A little voice inside is telling me that I've become overconfident in my driving skills.
A huge wrecker arrives and winches me out. There is very little permanent damage. A little paint scratch on the right rear cargo compartment appears to be the extent of it.
We wandered though Savannah on the 23rd to see the old mansions and beautiful town squares once again.
I have an existential dilemma. I have provided my e-mail address to an individual who wanted to send out information about tennis at the RV park where we winter. Somehow, this individual feels that it is somehow appropriate to send out almost treasonous remarks about our current Commander-in-Chief. I find his presumption that I would share his views irritating, at best.
What should I do with this curmudgeon? Lack of rejection might be interpreted as acceptance. I do accept that everyone has a right to and opinion, but my personal God of Enlightenment does not extend this proposition to the view all that opinions are equally well formed or even rational.
On the other hand, I'm reluctant to enter into a debate with a moron. I'm sure that if I wrote to "Dear Abbey", she would tell me that this individual has committed a gross violation of E-mail etiquette. I'd place this individual in my SPAM filter, but Mrs. Phred counts on the tennis updates. Perhaps I'll get Mrs. Phred her own E-mail account so I don't have to hear from this fool again?
Perhaps another, more subtle approach would be to make my next donation to the Obama reelection campaign in his name so he could receive lots of e-mails from Barrack, Michelle and the DNC.. Would that be identity theft? I wonder.
The Mighty Eighth Air Force Museum is on exit 102 of Interstate 95 in Georgia. We've passed it a 100 times and I've always been interested but the timing has always been wrong.
I give the Museum a big thumbs up. The exhibits are very thoughtful and I enjoyed it at least as much as the Imperial War Museum in London.
Over 350,000 men served in this mighty war machine. They were scattered in scores of bases in eastern England. They were a huge collection of B-17s, B-24s, P-47s, P-38s and P-51s. Over 26,000 of the men that served in this outfit were killed and an equal number were taken prisoner after being shot down.
At times, the Eighth could mobilize 2,000 heavy bombers a day and 1,000 long range escort fighters for raids on German aircraft factories, ball bearing plants, rail yards and oil refineries. When D-Day came on June 6, 1944, there were no German planes over the beaches. The Luftwaffe had been decimated and total air supremacy had been achieved by the Eighth Air Force.
One of the unanticipated consequences of the success of the Mighty Eighth was that the Germans moved their aircraft production far to the East, out of bombing range. As a result, the Soviets captured the latest German aircraft factories and engineers, giving them a major boost in the early cold war.
I took the picture below on the 60th anniversary of D-Day. It's the American Cemetery in Normandy on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It's beautifully maintained by the French. About half of the graves were officers and enlisted men of the Eighth Air Force who died before D-Day. Dozens of buses filled with French schoolchildren arrived that day at the cemetery to place roses on the graves. Viva la France.
We're in a little RV park outside Savannah. I've found a new Captain's chair I like for the Blue Bus. It only costs $2,700. The uniform is $60 more. We had thought to maybe go see the Eighth Air Force museum back on exit 102, but I think we will press on to Tampa this morning and say our goodbyes to friends, family, hairdressers and medical staff before the trip to Spain on the 1st of April.
The boat building on Saturday went well. Dave, out in rural North Carolina, arranged the event for fathers and sons in the small congregation. I fill in because Kenny is not supposed to be exerting himself. The church members take turns bringing gluten free dinners to the family during Kenny's illness. I met the temporary pastor, Tom. He's filling in for the regular guy, who was called for duty in Iraq. Dave is an American Airlines pilot. You'd want him for a neighbor. Dave's wife provides a delicious chili for lunch.
We got there 90 minutes late because the oldest, number 52, my partner in this adventure, was coaching a soccer team on which one of his brothers and other five-year olds play. We also left the boat building marathon for three hours in the afternoon for another soccer game on which he was playing. Despite all that we finished on time, a model of American efficiency.
Here's number 52, attaching pieces to the boat bottom. His Mom tells me that she wants him to do all the work...No problemo...that's the same approach we used on the swing set, I tell her.
The finished product, ready to paint, is amazingly light, but sturdy. We leave it with Dave because it won't fit in the Toyota. Number 52 will paint it Hot Pink later and give it to his sisters as a present.
We decided to have a bottle of red wine last night with dinner, but they don't sell alcohol in Georgia on Sunday. We had a glassful of leftover Merlot that we've been hauling around. It was slightly off, but after all that abstinence, we got a little buzzed on just one glass.
Bonne Venture Cemetery, Savannah, Georgia - October 31, 2006
I’m afraid of the dark. I always have been.
I’m afraid of other things, too: Flying, driving over tall bridges, walking on the rim of canyons, climbing tall ladders, scuba diving, graveyards at night.
My parents let me go to Cub Scout functions at school ten blocks away when I was six. I ran like the wind coming home in the dark because I was sure there were things out ready to hurt me.
Mrs. Phred works with me to overcome my fears. Downtown Tampa was a little like East St. Louis at night. It’s deserted, decrepit and dark. We walked though it at 2 AM many times for exercise and thrills. Once, as we were walking in the early morning, a huge menacing figure stepped out of the darkness down by the docks. I checked to be sure my dive knife would clear the scabbard, but the man kept walking past us. The rush was like being brushed by a 12 foot hammerhead.
he has accompanied me on midnight dives in the Caribbean fifty miles from the nearest inhabited island to help me overcome my fears of darkness and things with big teeth that lurk just outside flashlight range.
Today we explore the St. Bonne Venture Cemetery in Savannah at midnight. I hope that spending time along the banks of the Savannah among the gravestones, magnolias and Spanish moss draped oaks under the light of the gibbous moon will desensitize me once and for all to my irrational fears. If all goes well, her birthday is 12:01 on November 1st. To the best of my knowledge she has never spent it in an ancient Southern graveyard.
We realize the cemetery gates will probably close at dusk so we prepare to stash the car and climb over the fences. We will take the digital camera and tripod.
At six O'clock the scattered thin pink clouds are fading fast. We have spotted a place on the river to park the car after they close and lock the ornate iron gates.
We check our equipment again.We have two black steel "mag" flashlights. The electrical tape over the lens allows only a slit of light. I've fashioned a grappling hook from metal we picked up at Home Depot and attached knotted rope to help scale the eight foot wall.
The police should be tied up with trick-or-treaters. I doubt that they will be patrolling the graveyard perimeter.
We are wearing long-sleeve black T-shirts, black denim jeans, thin black leather gloves and black sneakers. We have two burnt wine bottle corks to apply to our faces just before we go over the wall.
I'm taking only the digital camera and tripod to record tonight's events. Mrs. Phred wanted to take the Glocks, but I figure what we come up against, if anything, will not be impressed with our nine millimeter lead projectiles.
We go over the wall about 11:30 PM. I want a picture of the Birdgirl statue in the moonlight at midnight so we do that first.
The City of Savannah defines cemetery structures to include, but not be limited to, monuments, markers, headstones, corner markers, gates, fences, walls, coping, cradles, slabs, ledgers, statues, benches, vases fountains, bird baths, flagpoles, signs, fountains, trash receptacles, crypts, mausolea, columbaria, buildings, and any hardscape constructed or placed within a cemetery. .Mausolea are large stately tombs or a buildings housing such a tomb or several tombs. Columbaria are vaults with niches for urns containing ashes of the dead.
We decide to wait at the old Mercer family section so we make our way past the orderly columns of Spanish-American war veterans. The Mercer mausoleum is is an imposing structure. We set up the tripod and camera on the east of the building to be in its moonshadow in the darkest spot we can find. We get a few good shots of the graveyard and moss covered oaks in the moonlight.
We wait for minutes and midnight arrives uneventfully. Then we see three dark figures quietly move across the grounds. We hear a door open, and then silence.
I signal to Mrs. Phred. We have dive signals that come in handy. I hold my fingers to my lips for silence. I point at her and to my eyes as a signal to be watchful and make walking motions with two fingers.
We move around to the front of the Mercer mausoleum and find the open door. I click on my flashlight and allow a sliver of light into the interior. A section of wall stands open. We move to the interior and look into an opening leading to dark stairs. There is a dim light reflecting from deep underground.We look at each other and I point to the stairs and make the walking signal. She shakes her head "NO" and makes a pulls on my sleeve as a signal to leave. She has big eyes. I point at her and then the ground to signal “wait here” and begin to descend the stairway.
A small electric camping light is at the bottom of the stairs. Tunnels lead in three directions. What appears to be coffin material has been used to shore up the walls and ceilings.I bend over and begin to walk down the northern tunnel. Bodies in various states of decay litter the tunnel floor. Pieces of some are missing. I pick up a human femur that appears to have gnawed teeth marks.
The tunnel branches several times.
Suddenly everything went black.
When I came to I found myself tied securely. Three men stood over me.
“It’s awake”, said the toothless one. He reaches in his pocket for dentures. I notice the teeth are filed to points.
“What you doin’ down here, boy?" asked the bearded one.
“Been a long time since we had a fresh-un.” The third man cackles.“That ‘balming fluid sure ruins the taste”.
The toothless man now grins with pointed teeth.
I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this as they all draw knives and start to bend toward me.
Six shots ring out rapid-fire and the men yelp and disappear into the tunnels. Mrs. Phred has smuggled her Glock on the trip after all. She’s never been much of a shot. After she unties me we run down the tunnel and up the stairs.
We close the wall behind us and I ask for the Glock but she’s dropped it.
“You never listen to me!” she says.I pile about a thousand pounds of tombstones against the door and we grab the camera and head for the wall.
As we drop to the ground, the flashlights come on and I hear, “On the ground, a**hole.” We explain we are doing research for a blog…I show them my "official Blog reporter" press card.
They tell me I can explain it to the judge.
All I know is those three ghouls have probably dug themselves out by now.. I just left a Post Office box on the arrest records, and we're not going back for the trial.
One thing is really odd...the lady in the long dress in the moonlight was not there when I took the pictures
A huge wrecker arrives and winches me out. There is very little permanent damage. A little paint scratch on the right rear cargo compartment appears to be the extent of it.
We wandered though Savannah on the 23rd to see the old mansions and beautiful town squares once again.
I have an existential dilemma. I have provided my e-mail address to an individual who wanted to send out information about tennis at the RV park where we winter. Somehow, this individual feels that it is somehow appropriate to send out almost treasonous remarks about our current Commander-in-Chief. I find his presumption that I would share his views irritating, at best.
What should I do with this curmudgeon? Lack of rejection might be interpreted as acceptance. I do accept that everyone has a right to and opinion, but my personal God of Enlightenment does not extend this proposition to the view all that opinions are equally well formed or even rational.
On the other hand, I'm reluctant to enter into a debate with a moron. I'm sure that if I wrote to "Dear Abbey", she would tell me that this individual has committed a gross violation of E-mail etiquette. I'd place this individual in my SPAM filter, but Mrs. Phred counts on the tennis updates. Perhaps I'll get Mrs. Phred her own E-mail account so I don't have to hear from this fool again?
Perhaps another, more subtle approach would be to make my next donation to the Obama reelection campaign in his name so he could receive lots of e-mails from Barrack, Michelle and the DNC.. Would that be identity theft? I wonder.
