My Aunt Betty was the last of the Smiths to live at 201 Kinzie Avenue in Savannah, the de facto family home for many decades. Betty lived there from age two until her death at age 89 in 2014.
When she died, the task of dealing with decades of accumulated family stuff fell to me, my sister Betty, and my brother Lee. In addition to day-to-day furnishings, the house was awash with family mementos and keepsakes — our grandparents’ wedding gifts, albums of newspaper clippings about the Smith brothers in WWII, boxes of cards, letters, and family photos.
The project was especially daunting because we three lived in metro Atlanta. We spent numerous weekends at 201 Kinzie, and a year passed before the house was ready to sell.
But in truth, the project was fascinating. So much history, so many memories. The surprises and revelations.
From the beginning, I fully intended to steal the house numbers over the front door — the weathered brass 201 on the green cedar siding. Those numbers were there all my life.
But then I found a sealed envelope in the back of a kitchen drawer. Written on the envelope in Aunt Betty’s handwriting was Original house numbers, 1926. Inside were three beautiful old brass numbers, 2, 0, and 1.
The numbers over the front door, then, were mere replacements. And now the originals were mine. I knew precisely what I wanted to do with them.
That afternoon, I removed one green shingle from a hidden spot under the back steps. When I got home a few days later, I mounted the house numbers to the shingle and added a hanging hook.
The shingle has been on display in my front foyer ever since.
I’m pleased to report that I spent the first half of September on a 4,500-mile road trip to the Southwest. Balmy weather, no problems. I dined lavishly and visited some of my favorite places — Flagstaff, Grand Canyon, Gallup, Hatch.
The key to a pleasant road trip, I discovered years ago, is to avoid the Interstates. These days, plenty of numbered US highways are divided four-lanes with minimal truck traffic, so…
One of the trip’s most peculiar occurrences was at Grand Canyon. The water pipeline at South Rim Village sprung a leak, and dishwashing was banned at the restaurants. Therefore, my prime rib at Arizona Steakhouse was served on a paper plate and with a plastic fork. Still, that prime rib was the best meal of the trip.
Destinations like Grand Canyon are their own reward, of course. You could say they’re the purpose of the trip. But I think it’s more than that.
In 1937, a gas station attendant named Buzz Holmstrom became the first person to run the Colorado River solo through Grand Canyon. After the trip, he wrote in his journal that the real reward was in “the doing of the thing.”
I see road trips that way. You spend your time cruising along, watching the countryside go by, taking in the scenery, the people, the wildlife.
The hours pass. You relax and free your mind. You ponder matters that bubble up, puzzle out problems, make plans, think back on special places and moments. Sometimes, I turn off the radio to facilitate the process.
A mind in neutral may focus on the unexpected. On this trip, I observed that metal utility poles are always perfectly perpendicular; never seem to be a single degree away from vertical. On the other hand, wooden utility poles frequently are tilted to some degree, as if the cables had pulled them out of plumb.
No benefit is derived from this observation. I merely state it as a curious fact.
After I got home, a friend asked, “Didn’t you go out west last year, too?”
I did indeed.
“In fact, you go out there a lot.”
Yes, I’ve made a road trip to the Southwest seven times in the last eight years.
“Rocky, you need to expand your horizons — see some different places — have some new adventures. It’s a big world out there.”
I didn’t contradict my friend, but I am already a seriously well-traveled dude.
One reason is that my dad was in the Air Force when I was growing up, and we traveled extensively. We lived overseas twice — a total of five years in Japan, France, and Germany.
Another reason is that, especially after my divorce, I’ve made a point of traveling often. To me, going places, new or familiar, is thrilling and invigorating.
How well-traveled am I? Well, I’ve been to every US state except Alaska. I have poked around Boston, Buffalo, New York City, Washington DC, Atlanta, Charleston, Savannah, Tampa, Orlando, Miami, Key West, New Orleans, Mobile, Memphis, and a slew of their smaller brethren.
I have seen Chicago, Indianapolis, Milwaukee, Houston, Dallas, Fort Worth, El Paso, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, and the countryside in between.
I’ve been to countless National Parks. To Canada and Mexico. To Hawaii, the Philippines, and Japan.
I’ve seen London, Paris, Zurich, Venice, Florence, Brussels, Frankfurt, Rotterdam, Copenhagen, Oslo, Helsinki, and Stockholm. I’ve been to 16 of the countries of Europe.
I’ve traveled by train across the US, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. I’ve crossed the Atlantic by air, the Pacific by air, and the Pacific by passenger ship.
I’ve looked down from the top of the Empire State Building, the Washington Monument, and the Eiffel Tower.
I’ve looked up at Big Ben, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and Notre Dame Cathedral. I’ve been to Mount Fuji, the Louvre, and Stonehenge.
Once, during a training mission in a B-52 bomber, while lying prone in the tail gunner turret, I watched a KC-135 tanker refuel us in flight.
In my teens, I sneaked a camera into the Tower of London and (illegally) took a photo of the Crown Jewels of England. The result, I’m afraid, does them no justice.
I’ve been snorkeling and scuba-diving dozens of times. Once, snorkeling in Florida, I came face to face with an adult barracuda. On another occasion, I stepped on a stingray — for a fraction of a millisecond. Twice, I’ve gone swimming with the manatees in Crystal River, Florida.
I own two kayaks and a 14-foot Avon raft with a whitewater rowing frame. I’ve paddled and rowed numerous rivers around the Southeast. I’ve rafted the New and Gauley Rivers in West Virginia seven times — on commercial trips, as my boating skills aren’t up to serious whitewater.
I’ve hiked and backpacked several hundred miles at Grand Canyon, including the route from rim to rim. I’ve rafted the Colorado River through the canyon four times. Ridden mules into the canyon five times. Stayed the night at Phantom Ranch 10 times.
I’ve been a hiker and backpacker since my 20s, but especially since the 1980s. By rough estimate, I’ve hit the trail about 3,000 times.
Furthermore, I always bring home a memento of the hike — a pebble, acorn, feather. Here is my collection from over the years, pre-retirement on the left, post-retirement on the right:
In those jars, by the way, are souvenirs of the 200-odd miles I’ve hiked of the Appalachian Trail.
Today, I am officially an old dude, in fact and appearance. Age has slowed me down physically and, to some degree, mentally.
But not that much. My brain still seems to be working acceptably well — for which I am truly grateful.
But I need to wrap up this rumination. I possess a wealth of memories that comfort me and define who I am.
And they beg the question: what about regrets? What destinations and experiences have eluded me?
I regret not thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. I should have made the time to hike it end to end.
I regret not being fluent in a second language. I know bits of French and German, but not enough to write or speak either very well.
I regret never visiting Alaska. The logistics seemed overwhelming, and I never arranged it.
I regret that a trip I planned to Costa Rica didn’t happen. In the mid-1990s, two friends and I tried to organize a two-week trip there to visit the rain forest and both coasts.
But complications arose that blew up our plans. The experience confirmed my commitment to solo travel.
I’m sure I have other regrets. They escape me at the moment.
But, hey — ask me how many times I’ve been to Grand Canyon.
One of my earliest memories, going back to when I was maybe five years old, was believing that I had to behave myself at all times because every second of my life was under scrutiny from God, Jesus, the angels, and all of my deceased relatives looking down from Heaven.
How I concluded I was being watched in such a manner, I have no idea. Maybe the concept was fed to me by my parents or grandparents to encourage me to behave. Maybe I heard it from other kids, or in church. Maybe I dreamed it up myself.
In any event, I recall going through a good part of my early childhood being cautious in word and deed lest I offend — disappoint, anger — my contingent of heavenly watchdogs.
Given those circumstances, my behavior should have been stellar, but it wasn’t. Young Rocky was a typical kid.
I fibbed and obfuscated on occasion. I knew many choice swear words, most learned from my dear mother, and I used them as the situation required, but sparingly. And once, for a reason I believed at the time was valid, I dumped a bowl of oatmeal on my brother Lee’s head.
Regarding the oatmeal incident, swift retribution came from my parents. But usually, after more routine moral or ethical failings, I was careful to send up a mental gesture of remorse to my celestial audience and a promise that I would do better.
To be clear, my youthful transgressions were minor. I didn’t steal, cheat, vandalize, bully, take unfair advantage, or any such things. I found that behaving badly was stressful, and I didn’t like the feeling.
That, in turn, prompted me to try harder to do the right thing and not be a jerk. The pangs of conscience were seriously uncomfortable.
And as I got older, I came to a new realization. Yes, Rocky Smith indeed had been under scrutiny. But it wasn’t from deities, angels, and deceased relatives. It was from the entity with the most at stake: Rocky Smith.
Which, I submit, is a positive, healthy scenario.
From the vantage point of my dotage, I do have a few regrets about the past. There were episodes and events I would like to redo or erase. But really, not that many. It seems that the sobering thought of being watched and judged from on high aimed me in a good direction.
No surprise that the idea of being surveilled can do that.
About 10 years ago, I was returning home from a road trip in my RV, and I stopped for the night at a campground on a remote stretch of US 84 in southern Alabama. It was in the middle of nowhere. I was relieved to find a place to stay.
The campground was a small private place, attractive and clean, with spacious campsites and lots of tree cover. Sometimes, you get lucky.
In the office was a woman of about 50, the owner, who lived on-site and ran the operation. She checked me in and told me to take any site I wanted.
I selected a campsite and, rather than hooking up for the night, drove to the nearest town for supper. I prefer restaurant meals on the road. Cooking in the RV is a pain.
Later, back at the campground, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and there was the owner. I stepped out of the RV.
She said she wanted to make sure all was well and to ask if I needed anything. I told her I was fine.
But she seemed reluctant to end the conversation. She sat down at the picnic table and kept chatting in an awkward way. I could tell something was on her mind.
The story slowly came out. She and her husband had bought the campground five years earlier. He later died, and she now ran the campground alone. Life there was quiet and routine.
The operation wasn’t a huge money-maker, she said, but the books would confirm that it remained in the black.
I continued listening politely.
Eventually, she came to the point. She wanted to sell the campground and move back home — I forget where that was — with her parents and siblings.
She said the property was listed with a broker, but any passing guest might be a potential buyer, so no harm in asking.
I told her I wasn’t a candidate. I was retired and leading a comfortable life close to relatives and friends — precisely what she wanted — and I didn’t want to change that.
What a terrible situation for that poor woman. Essentially, she was trapped there, probably lonely and depressed, if not still in mourning.
I think about her sometimes and wonder how things worked out.
Over the years, I’ve become noticeably more emotional and sentimental. I don’t recall being so blubbery when I was younger.
This tendency troubled me at first. Men are supposed to be manly. Tough. Stoic. Men don’t cry while watching “The Notebook” or reading “The Book Thief,” right?
Au contraire, mes amis. As it turns out, my condition has a proper and scientific explanation.
According to the experts, being something of a softie is an indicator of personal strength, not weakness. It’s a sign of emotional intelligence.
Emotional intelligence is the ability to understand and control your own emotions and to have a reasonably accurate sense of the emotions of others. Empathy and compassion play major roles here.
Hard science as well as social science backs up this concept. And it begins with the hormone oxytocin, sometimes called the “love hormone.”
Oxytocin is complex and multi-faceted. When released in females, it helps facilitate childbirth, lactation, and bonding between mother and newborn.
For men as well as women, oxytocin facilitates pair bonding, social (group) bonding, and even bonding with your pet. By strengthening empathy and compassion, the hormone helps us connect with members of our key social groups.
If you weep easily over a written passage or an emotional movie scene — as I find myself doing rather consistently — it means oxytocin has heightened your compassion and empathy.
Further, it’s a plus if you’re not ashamed to let others see your emotions on display.
Consider, also, that authors and filmmakers are skilled at creating characters and scenes that are emotionally powerful. They’re called “tear-jerkers” because they’re designed to affect you.
So, if you possess a reasonable degree of empathy and get emotional sometimes, good for you.
I am relieved to know that being blubbery is a positive thing. I now feel free to weep like a sap as necessary, and I give myself a pat on the back for my compassion, empathy, and emotional intelligence.
Mind you, I do have my standards. I’ve never read a romance novel. And years ago, I watched one Hallmark Channel movie.
The day I graduated from college in June 1964, having gone through the ROTC program, I also was commissioned a second lieutenant in the Air Force. Eventually, I would be called to active duty for a four-year commitment.
In my case, eventually was 30 days later at Cannon AFB in Clovis, New Mexico.
At the time, I was driving a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air. It was my first car, a gift from my parents a year earlier.
The Bel Air looked great, but, unfortunately, wasn’t so good mechanically. Driving from Georgia to Clovis took its toll. So did taking weekend trips around New Mexico. The first time I drove home to Georgia on leave, the Bel Air seriously struggled.
It was time for new wheels — the first car purchased with my own money.
Being a debonaire young lieutenant-about-town, I needed a vehicle suitable for my station. So, in March 1965, after much deliberation, I signed a deal with the Ford/Lincoln/Mercury dealer in Clovis to buy a 1965 Mercury Comet Caliente convertible — brand new, custom-ordered from the factory.
In Spanish, in case you didn’t know, caliente means hot. Mostly, the word is used in the sense of spirited.
My Caliente was carnival red with a white top, white leatherette interior, bucket seats, dual mufflers, automatic transmission, and a 289 cubic inch V8 engine.
Between the small frame and the big engine, that puppy could leave rubber anywhere, anytime, even without a clutch to pop.
This is a 1965 Comet Caliente, carnival red with white top and interior:
She indeed was caliente.
What, you ask, did I pay for that fine car in 1965? Well, the sticker price was $3,335.60.
To prove it, here’s the sticker.
As for the purchase price, I must have been on my game that day. The dealer and I settled on $2,550.00 cash.
To prove it, here’s the check.
In case you were wondering, $2,550 in 1965 was the equivalent of about $23,000 in today’s dollars.
The Caliente proved to be a terrific vehicle. She and I had some good times together, and I remember her fondly. She was beautiful, fun, and reliable. Not to mention built like a tank.
I mean that in the kindest sense. That car was constructed of premium-grade steel that a sledgehammer probably couldn’t dent. Not that I ever put a scratch on her.
The auto industry stopped using heavy steel to build cars decades ago. Pity.
Today, I drive a Subaru Crosstrek, and I love it. It’s super reliable and has amazing electronic safety and convenience features. The Caliente, like all cars from olden times, pales in comparison to modern vehicles like the Crosstrek.
When I was a kid, during times when my family was not living overseas, we went to Savannah several times a year to see relatives.
I had no problem with that and always looked forward to those visits. Most of my relatives were, and are, good people. And Savannah is a fun place.
One memorable character from those Savannah trips was George, a black man who delivered the mail in the Gordonston neighborhood. George was old from my perspective, but could have been anywhere from his 40s to his 60s.
He was graying and a bit heavy, and the exertion often got to him. But he was a kindly, cheerful man who knew the neighborhood kids by name, including visiting Smiths.
George looked a lot like Uncle Ben, whose benevolent image adorned packages of Uncle Ben’s Rice for decades.
That benign image, by the way, was based on Frank Brown, the maître d’ at a Chicago restaurant frequented in the 1940s by the founder of Uncle Ben’s Rice. The founder believed — correctly, it seems — that Mr. Brown had a certain je ne sais quoi that would help sales.
The personae of both Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima were retired from the advertising business in 2020, after the murder of George Floyd. Uncle Ben’s Rice became Ben’s Original Rice, minus that familiar face. The Aunt Jemima brand was renamed Pearl Milling Co., the company’s original name from 1889, and the visage of a smiling Jemima is history.
George the mailman had a regular routine in Gordonston. Scattered around the neighborhood were streetside mailboxes where trucks dropped off the day’s mail. George transferred the mail to a large leather pouch slung over his shoulder, made the deliveries (either into front porch mailboxes or through mail slots in the door), and repeated the process until the job was done for the day.
Later, George and his peers were given rolling carts in place of the pouches. And at some point, he retired. By the time I was a teen, most door-to-door delivery had been replaced by mailboxes at the street and mail trucks.
I can still hear George’s gravelly voice and Geechee accent when he greeted me. “Hey there, Rocky! Y’all back in town for a visit! How’s Lee and your mama and daddy?”
Last month, I wrote a post entitled “Going Places” that underscored the atypical nature of my childhood. I’d like to elaborate on that.
One of the main reasons I turned out the way I did — which, in my opinion, is pretty okay — was growing up as a military brat. In my case, an Air Force brat.
A brat in this sense is a child raised by a parent or parents serving in the armed forces. It’s a term of endearment, not a pejorative.
Because military service involves frequent reassignments, brats rarely live in one place for very long. Thus, sociologists describe them as a “modern nomadic subculture.”
Today, according to the Department of Defense, about 15 million Americans — out of a population of 330 million — are current or former military brats. They range in age from infancy to the 90s.
Brat life bears little resemblance to civilian life, and it is rarely seen by the civilian world. Let me give you a peek behind the curtain.
Naturally, the overriding factor in the brat world is the military connection. The military mission is of paramount importance. Military rituals dominate. Military slang permeates the language.
Further, every military installation has areas that are off limits and protected for security reasons, such as flight lines and weapons armories. Armed guards and surveillance are part of life.
I’ve already mentioned the constant mobility. When a military parent is transferred to a new assignment — usually every few years, sometimes more often — the family packs up and moves. All around you, on a regular basis, friends and neighbors are departing and being replaced.
Like many brats, I was born in a military hospital. When I was new to the world, my family moved so often that I literally have no hometown.
Another big factor in brat life is housing. Depending on circumstances, a military family will be either assigned to on-base housing or given a stipend to live in a nearby town. Either way, family life is closely tied to the base because of the services provided. Virtually all military installations have their own facilities for shopping, dining, recreation, and, when you live overseas, schools.
The odds are high that you will live outside the US. One study found that over 90 percent of brats have lived in one foreign country, over 60 percent have lived in two, and over 30 percent have lived in three. Me, I spent a total of five years in Japan, France, and Germany.
The overseas experience, psychologists say, leaves the average brat more adaptable, more accepting of other people and other lifestyles, and with a more realistic worldview. I’ll buy that.
Further, brats have been shown to have lower delinquency rates, higher scores on standardized tests, and higher IQs than their civilian counterparts. Whereas 24 percent of civilians have college degrees, 60 percent of brats do.
The brat life does have negative aspects. Brats regularly leave friends behind, knowing they may never see them again. This is the reality, and a brat learns to let go of the past and embrace the present and the future.
Another negative I always found troubling is the military system of strict segregation by rank. According to military theory, this is necessary to maintain unit discipline. But the system seems unnecessarily draconian.
Classism manifests throughout the military world. In the military, you are required to be deferential to anyone of higher rank. The system is so strict that for an officer to “fraternize” with an enlisted person is illegal under military law.
For years, it was common on military installations for the families of officers and enlisted people to have separate seating in base chapels and movie theaters. That practice mercifully was ended. Likewise, the system of separate and unequal officers clubs and enlisted clubs is fading out.
But the inequality in housing remains. Housing for officers is always superior to that of enlisted personnel. And housing for generals and admirals is always the most lavish of all.
Overseas, the US military maintains school systems for American dependents, but the children of officers and enlisted personnel attend the same schools.
From my experience, it was rare for brats to judge their peers by the rank of their parents. To our credit, we usually formed our social groups for positive reasons, not based on the military caste system.
Even so, I can remember a few classmates, mostly the children of higher-ranking officers, who were too full of themselves. Jerks are everywhere, and these were immature, teenage jerks. Like bullies, most were not tolerated well socially.
So, growing up as a military brat was a unique adventure and a life-changing experience.
The brat life made me who I am. And, hey — I like who I am.
Several decades ago, I met a man in Buford, Georgia, born and raised there, who had never been to Atlanta. Atlanta is a mere 35 miles from Buford via Interstate 85.
In fairness, he avoided Atlanta because he considered it an evil place full of crime and villainy.
But in addition, he had never set foot out of Georgia. He was in his 40s, an auto mechanic, married with kids. He was content and saw nothing unusual about his situation.
I, on the other hand, found it mind-boggling. Having been to, and lived in, so many different places in my life, I simply was astounded.
When I was a kid, my dad was in the Air Force, and we moved often. Very often. Growing up, I lived in Macon, Jacksonville, Savannah, Japan, Virginia, Florida, France, and Germany, in that order.
During our two years in Japan, we traveled the islands regularly. During our three years in Europe, we visited Spain, Italy, France, Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Switzerland, Austria, England, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden.
When we returned to the US in 1960, I spent the next four years at the University of Georgia in Athens. It was the longest I’d lived in one place in my life.
On the About Mr. Write page on this blog, I describe myself as a frequent road-tripper. I mean that literally.
Since 1992, when I finally began documenting my travels, I have taken 134 multiple-day trips somewhere around the country. That’s about four trips annually. In other words, for the last 30 years, I’ve hit the road every three months.
I have visited every state in the US except Alaska. Especially after my divorce, I made it a point to seek out new places, just to see, explore, and experience.
As you may know, I have a special affinity for the Southwest, and Grand Canyon is my go-to vacation spot. As I am quick to note, I’ve been to Grand Canyon 28 times in the last 28 years.
I’ve probably driven every paved road in Arizona, New Mexico, and the southern halves of Utah and Colorado.
At some point, I began taking trips to fill in the blanks, going to New England, the Great Lakes region, the Pacific Northwest, the Gulf coast, the Appalachians, Montana, and so on.
Lately, COVID has cramped my style a bit. Age and arthritis have slowed me down, too. I don’t think my traveling days are over quite yet, but when they are, I’ll be content because of the memories.
Stored in my head are decades of superlative memories, many of them documented by the thousands of transparencies, prints, and digital images I’ve amassed — and which, I assure you, are carefully preserved and organized.
Like all of us, I am a walking memory vault of my unique experiences.
I am blessed to be a son, brother, nephew, cousin, father, and grandfather. Family memories will mean the most, always. But the memories of my travels and adventures on the road are in a special category.
I thank God I’m not the Buford mechanic.
Recently, on a travel website, I read an article entitled, “The 16 Most Beautiful Places in the US.”
Listed were Acadia, Antelope Canyon, Badlands, Everglades, Florida Keys, Grand Canyon, Grand Teton, Great Smoky Mountains, Horseshoe Bend, Mammoth Cave, Monument Valley, Niagara Falls, Shoshone Falls, White Sands, Yellowstone, and Zion.
A fine selection. But they should have made it 17 and included Yosemite. For the record, I’ve visited all 17.
Okay, that said, I am compelled to include some photos…
The trail to the top of Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park, Utah, follows that ridge. A black bear and her cub, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia.In the village of Supai in Havasu Canyon, Arizona, few dogs are house pets. Most live free-range and are cared for informally by the community. The French Quarter, New Orleans. A boy swimming nose to nose with a manatee in the city of Crystal River, Florida. Up to 1,000 manatees winter there because the water in the bay is warmer than the Gulf. A nice Monet in the National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.A row of seastacks on the Pacific coast. Native Americans sell their art daily at the Palace of the Governors, Santa Fe, New Mexico.Hermit Rapid on the Colorado River in Grand Canyon. When the sediment levels from upstream tributaries are low, the water is emerald green.
My late Uncle Allan was mellow about most things, so I don’t think he would mind me sharing this bit of information about him.
Allan was an amiable, soft-spoken, non-judgmental person. He never married, and when I was a kid, the possibility that he was gay occurred to me. The evidence suggests, however, that he was quite a ladies’ man — for certain in his later years and, for all I know, his entire life.
Allan lived in Jacksonville for decades and moved back to Savannah after he retired. Rather than living in the Smith family home with Aunt Betty, he moved into a retirement home on the marsh east of Savannah.
On one of my visits to the home, a young male employee told me Allan was very popular — very popular — with the ladies.
Women residents of the home outnumbered the men five to one. Allan not only was single, but also was a fit, good-looking guy. The employee said Allan was in constant demand and was seen with a variety of ladies.
Over the years, Allan lived in three Savannah retirement homes. Apparently, he was the resident ladies’ man in all three. His mission, it appears, was to make all those lonely ladies happy. Performing a public service, you might say.
After Allan died and we were dealing with his belongings, I discovered a stash of condoms in a cigar box in the back of a dresser drawer. These were new, unexpired condoms, mind you, and plenty of them. I made the stash disappear before Aunt Betty could find them.
It pleased and amused me greatly to know that Allan was a Don Juan. But, discreet fellow that I am, I never mentioned it to anyone. Until now. The man deserves recognition.
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