I've been using Google Earth pretty heavily lately, organizing a massive collection of "Forts of the World" waypoints I found a few years ago.
The main batch wasn't an exhaustive list--only 4 from Japan, 10 on the island of Malta (there are more), only a few from the United States. I've still got some sub-foldered waypoints to look through, though, and I don't know how many more I'll find. The count is up to more than a hundred just with what I've finished so far.
After years of not dealing with the long, tangled mess of waypoints seemingly randomly dumped into a Google Earth "places" file--and after years of just not wanting to bother trying to organize it all, because GE doesn't make it easy--I set up subfolders and got to it. Some of the locations are spectacular, such as four French forts up in the Alps and a pair of Italian forts perched on sheer mountain faces with no way to reach them except switchback trails.
I found Germany's WW2 flak towers in Berlin, Hamburg, and Vienna, lonely desert guardians like Masada in Israel, thickly overgrown batteries like those of Fort Saint Philip on the Mississippi south of New Orleans, fortified cities in the Netherlands, and the "Hermit Fort," Fort Fisher in North Carolina, where an old man named Robert Harrill took up residence in an abandoned WW2 bunker in the 1950's.
There are so many more! Rio de Janeiro, South Africa, Denmark, Sweden, France, Montenegro, Russia, Czechoslovakia, Canada. Makes me wish Mitt Romney would adopt me so I could get an allowance and travel the world just to look at forts and castles (forget about converting to Mormonism, though).
The next part of the project will be adding all of my own placemarks (mostly American forts) and adding new ones for batteries that were added during the late 1900s, WW1 and WW2. Once I've got a honking big batch of them, I'll figure out how to upload the placemarks file and make the world a better place for history buffs.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Song of the Day: Tom Sawyer (The Molly Ringwalds)
I got to see these guys last night at Cap'n Fun near Pensacola Beach. They played a solid 2-hour gig of '80s covers.
If you ever get the chance to the the Molly Ringwalds play, GO. Period. Seeing Pee-wee Herman sing makes it worth it.
I'll be doing a write-up of the show in a bit.
If you ever get the chance to the the Molly Ringwalds play, GO. Period. Seeing Pee-wee Herman sing makes it worth it.
I'll be doing a write-up of the show in a bit.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Road Trip: Jacksonville, Pt. 3 (May, 2008)--Part 3: Fort Clinch, then homeward
"Park campgrounds are full on Memorial Day."
Well, crap. I hadn't thought of that during my planning; I never go anywhere.
It's nearly night and I've got camping gear all ready to set up--and nowhere to set it up.
I backtracked through Fernandina Beach and stopped for dinner before calling a few campsites on the list I'd been given at Fort Clinch Park. No, sorry. No, we're full. No vacancy. You might try so-and-so, just up the road from you.
Back on the road toward Yulee. By now it was pitch black and drizzling. The campsite was easy to find. I pulled up in front of the office; there must have been a sign sending customers around back (I don't remember), so I swung around behind the building. The rain was falling harder as I squished over to the open back door.
"Sorry, we're full-up--and we only allow RV's and trailers--no tents."
That's not a campground. That's a PARKING LOT.
Hell with this.
I asked about motels; there was one in Yulee at the next light, turn right.
Squished back to the Tracker and found my way to the dinky motel's office. Thirty-five bucks, don't care whether it's smoking or non-smoking. Park and open the door to my room.
Imagine every loaded ashtray you've ever seen, and the ghosts of every ashtray you've never seen, all trapped in a dinky motel room. They all greeted me at the door, then flowed around me and enveloped me. If I hadn't been worn down to the dregs, I'd have gone to ask for another room, but I could barely even think straight. It was after 10 and I'd been up and running since at least 6 am.
I unloaded the Tracker, found the air conditioner in the back corner of the room, cranked it all the way up.
The place w
as reasonably clean, painted a shade of Institutional Green. To the right of the door there was a dent in the drywall that looked like the imprint of a fist and forearm. A single table lamp with no shade, TV, microwave, mini-fridge, wobbly table with two chairs. The bathroom was clean enough, but water trickled out of the faucets like someone had a tourniquet on the pipes somewhere.
All those ashtrays curled up around me on the bed and relaxed with me.
Tired as I was, sleep didn't come easily. The ashtray stink permeated the bedding; the only escape would be out in the rain, which didn't let up all night. I heard what might have been a fight outside around 3am, yelling and slamming doors.
By 4 am I was feeling nauseous. I could taste the ashtrays. The next hour lasted a week, and it was puffing on menthols the entire time.
I gave up on sleep and took a trickle (can't call it a "shower"--I'm not that generous), loaded the Tracker, and bailed out of the Ashtray Hilton, headed for Fernandina Beach.
The fort wouldn't open for several more hours, so I drove through town, past the park and its lucky campers to the end of Atlantic Avenue and parked to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic. There were plenty of clouds, some rain to the north, a single dolphin and a handful of surf-casters. Very peaceful, even the waves subdued, just the fresh smell of salt air.
I headed back through town past the first "Dog Bakery and Boutique" I'd ever seen and took my time on breakfast at a Huddle House.
The park opened before the fort, so I drove along a narrow winding road bordered by thick woods. The parking lot was nearly empty. I hiked a short woodland trail round the fort's western flank, stopping to look at a garden spider weaving her web before making my way to the shore of the St. Marys River and the border with Georgia. Not a soul in sight, the sky much clearer than even an hour before.
Another trail led past the fort's westmost bastion, along the south wall, past the latrine well, and looped around the south bastion, bringing me to the long southwest wall. The top half of this wall (and the upper parts of the bastion I'd just passed) is built of dark red brick. I didn't think much of it at the time, but it turns out that while the fort was under construction before the Civil War, the crews were supplied with buff-colored southern bricks. Once hostilities began, the Feds were stuck with two completed bastions and two walls; they lost the partly-built fort until 1862 (the Rebs abandoned it). They couldn't get southern bricks to finish the job, so dark-red northern bricks were brought in.
This little fort is a must-see--especially if you've visited Fort Gaines, its twin on Dauphin Island, Alabama. Its five walls form a clipped hexagon with a bastion at each corner. The longest wall--the gorge--has the only entrance, protected by a drawbridge.
Where most Third-System forts had guns protected by casemates built into thick solid-brick walls, Forts Clinch and Gaines had relatively thin walls, no casemates (except for storage along a single wall), and an earthen embankment ringing the parade ground. The forts' main armament would be mounted atop these embankments and on top of the bastions.
For all their similarities, Clinch and Gaines aren't identical twins; Clinch has that two-tone brickwork; some pretty hurried-looking masonry (wider mortar joints, less precision in placement); brick laid down where stone should have been; and a functional drawbridge.
It's also much closer to original condition than Gaines, which received a pair of large concrete gun emplacements in the late 1890s. Clinch only got a single (much less extensive) emplacement behind its northeast wall.
Another thing Clinch offers is a view. Climb on top and look around, and all you see is nature in any direction. Fernandina Beach is very close by, but thanks to the dense forest of the park you'd never know it. To the north is the river; to the east, the Atlantic. Gaines has plenty of water and trees around it, but there must be a dozen gas rigs near the mouth of Mobile Bay and out in the Gulf of Mexico.
I spent most of the morning exploring, taking pictures, shooting video. The wrap-up was a big group of WW2 reenactors demonstrating period firearms.
I didn't want to leave, but knew it was time. After a few minutes in the tiny bookstore (more of a camp store) and a dip in the Atlantic (and watching a surf-fisher bring in a 5-foot hammerhead shark), I headed south. Man, I could have used a nap, especially after the Ashtray Hilton the night before.
All the same things as on the ride to Jacksonville a few days earlier: long stretches of roadway that all looks the same bordered by trees that all look the same, passed by the same cars and trucks, passing the same exits in reverse.
The only excitement was a yellowfly biting me while I was trying to take a nap at a rest area (holy CRAP did it hurt). The little shit followed me out of my car and almost all the way to the restrooms. Maybe it found someone more tasty while I was in there; I never saw it again.
I usually stop in Tallahassee on any trip headed that way, but by the time I got to the Monroe Street exit, all I wanted to do was get the trip over with so I could sleep for a few weeks.
I made it to the house well after dark and abandoned the Tracker.
Never even got to use my damn tent.
Well, crap. I hadn't thought of that during my planning; I never go anywhere.
It's nearly night and I've got camping gear all ready to set up--and nowhere to set it up.
I backtracked through Fernandina Beach and stopped for dinner before calling a few campsites on the list I'd been given at Fort Clinch Park. No, sorry. No, we're full. No vacancy. You might try so-and-so, just up the road from you.
Back on the road toward Yulee. By now it was pitch black and drizzling. The campsite was easy to find. I pulled up in front of the office; there must have been a sign sending customers around back (I don't remember), so I swung around behind the building. The rain was falling harder as I squished over to the open back door.
"Sorry, we're full-up--and we only allow RV's and trailers--no tents."
That's not a campground. That's a PARKING LOT.
Hell with this.
I asked about motels; there was one in Yulee at the next light, turn right.
Squished back to the Tracker and found my way to the dinky motel's office. Thirty-five bucks, don't care whether it's smoking or non-smoking. Park and open the door to my room.
Imagine every loaded ashtray you've ever seen, and the ghosts of every ashtray you've never seen, all trapped in a dinky motel room. They all greeted me at the door, then flowed around me and enveloped me. If I hadn't been worn down to the dregs, I'd have gone to ask for another room, but I could barely even think straight. It was after 10 and I'd been up and running since at least 6 am.
I unloaded the Tracker, found the air conditioner in the back corner of the room, cranked it all the way up.
The place w
as reasonably clean, painted a shade of Institutional Green. To the right of the door there was a dent in the drywall that looked like the imprint of a fist and forearm. A single table lamp with no shade, TV, microwave, mini-fridge, wobbly table with two chairs. The bathroom was clean enough, but water trickled out of the faucets like someone had a tourniquet on the pipes somewhere.
All those ashtrays curled up around me on the bed and relaxed with me.
Tired as I was, sleep didn't come easily. The ashtray stink permeated the bedding; the only escape would be out in the rain, which didn't let up all night. I heard what might have been a fight outside around 3am, yelling and slamming doors.
By 4 am I was feeling nauseous. I could taste the ashtrays. The next hour lasted a week, and it was puffing on menthols the entire time.
I gave up on sleep and took a trickle (can't call it a "shower"--I'm not that generous), loaded the Tracker, and bailed out of the Ashtray Hilton, headed for Fernandina Beach.
The fort wouldn't open for several more hours, so I drove through town, past the park and its lucky campers to the end of Atlantic Avenue and parked to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic. There were plenty of clouds, some rain to the north, a single dolphin and a handful of surf-casters. Very peaceful, even the waves subdued, just the fresh smell of salt air.
I headed back through town past the first "Dog Bakery and Boutique" I'd ever seen and took my time on breakfast at a Huddle House.
The park opened before the fort, so I drove along a narrow winding road bordered by thick woods. The parking lot was nearly empty. I hiked a short woodland trail round the fort's western flank, stopping to look at a garden spider weaving her web before making my way to the shore of the St. Marys River and the border with Georgia. Not a soul in sight, the sky much clearer than even an hour before.
Another trail led past the fort's westmost bastion, along the south wall, past the latrine well, and looped around the south bastion, bringing me to the long southwest wall. The top half of this wall (and the upper parts of the bastion I'd just passed) is built of dark red brick. I didn't think much of it at the time, but it turns out that while the fort was under construction before the Civil War, the crews were supplied with buff-colored southern bricks. Once hostilities began, the Feds were stuck with two completed bastions and two walls; they lost the partly-built fort until 1862 (the Rebs abandoned it). They couldn't get southern bricks to finish the job, so dark-red northern bricks were brought in.
This little fort is a must-see--especially if you've visited Fort Gaines, its twin on Dauphin Island, Alabama. Its five walls form a clipped hexagon with a bastion at each corner. The longest wall--the gorge--has the only entrance, protected by a drawbridge.
Where most Third-System forts had guns protected by casemates built into thick solid-brick walls, Forts Clinch and Gaines had relatively thin walls, no casemates (except for storage along a single wall), and an earthen embankment ringing the parade ground. The forts' main armament would be mounted atop these embankments and on top of the bastions.
For all their similarities, Clinch and Gaines aren't identical twins; Clinch has that two-tone brickwork; some pretty hurried-looking masonry (wider mortar joints, less precision in placement); brick laid down where stone should have been; and a functional drawbridge.
It's also much closer to original condition than Gaines, which received a pair of large concrete gun emplacements in the late 1890s. Clinch only got a single (much less extensive) emplacement behind its northeast wall.
Another thing Clinch offers is a view. Climb on top and look around, and all you see is nature in any direction. Fernandina Beach is very close by, but thanks to the dense forest of the park you'd never know it. To the north is the river; to the east, the Atlantic. Gaines has plenty of water and trees around it, but there must be a dozen gas rigs near the mouth of Mobile Bay and out in the Gulf of Mexico.
I spent most of the morning exploring, taking pictures, shooting video. The wrap-up was a big group of WW2 reenactors demonstrating period firearms.
I didn't want to leave, but knew it was time. After a few minutes in the tiny bookstore (more of a camp store) and a dip in the Atlantic (and watching a surf-fisher bring in a 5-foot hammerhead shark), I headed south. Man, I could have used a nap, especially after the Ashtray Hilton the night before.
All the same things as on the ride to Jacksonville a few days earlier: long stretches of roadway that all looks the same bordered by trees that all look the same, passed by the same cars and trucks, passing the same exits in reverse.
The only excitement was a yellowfly biting me while I was trying to take a nap at a rest area (holy CRAP did it hurt). The little shit followed me out of my car and almost all the way to the restrooms. Maybe it found someone more tasty while I was in there; I never saw it again.
I usually stop in Tallahassee on any trip headed that way, but by the time I got to the Monroe Street exit, all I wanted to do was get the trip over with so I could sleep for a few weeks.
I made it to the house well after dark and abandoned the Tracker.
Never even got to use my damn tent.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Wingnut Punk to Libs and Non-Christians: "Get out" of U.S.
So Frothy Mix was hosted by some punk-ass preacher-boy loser in Louisiana over the weekend.
Preacher-boy doesn't like non-Christians or Liberals. Says we gotta go. Doesn't like the gays, either. Buys into the comical notion that this country was founded by third-rate Billy Graham wannabe wingnut losers like him.
Loves him some Frothy. Babbled prayers and drooled over him for a bit, then made the obligatory anti-Obama squeals and whines and asked his imaginary sky-buddy to "do a mighty work" on the bad black guy.
Packed house. Lots of gray and blue hair. I wonder whether there's even one stooped-over Rascal-driver in the room who realizes that ol' Frothy is one of "them ol' Catholics."
Oh--and preacher-boy?
You and what army?
[UPDATE!]
Preacher Boy is apparently embarrassed by all the attention he got when this video went all over the Interwebs and has scrambled to yank it off the Web by...deleting it from the church website.
Y'all be nice and don't tell him about the rest of the Internet, 'kay?
Preacher-boy doesn't like non-Christians or Liberals. Says we gotta go. Doesn't like the gays, either. Buys into the comical notion that this country was founded by third-rate Billy Graham wannabe wingnut losers like him.
Loves him some Frothy. Babbled prayers and drooled over him for a bit, then made the obligatory anti-Obama squeals and whines and asked his imaginary sky-buddy to "do a mighty work" on the bad black guy.
Packed house. Lots of gray and blue hair. I wonder whether there's even one stooped-over Rascal-driver in the room who realizes that ol' Frothy is one of "them ol' Catholics."
Oh--and preacher-boy?
You and what army?
[UPDATE!]
Preacher Boy is apparently embarrassed by all the attention he got when this video went all over the Interwebs and has scrambled to yank it off the Web by...deleting it from the church website.
Y'all be nice and don't tell him about the rest of the Internet, 'kay?
Road Trip: Jacksonville, Pt. 2 (May, 2008)--St. Augustine & Fernandina Beach
As I rolled down US-1 toward St. Augustine, the clouds rolled in. By the time I made it to the parking lot in front of the Castillo de San Marcos, things were looking ugly to the west.
I didn't care about rain; I was more concerned about someone dropping the Tracker's plastic rear window and stealing my stuff. Didn't let that stop me from going into the fort.
Gorgeous place, well-preserved by the National Park Service. It's right on the waterfront of Matanzas Bay, bordered on the south and west by US-A1A. Across the bay is Anastasia Island, where the coquina stone for the fort was quarried. If you squint just right to the east you can see a sliver of the Atlantic.
It's not a big fort, but there's plenty to see. The entrance is protected by a ticket booth (I imagine British invaders shelling out five bucks a head to get in) and a pair of drawbridges joined by a ravelin in the moat before the south wall.
Once you're inside, you'll find a modest gift shop, plenty of centuries-old Spanish-style guns and architecture, and lots of room on top to wander around and enjoy the view. I spent most of an hour exploring the towers topping each corner and the arch-ceilinged rooms, snapping photo after photo [lost all but 4 in a computer crash a few months later]. Those clouds kept rolling in from the west, ever darker, and the winds rose. Thunder grumbled louder and louder.
By the time I got back to the Tracker, fat, cold drops of rain were falling; I had to pause, though, for one of the best pics I've ever taken--the Castillo behind its hill, crowned by clouds.
Then the bottom fell out of those clouds; I retreated to the car.
Time to head back north, to Fort Clinch near Fernandina Beach. The rain cleared as I got closer to Jacksonville. I knew better than to try getting onto I-95; it was close to rush hour and I didn't feel like playing "parking lot" with the other commuters. I'd planned ahead (once I found a store that sold freaking MAPS a few days earlier) and swung onto 9A north. I almost had the Dames Point Bridge to myself. The worst of the rain had blown past, but the skies were still gray.
I traded 9A for 17B, 2 lanes passing small communities and big marshes and places like Reni's Redneck Yacht Club. I barely noticed Yulee on the way through. All I wanted now was to get to Fort Clinch State Park, set up camp, and get some sleep before seeing the fort bright and early the next morning. My mind's eye imagining brick walls and graceful arches, I turned east on to FL A1A. It seemed like a long drive from there; but the road finally became 8th Street, took a hard left, and took me to Atlantic Avenue.
Almost there!
I got stuck behind someone who seemed to be sneaking up on her destination. Why, yes, there was oncoming traffic, so I couldn't go around her--how'd you guess?
When you're going slow enough for a Tracker to tailgate you in 3rd gear, you're going too slow. Just saying.
Then she stopped almost in the middle of the lane to let her kid out near a ballpark. I swear the kid was running faster than she'd been driving.
The folks in the westbound lane finally left enough of a gap for me to get past her.
Almost there! Over a causeway...past a stand of trees a few blocks long, on my left...missed the damn park entrance!
Got myself sorted out...and in short order, I was talking to the guy at the park entrance.
Remember that I'd planned to camp somewhere in the park--and remember that I mentioned a slight snag?
"I'm sorry, sir, all the campsites are full because of the Memorial Day weekend. But here's a list of other places that might have openings."
I didn't care about rain; I was more concerned about someone dropping the Tracker's plastic rear window and stealing my stuff. Didn't let that stop me from going into the fort.
Gorgeous place, well-preserved by the National Park Service. It's right on the waterfront of Matanzas Bay, bordered on the south and west by US-A1A. Across the bay is Anastasia Island, where the coquina stone for the fort was quarried. If you squint just right to the east you can see a sliver of the Atlantic.
It's not a big fort, but there's plenty to see. The entrance is protected by a ticket booth (I imagine British invaders shelling out five bucks a head to get in) and a pair of drawbridges joined by a ravelin in the moat before the south wall.
Once you're inside, you'll find a modest gift shop, plenty of centuries-old Spanish-style guns and architecture, and lots of room on top to wander around and enjoy the view. I spent most of an hour exploring the towers topping each corner and the arch-ceilinged rooms, snapping photo after photo [lost all but 4 in a computer crash a few months later]. Those clouds kept rolling in from the west, ever darker, and the winds rose. Thunder grumbled louder and louder.
By the time I got back to the Tracker, fat, cold drops of rain were falling; I had to pause, though, for one of the best pics I've ever taken--the Castillo behind its hill, crowned by clouds.
Then the bottom fell out of those clouds; I retreated to the car.
Time to head back north, to Fort Clinch near Fernandina Beach. The rain cleared as I got closer to Jacksonville. I knew better than to try getting onto I-95; it was close to rush hour and I didn't feel like playing "parking lot" with the other commuters. I'd planned ahead (once I found a store that sold freaking MAPS a few days earlier) and swung onto 9A north. I almost had the Dames Point Bridge to myself. The worst of the rain had blown past, but the skies were still gray.
I traded 9A for 17B, 2 lanes passing small communities and big marshes and places like Reni's Redneck Yacht Club. I barely noticed Yulee on the way through. All I wanted now was to get to Fort Clinch State Park, set up camp, and get some sleep before seeing the fort bright and early the next morning. My mind's eye imagining brick walls and graceful arches, I turned east on to FL A1A. It seemed like a long drive from there; but the road finally became 8th Street, took a hard left, and took me to Atlantic Avenue.
Almost there!
I got stuck behind someone who seemed to be sneaking up on her destination. Why, yes, there was oncoming traffic, so I couldn't go around her--how'd you guess?
When you're going slow enough for a Tracker to tailgate you in 3rd gear, you're going too slow. Just saying.
Then she stopped almost in the middle of the lane to let her kid out near a ballpark. I swear the kid was running faster than she'd been driving.
The folks in the westbound lane finally left enough of a gap for me to get past her.
Almost there! Over a causeway...past a stand of trees a few blocks long, on my left...missed the damn park entrance!
Got myself sorted out...and in short order, I was talking to the guy at the park entrance.
Remember that I'd planned to camp somewhere in the park--and remember that I mentioned a slight snag?
"I'm sorry, sir, all the campsites are full because of the Memorial Day weekend. But here's a list of other places that might have openings."
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Road Trip: Jacksonville, Pt. 1 (May, 2008)
When I got picked to be on a store setup team in May of 2008, I was all over it. Not because I'd been dying to see Jacksonville--and not because I wanted to drive almost 400 miles to the other end of I-10. There are several forts close by--the Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, and Fort clinch up in Fernandina Beach.
The store setup would take a week; I had to be in Jacksonville Sunday to check into the hotel, make it through to Friday, and then the weekend was mine!
I planned out the trip, made note of several campsites, and waited for Departure Day, May 18th.
Yeah, there was a slight snag to that plan. There always is, but I won't spoil it just now.
The 18th brought clear skies and plenty of heat. I was driving the Tracker with all the windows open and all my crap packed in back. The trip was a big test for the little truck; I'd rebuilt the engine the year before, bringing it from "ready for the scrap pile" to "slightly less ready for the scrap pile." For all the stuff I'd been able to fix, there were some more expensive things wrong with the engine.
For its part, though, there were no problems. I pulled 35 miles to the gallon the entire trip--and gas was around four bucks. Forty-four bucks to fill up a Tracker.
So anyway, I howled along I-10 (at 55 mph--the howling was the Tracker's engine and gears; it's a truck), made it to Tallahassee in late afternoon, stopped for dinner, took a short tour around my former home town, and got back to it. Nothing but miles of the same scene: gray concrete road, trees clear-cut way off to the sides, and clear blue sky. No radio, either. Man, that engine only seemed to get louder and louder until it was the only sound in the world.
It was close to 10 at night by the time I made Jacksonville, found the hotel, and got checked in. I was numb from hours in the seat and hours of engine noise. Waffle House first (across the parking lot; I walked), then bed.
May 19th was another bright, clear day. When I found the new store (several miles from the hotel in rush-hour traffic), it was already a beehive of activity, with boxes and shelving stacked everywhere, guys from the phone company trying to finish up their wiring, pallet-loads of car parts staged in the parking lot, and several big trash containers.
We had five days: the store would open for business on Saturday the 24th.
Most of the work is tedious; once the shelves had been set up, we started stocking them. Clutch kits, brake pads, brake hardware kits (holy crap, there was a lot of that), brake shoes, batteries, tune-up parts, air filters, oil filters, transmission filters, anything that's kept behind the counter. By Wednesday, we had knocked out almost all of that and started filtering out onto the sales floor to help the other crew. Cleaning products, air fresheners, light bulbs, more air filters, more oil filters, more batteries, jacks, tire repair, tools, signs, and floor displays. By late Thursday, the guys handling the boss end of things were acting nervous--holy crap, we're not going to be done in time!
If the days were hectic, the time after work was quiet. I spent some time in the pool, or just watching TV, too tired to explore Jacksonville or go very far afield for dinner. I had a room all to myself (my roommate never showed).
Friday morning brought some clouds and the threat of rain, but we only cared about pushing to get everything done. Nearly everything had been stocked, but there were little details, things that hadn't been accounted for, things that hadn't been stocked properly. We went up and down the aisles several times apiece, occasionally having to fix something, sometimes having to reset an entire 4-foot section because some numbskull had screwed it up. I pushed a broom around, then a dustmop, hoping it would finally be over soon.
They let us go a little after noon. We had filled the store (and several trash containers) and had emptied several loaded semi-trailers of parts and fixtures each day, dulled our knives on shrink-wrap, inhaled several pounds of warehouse dust, and somehow had the place ready to go.
Now I was ready to go. I'd loaded up the Tracker and checked out of the hotel, so I found my way over to US-1 and ran south to St. Augustine.
The store setup would take a week; I had to be in Jacksonville Sunday to check into the hotel, make it through to Friday, and then the weekend was mine!
I planned out the trip, made note of several campsites, and waited for Departure Day, May 18th.
Yeah, there was a slight snag to that plan. There always is, but I won't spoil it just now.
The 18th brought clear skies and plenty of heat. I was driving the Tracker with all the windows open and all my crap packed in back. The trip was a big test for the little truck; I'd rebuilt the engine the year before, bringing it from "ready for the scrap pile" to "slightly less ready for the scrap pile." For all the stuff I'd been able to fix, there were some more expensive things wrong with the engine.
For its part, though, there were no problems. I pulled 35 miles to the gallon the entire trip--and gas was around four bucks. Forty-four bucks to fill up a Tracker.
So anyway, I howled along I-10 (at 55 mph--the howling was the Tracker's engine and gears; it's a truck), made it to Tallahassee in late afternoon, stopped for dinner, took a short tour around my former home town, and got back to it. Nothing but miles of the same scene: gray concrete road, trees clear-cut way off to the sides, and clear blue sky. No radio, either. Man, that engine only seemed to get louder and louder until it was the only sound in the world.
It was close to 10 at night by the time I made Jacksonville, found the hotel, and got checked in. I was numb from hours in the seat and hours of engine noise. Waffle House first (across the parking lot; I walked), then bed.
May 19th was another bright, clear day. When I found the new store (several miles from the hotel in rush-hour traffic), it was already a beehive of activity, with boxes and shelving stacked everywhere, guys from the phone company trying to finish up their wiring, pallet-loads of car parts staged in the parking lot, and several big trash containers.
We had five days: the store would open for business on Saturday the 24th.
Most of the work is tedious; once the shelves had been set up, we started stocking them. Clutch kits, brake pads, brake hardware kits (holy crap, there was a lot of that), brake shoes, batteries, tune-up parts, air filters, oil filters, transmission filters, anything that's kept behind the counter. By Wednesday, we had knocked out almost all of that and started filtering out onto the sales floor to help the other crew. Cleaning products, air fresheners, light bulbs, more air filters, more oil filters, more batteries, jacks, tire repair, tools, signs, and floor displays. By late Thursday, the guys handling the boss end of things were acting nervous--holy crap, we're not going to be done in time!
If the days were hectic, the time after work was quiet. I spent some time in the pool, or just watching TV, too tired to explore Jacksonville or go very far afield for dinner. I had a room all to myself (my roommate never showed).
Friday morning brought some clouds and the threat of rain, but we only cared about pushing to get everything done. Nearly everything had been stocked, but there were little details, things that hadn't been accounted for, things that hadn't been stocked properly. We went up and down the aisles several times apiece, occasionally having to fix something, sometimes having to reset an entire 4-foot section because some numbskull had screwed it up. I pushed a broom around, then a dustmop, hoping it would finally be over soon.
They let us go a little after noon. We had filled the store (and several trash containers) and had emptied several loaded semi-trailers of parts and fixtures each day, dulled our knives on shrink-wrap, inhaled several pounds of warehouse dust, and somehow had the place ready to go.
Now I was ready to go. I'd loaded up the Tracker and checked out of the hotel, so I found my way over to US-1 and ran south to St. Augustine.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
"Ride the Booster"--Shuttle Launch with Sound
Crank up the speakers, boost the subwoofer, and violate your neighborhood noise ordinances!
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