will happen,” I say, “but I want to put you on notice, just in case I start foaming at the mouth.”

***

Western Carolina University. Spring 2008.

“Your legs are so skinny. Is that why you never where shorts?” asks a girl whom I’ve taken out on a date a few times.

She has a talent for making these off-hand comments that cut me down. It is strange for her to say this in front of everyone. She has seen my legs before.

“Well, you should know that my legs are not my best feature,” I answer.

She blushes.

It is a beautiful day, sunny and warm. It is also one of the last events of the school year for the Graduate Student Association. I have made a number friends and had some of the best times of my life with the people in this group.

We have a cookout going in the picnic area at the lower end of campus.

I toss a Frisbee with my insult prone girl friend and a couple of other guys.

One of her tosses goes wide, up under the picnic pavilion. I sprint to catch it and stop short on the concrete.
A young dog, not much more than a puppy, is tied up on a leash to one of the picnic tables. I can tell immediately that I have frightened it, and I can see the fight instinct welling up in its face.

This dog is going to attack me, I think to myself. But I cannot back up fast enough out of the range of the leash length.

A split second later, it snarls and lunges at me. Just like the dog in Rochester, it bites me on the quad above my left knee. I step off the pavilion.

“Wow!” one of the guys exclaims. “Did he bite you?”

“Yeah, he sure did,” I respond.

A different girl, the one who owns the dog, comes running up, a shocked expression on her face from what her pet just did.

This bite has broken the skin as well, and I have to wash it out in the picnic area restrooms.

It does not ruin the day or my mood, however.

The day is one of the best of my life, actually, and I am aware of that fact at that time.

***

Miami, Florida. Early 2013.

I walk between the buildings of my apartment complex, on my way to the Dadeland Mall next door and the food court to buy some dinner.

A young woman has a miniature Doberman Pinscher out for a walk. It must be a female dog, as it is in a cute little pink harness. They both have their back to me, and it is getting dark quickly in these winter shortened days.

“Don’t let me scare you,” I say as I get close.

The girl turns and smiles at me.

The little dog, though, snaps around and snarls. It runs at me, pulling hard at the harness and the leash.

“Trixie!” the girl scolds.

Then the dog manages to wiggle and slip free of the harness.

Uh-oh.

“Trixie!” the girl gasps.

I could punt Trixie over a nearby fence if I wanted, but I decide not to. Instead, I attempt to hop over the dog as she rushes up to me, but it is no good.

Determined to get me, the dog keeps jumping until she bites me hard on the left thigh right below my buttocks. Then she runs over into the grass a few yards away and hunkers down.



“Trixie! Bad dog!” the girl says as she goes over to the MinPin.

Trixie cowers in front of her as she pops the dog on the behind. Then she picks up the dog. I see one of its eyes is blue with no pupil.

“Ah, it’s blind in one eye,” I say.

“Yeah…I am so sorry,” the girl says.

I reach out my hand part way as I consider trying to pet the dog, but then I think better of it.

The girl wants to get away, and I let her. She goes back to her ground level apartment, quickly shutting the door behind her.

I continue on to the mall and get a to-go plate. Once I get back to my apartment, I examine the injury. Yep, this one broke the skin in several places through my blue jeans. Over the next few days, a nasty bruise develops as well.

I tell my parents the story, and they keep telling me to go see a doctor. I never do, though, and it eventually heals up with no problems.

***

Live Oak, Florida. December 2013.

One of the best places to eat in town is the Brown Lantern Restaurant.

My coworkers and I arrive there for lunch, not long before the Christmas holiday. Lots of trucks are parked outside, far more trucks than cars.

In the back of a white truck is a black Labrador Retriever. I can tell when the five of us get out of the car that this is not a friendly dog. It wants to be left alone. This is rare. The breed is normally very friendly.

Nevertheless, one of my coworkers, an avid hunter, goes up to the animal.

“Hey, what nice looking dog you are,” he says.

He too, can sense the dog. “You’re not very sociable, are you?” he asks it.

He reaches out and lightly touches the dog on the back of the head. When that is okay, he begins petting the dog on the ears.
The Lab enjoys this immensely, closing it eyes and leaning into the man’s hand.

After a few moments, my coworker lets go and everyone continues walking toward the restaurant entrance.

Well, I want to pet the dog, too.

“Hey, buddy,” I say to it.

I stick my left hand into the bed of the truck for the dog to smell my scent. It does not sniff it, but stands with its head askance, which should have been another warning.

Keeping my hand low, I move to pet him in his side. Suddenly the dog snaps at my hand, putting a puncture wound in the top and an even larger puncture wound into my palm.

Two of my coworkers see this happen. One grimaces, the other bursts out laughing.

I have to laugh, too, at my own stupidity.

My hand is bleeding pretty well. The dog just stares at me, now, a determined “Take that” look on its face.



What else is there to do? We go inside and I wash my hand in the restroom sink. I can tell this is the worst dog bite that I have had. It is hard to get it to stop bleeding, and it hurts to move my fingers.

I go out and ask one of the waitresses if they have a bandage. She believes that they do.

I go and sit down with my coworkers, holding my hand in some napkins, trying not to ruin their appetite. My own appetite is gone.

One of the waitresses comes to our table with some band aids.

“I was told there is a guy in a suit who is bleeding,” she says.

“That’s me,” I say.

She gives me the band aids.

The Brown Lantern is my usual Friday night hangout, and I have settled into the bar numerous times since moving to Live Oak in June.

After the waitress leaves, I remark, “As many times as I’ve been here and as many conversations as I’ve had with these waitresses, I’m still just ‘a guy in a suit.’”

This draws a laugh from my coworkers.

“You know, dogs are supposed to be pretty good judges of character,” one of them says.

Back at the office after lunch, the secretaries hook me up with hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin.

The wounds heal with no problems and I can move my digits like normal, though the scars are still present as I type this blog entry.

Sky Toys and the Global Positioning System

Lumberton, North Carolina. 1986.

Today is a field trip for my third grade class to the Robeson County Planetarium.

The planetarium is one of the most fascinating buildings that I have ever been inside in my young life. As we sit in our theater styled chairs, the lights go out and the domed ceiling becomes the night sky. A narrator tells stories behind the history of the constellations. The Egyptian Pyramids, Greek and Roman gods appear overhead as we hear what the ancients thought about the heavens. I crane my neck, looking all around the ceiling and trying to take in everything that is going on. But it is too much.



When the program ends, the lights come back up and the man who runs the planetarium gives us a talk about Halley’s comet. It only comes by Earth once every 75 years, and this is the year. I really would like to see the comet. The lights dim slightly and he explains to us how to find it in the night sky, using a flashlight and pointing to certain grouping of stars that appear on the ceiling. He has lost me, though, and I feel the frustration welling in the back of my throat.

“So now, this may very well be a once in a lifetime chance for you to see the comet,” the man says. “Does everyone understand how to find it in the sky?”

All of my classmates shout, “Yeeeessss!”

I alone say, “Noooooo!”

“Does everyone promise me that they will go out on the first night it is clear and take a look at Halley’s comet?” the man asks.

“Yeeeesss!” the class responds.

“Nooooo!” I say at the same time.

The man either does not hear me or chooses to ignore my response.

In looking up at the night sky, I never do see what I know to be Halley’s comet. I later learn that 1986 was the worst viewing of the comet in thousands of years for people in the northern hemisphere, due to its positioning with the sun. It is difficult to spot with the naked eye in 1986. The next time it comes around, if I am still alive, will be in the year 2061, when I am 84 years old.

Western Carolina University. Spring Semester, 1996.

My favorite college course that I ever take at Western Carolina University is Astronomy 101. I enroll for honors credit, and I also take the night lab, which means it is a four credit course.

As part of the honors extra assignment, I have to write a research paper. The professor lets me compose a short story on an asteroid striking the earth. After I submit it, he tells me it is a “good read” and gives me an “A” for the course.

During the night lab, we set up enormous and expensive telescopes, and I see some pretty amazing stuff- the moon up close, Venus, the Orion star nebula, and the remnants of a supernova to name a few things. I also learn some constellations. As part of our assignments, we have to track the setting sun on the horizon each week throughout the semester. I go to a hill just above Graham Infirmary and watch some beautiful sunsets against the Great Smoky Mountains. My drawings of those mountains and where the sun disappears behind them each week is not the greatest work of art, however.

Unlike the fascination but then frustration that I felt at the planetarium, the class ignites a curiosity in me about the stars and the universe. If I could major in astronomy , I would. There is no such degree, however. What is more, after the basic 101 course, astronomy becomes the study of physics. The astronomy professor has a Ph.D. in physics, and his graduate student assistant, Ben, is a nice guy pursuing a degree in physics. I do not have the mind to comprehend the mathematical concepts of that subject.

Still, I always think back with fondness on that time in my life, the professor, the assistant, and a girl whom I knew in the class, Amy.

“Stop referring to what you are talking about as those three stars that form a triangle!” Ben tells Amy during the night lab. “Any three stars form a triangle!”

Amy and I laugh.

Wilmington, North Carolina. 2004.

I have just rented a place at Carolina Beach, one row back from the ocean. On the balcony outside, I can see many stars out over the water as I listen to the sound of the waves… I think I want to buy a telescope to get a better look at the celestial objects just outside my door.

After a trip to a hobby store and a $350 payment, I am the proud owner of an Orion refractor telescope with a German equatorial mount.

The scope is strong enough for me to see the color bands of Jupiter, along with four of that planet’s moons. I can also clearly see the rings of Saturn. The Orion nebula is a beautiful sight in my scope as well.



***

“Aaaahhhh!”

I hear the woman’s shriek and look up from my eyepiece. One of my neighbors in the beachfront condominium across the street sees me as she climbs the exterior stairs.

It takes me a moment to realize that she is shrieking at me. I am on the balcony in the complete darkness, and evidently, she believes that I am spying on her with my telescope.

I have been able to observe some ships out on the horizon with my instrument, but even if I wanted to be a “Peeping Tom,” her place is way too close for the telescope to be useful. From hers and other’s reactions, I learn that people are often leery of a single fellow, living alone, when they see that I own a telescope.

August 2005.

Some things have happened with my job that are beyond my control, and I have to move away from the beach. Unknown to me, I will not live in a place conducive to setting up a telescope for another eight years. I disassemble it, along with the equatorial mount, and pack it away at my parents’ house.

Tallahassee, Florida. November 2010.

I am winded and sweaty from having just run a 5k about as hard as I can go. One of my friends ran the race with me. She has recently become interested in the sport and trains for marathons. She crossed the finish line well ahead of me.

3.1 miles is not enough exercise for her, though, and she asks if I am interested in running longer.

“Sure,” I respond. She is cute and smarter than me, and I enjoy her company.

We proceed to run another five miles after the race is over and everyone has cleared out. Eight miles is the most that I have run since high school when I was on the cross country team, and I am pleased that I keep up with her pretty well.
During the run, she seems to know precisely how far we have gone and where to stop for the total of eight miles.

I ask her about that.

On her wrist, no larger than a watch, is a Global Positioning System device. Designed specifically for runners, I suppose, it lets her know exactly where she is on the planet and keeps track of the mileage she covers.



It is a rather amazing device. I have seen the Christmas television commercials for the “Garmin,” a GPS system for cars, and GPS navigators were built into some of the vehicles at the dealerships where I worked, but this is the first one I have come across for individuals to wear on their wrists.

She looks at me a little strangely. Perhaps the wristwatch GPS has been around for a while and I am behind the times.

Miami, Florida. June 2012.

I just bought a Garmin GPS to help me locate some apartment complexes in Miami, where I will move later this month to start a new job. My cell phone rings, and I see it is the lady I am replacing here in Miami calling me. I need to talk with her and set up place to meet. Sitting at a stop sign at a busy intersection is not where I should take her call, though. I glance behind me. There are no cars, so I will simply back off the road onto the grass. I answer the phone.

“Hey April, can you hold on a minute? I’m going to back off the road so we can talk.”

As I move the car in reverse, I hear an awful crunching sound. My Garmin guided me to this street, but it could not warn me about a low concrete pole protecting a fire hydrant.

Sure enough, I get out of my car to find the rear tail light is busted and the bumper is crushed inward. The pole was below my line of sight, which irritates me. I had no chance. It was just bad luck that I got the call right at that moment.

As much as I do not want to acknowledge it, this incident feels like an omen of what is to come in Miami.

The GPS will prove very valuable too me in navigating this city, though printed maps give me a better feel for exactly where I am and where other things are in relation to me.

Live Oak, Florida. Present Day.

The anxiety and stresses of my experience in Miami are behind me, now.

I rent a house with a fairly large backyard here in Suwannee County. For the first time in eight years, I can use my telescope again. Mom and Dad bring it from North Carolina, and to my pleasant surprise, no parts are missing when I assemble it.

The Orion nebula, along with the colorful bands of Jupiter, are back for me to view. I use a red lens flashlight to study my star charts in the backyard.

***

Browsing the internet, looking for some possible new eyepieces for the scope, I stumble across something called “The Celestron Personal Planetarium Sky Scout.” After watching a video on how the device works, I am sold. I order it immediately.

When it arrives a few days later, it is even better than what I hoped for. The Sky Scout uses a GPS system to identify my location on the globe. Once that is locked, I can point it at any object in the sky and it will tell me what I am looking at, often through audio narration. What is more, I can punch in the object that I want to observe, and arrows will light up on the device to guide me to where the object is in the sky.



It has made my backyard astronomy experience much more enjoyable. Often I do not use the telescope at all, as the Sky Scout can educate me about plenty of things in the night sky visible to the naked eye.

“Have the knowledge of a professional astronomer in the palm of your hand,” is one of the advertising slogans. It is true. The device brings back memories of some of the things that I learned in Astronomy 101.

I am a bit of a Luddite. I admit that. But I also have to acknowledge that GPS systems can be pretty cool. The Sky Scout in particular has given me access to a lot of information that I never would have been able to figure out on my own.

$15 Magic

Las Vegas. January 2006.

“Yes, Mr. Marshburn. I am calling you back in regard to your application for health insurance with our company.”

“Yes, sir?” I respond over my cell phone. I am standing in the break room of the car dealership.

“You listed that you presently take Accutane?”

“That is correct.”

“You also listed that you were diagnosed with colitis one year ago?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Because of these medical issues, I am sorry, but you do not qualify to be insured by our company,” the man on the other end of the line says.

***

Eventually, after being turned down by a few other health insurance companies, I find one that will insure me for certain things, with a $5000 deductible. So, at least I do not have to worry about going bankrupt if I get into a car accident out here in Las Vegas. My job with the car dealership does not offer health insurance benefits.

***

Cullowhee, North Carolina. 2008.

While in graduate school, I write a blog entry encouraging our political leaders to reform health care. I write that the public will thank them for it and even build statues in their honor because of it.

***

Live Oak, Florida. Present Day.

The hunched over lady limps up to the receptionist window of the doctor’s office. I watch as she fumbles around in her pocket book. Her shoes are worn and dirty, her clothes simple. I was here in the waiting room when she was called back to see the doctor. Now, she has come out, and it is time to pay the bill.

“How much is it going to be?” she asks the receptionist.

“$175, Ms. Graham.”

The lady looks down.

The door between the waiting room and the treatment rooms opens. A nurse calls out, “Nathan!”

I stand up. The others, old and sickly for the most part, look at me, a healthy young man wearing a suit and tie.

I walk back, see the doctor, and within 15 minutes am again standing in front of the receptionist counter. She gives me back my Blue Cross/ Blue Shield health insurance card that I have by virtue of being a state employee.

“That will be $15,” she says.

***

Over the past couple of weeks, through conversations on Friday night at the Brown Lantern Bar, through lunch conversations at the Downtown Café or other restaurants in Live Oak, I have learned that I am perhaps the only person in Suwannee County who supports Obama care.

One of the attractive waitresses at the Brown Lantern asked me last week what everyone was arguing with me about. They had all ganged up on me.

“I’m defending Obama care,” I tell her.

A shocked look comes over her face. “Boo!” she says to me.

The restaurant most likely does not give her health insurance. She is married to a cop, though, so she would have benefits through his job.

Across the country, it seems that I have misjudged the way many Americans would react to health care reform. It is still early, though. Obama care has not had time to work, yet.

The most vociferous detractors of health care reform strike me to be people who have had government or company provided health insurance almost their entire lives. A lot of them are military veterans.

Perhaps I am wrong, but I think those that argue with me believe they deserve the benefit of health insurance because of the hard work they have done and the position they have achieved in life. Others in society who have not worked as hard do not deserve the same benefit.

If that is their position, then I come from a simply different moral philosophy. Health care should not be a reward for hard work. Everyone should have it, regardless of what has happened to them or where they are in life. Sure, those who disagree with Obama care have worked hard, but there is an element of luck involved in this, too. Not everyone can have a government job. Not everyone can make a career with a good company that provides benefits. There are winners and losers in life. But the losers should still have something as basic as affordable health care.

Almost everyone who has argued with me on Obama care also claims to be a Christian and attends church, so far as I know. I will admit that, despite the best efforts of my parents to raise me as a Southern Baptist, I do not consider myself a Christian and have not been to a church service since 1998. Still, this opposing stance (to me) does not seem to be in line with what Jesus would do. The disregard for their fellow humans appears to be a contradiction to his teachings.

“We can’t afford it bro!” One guy said to me at the bar. “We can’t afford to take care of everyone in society. If people think it is bad here, they should go to the Dominican Republic and see how people live there. My church did a mission trip there.”

“We have to try,” I answered him. “And if we can’t afford it, then we need to reprioritize our spending. The old health care system was broken. We have to try something different. Also, you shouldn’t hold up the Dominican Republic as a model. America should be the model for the rest of the world.”

Perhaps there is something genetic, or engrained in our DNA about this argument.

One of my friends from law school sends me a weekly write up that he does for his investment firm. He is a nice guy and has always been very successful. He played football for an ACC school and still stays in tremendous shape.

He posted an article on his social media page and called it “Spot Me Some Entitlements, Bro!” The article was a dagger of a piece, basically saying that men with more upper body strength tend to be conservative in their political thinking, while men with less upper body strength tend to be liberal and favoring wealth redistribution. The idea is that strong men do not need the help. Going back to prehistoric times, they can go out and hunt whatever they need. Weaker guys need more help from the community to provide for them and their families.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2325414/Men-physically-strong-likely-right-wing-political-views.html

Maybe he has a point, or maybe it is all nonsense. I do not know. I acknowledge that part of what shapes my thinking on this is from selfish personal experience- I have had some health issues, and it startled me when I could not get health insurance. All my savings could be wiped out in an instant through no fault of my own. Also, being successful is not so easy, at least for me. Keeping a job and building wealth has proven to be a continuing challenge.

I also acknowledge that I am no expert on how Obama care will work or how it is supposed to work. The old system was a wreck for many Americans, though, and we can do better. The reaction of many of my friends and colleagues to Obama care has surprised and puzzled me. But I find that the older I am getting, the less certain I am of many things.

The Irrelevance of iPhone Shell Shock

Millbrook K-12 School, Raleigh, North Carolina. 1983.

It is my group's turn to do exercises. Today, these exercises will be on the new computers. It hurt my feelings a bit when, a few weeks ago, the teacher did not assign me to the first group, supposedly the smartest students in my first grade class. I have been placed in the group of second smartest students. She did not tell us how she was classifying the groups, of course, but I know. The first group is ahead of mine on the number of exercises completed. My group is ahead of all the others.

I sit down in front of one of the computers, looking at the big blue screen while the other students in my group take their places as well. It is the first time that I have ever seen a computer in person or touched a keyboard. The teacher's aide, a lady with dark red hair and thick glasses, sets up the program for me. It is a series of spelling exercises.

A cartoon, computer graphic image of a bare, pink skinned foot appears. Five dotted lines are below the picture- the spaces to type in letters- and an automated voice says, "Ankle. Spell ankle."

I type in the letters slowly in the five blank spaces, searching for them on the keyboard. A...N...K...L..E. Then I press the "enter" key.

"That is incorrect," the voice says. "Spell ankle."

Confused, I type in the word again. a...n...k...l...e.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

A...n...k...l...e.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

Maybe the computer is wrong, I think. So I try an incorrect spelling.

a...n...k...e...l.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

I raise my hand in frustration.

The teacher's aide comes over, a small and sour frown on her face. I do not think she likes me that much, as I do not like school. It was much better when Mom taught me at home. I did not have to go to kindergarten because she taught me at home, and this is my first year of being in a classroom and being around other students.

"I am trying to spell ankle, but it keeps telling me that I am wrong," I say to her.

"Well, type it in again," she says.

She watches as I press the keys a...n...k...l...e. Then I press enter.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

I look up at the teacher's aide. Now she looks confused, and I feel vindicated.

She leans over and tries to type the word in herself.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

"Go have a seat back at your desk, " she says. "I'll see if I can fix this."

I walk across the classroom back to my desk, and watch as she tries to get past the "ankle" screen to no avail. She calls over the regular teacher, Mrs. Hawkins, and the two of them try to figure out what is going on. Meanwhile, the students on the other computers type away, and I get an anxious feeling that I am being left behind.

The teacher's aide ends up turning off the computer, and I do not get to do any exercises that day...

Thus begins my rocky relationship with technology and computers.



***

Present day.

One of the reliefs of my new job in Live Oak is that I do not have an iPhone.

I work hard here, putting in much more than 40 hours per week. A difference between being a government lawyer and a lawyer at a private firm, though, is that when I leave the government office, the work stays there. My mind is free to think about other things if I choose. That is rarely the case in private practice, where you always have to be ready to take a phone call and make money for the firm.

Last year, I held a job in sales. As part of our company issued gear, I was given an iPad and an iPhone. I used the iPad for one day, but decided that it was not as user-friendly as my lap top computer. I put it back in its box and never turned it on again.

The iPhone was necessary, though, given the nature of the job. Answering emails quickly was vital, and I answered more than I care to count on the iPhone, punching away at the small screen with my thumbs.

Emails came in at all hours of the day and night- from my boss, from students (customers). The pinging sound that the iPhone made when a new email came in slowly but surely began to grind on my nerves. Each time I heard that sound, it was like being hit with anxiety pellets.

In my job here in Live Oak, there is a prosecutor and some members of the court who have their iPhones set with that same sound when they receive an email. I hear their phones go off when I am sitting in their offices or perhaps the hearing room. Each time I hear it, I get a slight nauseating feeling.

World War I veterans would laugh at me for using the term "shell shock" in the title of this blog entry.

Computers have made my life better in many ways. I like the internet, Facebook, and Youtube. Writing this blog would obviously be impossible without computers.

But there are many things about computers and smartphones that make me feel stress and unhappiness, too. I do not like text messaging, tweets, iPads and iPhones.

What I have discovered though, is that no one cares what I do not like about computers and smart phones. I feel like I am the only person on the planet who prefers to stare out a window as opposed to messing with an app on an iPhone. If I do not participate in the newest wave of technology, then I run the risk of quickly becoming irrelevant in my job and even in social circles.

So far, anyway, this job is very satisfying in that I still get to work with printed books and printed files. I hand write my notes on a legal pad. Westlaw and the internet provide important research functions, but I am lucky in that the vast majority of my time consists of face to face contact with people, working with paper and pen, and working within my own creativity with the facts of the case in front of a judge or jury.

It is a refuge from the pellets of anxiety being lobbed at me, a foxhole to protect against the strange and unpleasant electronic sounds of an incoming shell...I mean incoming email.

Love Bugs

Present Day

After my usual Friday night at the Brown Lantern Bar in Live Oak, and then my Saturday morning sleep-in, I got up and went for a run.

My most common route is to jog about a mile and a half south down highway 129, to where the sidewalk ends heading out of town. At that point, the road becomes two lane through the swamps, woods and farm fields for twenty-five miles or so until you reach Branford, an even smaller town than Live Oak, at the southern end of Suwannee County. I turn around and come back when the sidewalk ends, though, which makes for approximately three miles total that I jog.

On this day, I noticed that many love bugs were flying about. They hit me in my face, chest and arms as I ran. I made note of the time of year- early September- and it reminded me of the first time that I had ever seen bugs like that.

It was the beginning of the fall semester at Florida State Law in Tallahassee, 2008.

These bugs were freaky looking to me then. Two were attached to each other, flying in different directions and unable to separate. I asked someone (I cannot remember whom) what they were, and was told that the government had synthetically designed them be mosquito eaters. The design did not go as planned, though, and the two-headed creatures escaped to multiply and multiply.

I actually believed the story and repeated it a few times before I looked them up on line and found out otherwise- that they were common "love bugs."

While the creatures sort of got in the way during my run on Saturday, they also brought back a pleasant memory.

The fall of 2008 was an exciting time for me. It was the start of a great three years of school, a new city, and a lot of new people. The bugs were everywhere in September 2008 in Tallahassee, but they were just part of new and fun experience- like Spanish Moss in the oak trees, or orange palm tree fruit, or Florida State football. I did not mind them in September of 2008, or in September of 2013.

Too Much Orange Juice

Present Day.

I just got through doing five jury trials in five days. Prior to landing this job in June, I had been out of the courtroom for a year, so it felt good to pick a jury again and break out all of my trial materials.

Obviously, this was a busy week. I stayed in the office late, working on the cases and not sleeping much. I am lucky, though, in that I can take it. I can do this job and do it well, and it does not take a heavy toll on me...

Orange juice can be one of my favorite drinks. If I have not had it in a week or so, I can almost feel the healthy energy pouring into my body when I down a glass.

As nutritious as it is, I can also tell when I have had too much orange juice to drink.

For one, it is not as refreshing. My body is not craving it. Also, I can feel and taste the acidity of it. My tongue begins to get sore. If I continue to drink it, tiny ulcers will actually form in my mouth from the acid.

The same can be said of alcohol. I will never become an alcoholic. The warm, fuzzy feeling of a "buzz" is something that I enjoy as much as the next person, but I can also tell when I have put too much alcohol into my body over a period of days. First, it is an ache in my head, like my brain is being pickled in alcohol. When I get to that point, my tongue and stomach also both begin to reject the taste and the feel of it going down. Each sip seems like I am ingesting poison, and I have to stop. It becomes impossible to reach the "buzz," and sometimes it takes a couple of weeks to get the alcohol out of my system and where I can enjoy a drink again.

The analogy carries over to the jobs that I have held. Studying in law school was actually fun for me. Learning a new concept was like drinking a glass of orange juice when I was thirsty.

But the real world of law firm billing puts it all in a different form. Concepts of law are jammed down your throat, and you have to spit out product quickly, hour after hour, day after day without time for your mind to rest or think about anything else.

It is much like being forced to drink glass after glass of orange juice, every day. And the way my mind and body react to that kind of job is much the same as they react to too much orange juice or too much alcohol.

There are people (perhaps most people, in fact) who can take that kind of work environment without much difficulty. They also seem to be able to handle alcohol better than me... Unfortunately, many of the girls I was attracted to in years past could go out and get intoxicated on a nightly basis, with no apparent effect on their day time activities. They found guys to match, of course, and I found myself on the sidelines without many ways to relate to them.

The point of these comparisons is to say that my current job with the Public Defender's Office is different. You can pour on the case load and the trials, and it does not phase me. It is stressful with someone's life and future in your hands, of course, but it is a different sort of bodily stress than what I felt in the billable hour system, or working under a sales quota, or working for the Post Office.

It does not bother me that I wake up in the morning having dreamed all night about this job. I still get a good night's sleep if I am dreaming about a case. It does not exhaust my mind and body the same way as it did when I worked at the Post Office and had dreams about it, too.

So, I was aggressive this month in going to trial. Being aggressive makes me feel like I am doing a good job, though it kicked up a dust storm.

I like where I am at and what I am doing, and I hope to be able to continue to do it. I also hope that I am not giving everyone else too much orange juice to drink.

The Groove

Present Day

It is my weekend to cover first appearances at the Suwannee County Jail, for people who were arrested the day before. I am the defense attorney who stands before the judge and makes sure that their rights are protected. I review the reason for the arrest and argue against probable cause if necessary, and I also see that they are given a bond if they are entitled to one.

The judge for this weekend wants these done at 7:30 am, so I had to rise very early this morning to put on my suit and tie.

I have never been a morning person, and I never will be. It is probably one of the main reasons that I remain single. Mornings are such a war for me to get up and get my body and brain running. I do not want anyone around for that process, in my space, as it only makes it harder.

In 2004 and 2005, I lived on the beach for a year. Not once did I get up to watch the sun rise over the water.

I can tell that the chemicals in my brain function differently in those early hours, as my perception of the world and my existence are at variance, like I am in another dimension with altered rules of time and space. I have never wanted children, really, in part because I know how much more difficult the mornings will be with kids.

Also, if I have a job that I do not especially like, the bad feelings are amplified much more. I found myself in that situation a couple of times in the past few years.

But I am lucky, now. I like my job a lot. I am so much happier than I was this same time last year. My job makes mornings much more tolerable.

I also walk to work, and this helps get me right for the day.

On Friday nights, I typically go to "The Brown Lantern," a restaurant and bar in Live Oak. Recently, I was sitting at the bar talking with another attorney, and he asked me how I like Live Oak.

"I like it a lot," I answered. "Over the past 10 years or so, I've had many jobs and lived many places, but I hope I can stay here a long time."

"That's good," he said.

"I realize that I am in a groove, now," I continued. "I enjoy my job and it is not that hard for me. I hope to build a career here. If things continue like they feel right now, then five, ten, even fifteen years are going to slip past me very quickly."

"It can happen," he said...

As I sit at my desk and type this blog entry, life is great. I work hard at my job, and it is rewarding. There is free time to play in a summer softball league, work on a novel, use my back yard telescope to study the stars and planets, and watch satellite TV.

But the gnawing loneliness, ever present, seems to have intensified since I moved to Live Oak in June. I know that is not the fault of this town. The loneliness has always been there. I just notice it more now because everything else in my life is in order and running smoothly. Further, I am a seasoned veteran at fighting that battle. My hormones do not rage as strongly as they did when I was a teenager and in my 20s. Now that I am in my 30s, the realization has hit me that I may very well be alone my entire life. Some of the most important years in that regard have already passed. It is not the most pleasant thought, of course, but if that is my fate, I can handle it and still be happy.

In my last year of law school, I listened to a Florida State baseball game on the radio. They were playing at Georgia, and I heard the broadcaster describe two Georgia players going for a fly ball. They collided on the field, and one of them did not get up. After a long delay where he lay motionless in the grass, he was carried off in an ambulance. My fear for him came true- he was paralyzed from the neck down.

I think about that guy often- how young he was and is and how much was taken from him in an instant. Things like that are not supposed to happen to a 20 year old playing baseball. His daily battles are beyond fathom to me- what he must think, feel and remember each morning when he wakes up.

So I am grateful for my existence. I realize that I am not guaranteed anything going forward. But I find myself in a good spot at the present, and I am doing my best to enjoy it.

The 15-Year Throw

Present Day



Softball has been the hi-light of my life for the past few weeks.

I am sad to say that the season came to an end a few days ago, during the double elimination tournament. Our last two games were especially enjoyable for me, though, because I got to play the infield.

Growing up and playing baseball, the position I almost always handled was second base. I can remember being taught to turn the double-play. If the ball was hit to me with a runner on first, depending on how close I was to the bag, I could do a sort of side-armed, hinged pitch to the shortstop covering the bag.

I remember Tim McCarver, a former player and longtime sports commentator, once saying that he was amazed by how accurate the major league second basemen were with that type of throw. I was always pretty accurate with it as a boy, too, and it became my favorite play on the infield.

As an adult playing softball, I rarely got the chance to be at second base. Earlier this week, though, our regular second baseman pulled a muscle. The team captain asked who could fill in, and I told him that I could do the job.

That same inning, with a runner on first, a ball was hit sharply to me. I fielded it and made the sideways throw to the shortstop. It was a great sensation. The only thing that would have been better was turning the double play off of it. There were already two outs in the inning, though, so my pitch to the shortstop ended the inning and ended the game, actually.

It was probably the first time in 15 years that I had made that throw in an organized softball or baseball game.

Here is a link to a second baseman in the major leagues performing the throw that I am talking about:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNJXas_9sr4

Based on how well I played second, I got moved to shortstop for our last game, as our three best players could not make it. Though we lost the game pretty handily, being the center of the action on the infield, as shortstops almost always are, was also extremely enjoyable for me. I can not remember ever being assigned to play shortstop in an actual game before.

After the game, most of the team went to Dairy Queen. They asked if I would be interested in playing next year, to which I responded, "If I am invited, I will definitely play."

"You're invited," came the chorus.

As I am about 10 years older than the next oldest guy on the team, it was a great feeling. In my head, I am the same age as these guys.

Live Oak Lightning

Present Day

My quality of life is as good right now as it has been since I was a student... If I could figure out a way to make money as a student, that is probably what I would be for the rest of my years.

As I am not smart enough to be paid to go to school, though, I am fortunate to have found a good job in Suwannee County, Florida.

Living here has been very pleasant, thus far. It is the small town experience, and after some stints in big cities where the cost of living is high, traffic is stressful and dangerous, hordes of people are always trying to do the exact same thing that you are doing, and you sort of feel invisible, I welcome living in a small town.

One of my favorite things is playing in a softball league. I was able to make connections quickly after moving here and got on a team in less than a month after becoming a resident.

The only way for an adult male to play softball around here is in the church league. One of the local Baptist churches was good enough to add me to their team roster as a non-member.

A couple of nights ago, we played a triple-header.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky turned to a dark blue, storm clouds formed on the horizon. Streaks of lightning soon followed, though they were far enough off that we kept on playing.

After one particularly wicked streak across the sky, one of our best players, sitting in the dugout, yelled, "It's all right. I'm just going to hang on to this metal fence."

I played in the outfield for most of the three games. It was relaxing and beautiful to watch the streaks of lightning circle us on the horizon, against a deep, dark blue sky.

It was one of those moments when I really appreciated being alive and free on the face of the earth.

Mud Pie

Present Day.

When I wake up in the morning, after a few moments I realize that I am in the town of Live Oak, out on Florida’s Panhandle.

This time last week, I was waking up in Miami, where I just spent the previous year of my life.

Moving is exhausting, and I have done more than my fair share of it over the previous ten years or so. Circumstances necessitated this particular move, though.

I think I am going to like Live Oak. I hope to build a career here, become involved with the community, work on my craft of criminal trial law, and in my spare time write novels.

While Miami was great, I am most likely finished residing in large cities. I have lived in Las Vegas, Washington, DC, and now The Magic City. Vegas I could do again, but I have dwelled in enough places to realize that unless you are a multi-millionaire, the quality of life is probably going to be better in Small Town, USA. Vacations in big cities are nice, but the daily grind of traffic, masses of people always trying to do the exact same thing that you are doing, not being able to get into restaurants and clubs- those are not problems I will encounter in Live Oak.

I have gone for two runs through Live Oak already, and my location is great. My house is just two blocks from the office where I will start work on Monday, one block from the Post Office, one block from the bank that I use, one block from City Hall, two blocks from a great restaurant called the Dixie Grill. At night, I hear trains from the nearby tracks, and the chimes from the big courthouse clock.

My family has been very supportive through all this. I moved to the rural Panhandle in part to be closer to my parents in North Carolina. The traffic in Miami and the distance they had to travel was just too much for them to feel comfortable even trying to visit, and I cannot blame them.

Dad, my brother, Adam, and my Dad’s brother, Uncle Ken, all came down to help me move. After we got my things into the house in Live Oak, we went to the local McDonalds for a late meal. Adam and Dad ordered some apple pie, but Uncle Ken said he was not the biggest fan of it.

“I’ll bet Adam can guess what my favorite pie of all time is,” I said.

Adam went through two or three guesses before he said, “Mud pie.”

“That’s right,” I responded. “Grandma Marshburn’s chocolate pie, which we grandkids called mud pie.”

Dad and Uncle Ken nodded in memory of this.

Grandma Marshburn, the mother of Dad and Uncle Ken, passed away in 2004.

“I suppose it has been 15, maybe 20 years since I had one of her pies,” I said.

I looked at Uncle Ken, and I could tell this made him a little sad as he reflected back on life on the farm in Maple Hill, growing up with her cooking.

The next day, before Adam, Dad and Uncle Ken all headed back to North Carolina, I treated them to lunch at the Dixie Grill, a restaurant in Live Oak that serves good Southern Country food like we enjoyed growing up.

Uncle Ken noticed that pies were on the dessert menu, including a chocolate pie.

He told me that probably because of the conversation we had the previous night, he had a desire for some chocolate pie.

Uncle Ken is a politician, though, and he likes to talk to people. Before he ordered, he had to make some inquiries with the waitress as to the quality of the pies.

The waitress told us that the lemon meringue, the coconut pie, and the chocolate pie were all made from scratch in the restaurant. The other pies were good as well, she said, but they were sent from the manufacturer and then baked at the restaurant.

This sold Uncle Ken on the chocolate pie, and all of us with the exception of Dad (who was too stuffed from the main course) ordered a slice.

We were all pleased to find that the pie was cooked in the style that Grandma used to make- a cream chocolate pudding sort of center, with a sweet, thick crust and a white foamy meringue top.

As we savored it, Adam made the right assessment. “It’s not as good as Grandma’s, but it’s close.”

Uncle Ken nodded in agreement.

It is nice to live two blocks away from a restaurant that serves such a chocolate pie, and to not have to call ahead to see if I will be able to get a table.