Modern day nomadic tribes are in nearly every American city and town I’ve traveled through this year. From Maine to Seattle, they are at intersections holding brown cardboard signs with forlorn scribbles. They are sleeping in the doorways of buildings, under bridges.They lurk outside of stores asking for spare change. Wandering rootless vagrants. Languishing, distressed and discarded on cold dirty sidewalks. The homeless.

I spent the night in the Grand Canyon on July 4th. I'll post about that later, along with spending time on the Hopi, Navajo, and Acoma Pueblo Indian Reservations.

After my celebration of July 4th in the Grand Canyon, I started heading for old Route 66 to continue my journey west. I had wanted to drop down to Sedona after the Grand Canyon. It was even closer now. Why not, I thought.

So I made a U-turn pointing ARGO south to Sedona. Very glad I did as I turned on to a beautiful two-laner with tall pine trees rising up on both sides of me. Closer to Sedona the red rocks emerged into view.

The road unwound in front of me with more and more breathtaking scenery. Around each S-curve on the narrow mountain road were vistas of orange and red rock arrays rising from the earth. Bright and proud. Seemly illuminated from behind. Sandstone and limestone formations of story-book shapes and proportions. Mythical and mystical. Signs I was entering a special place.

I looked around the town for a little bit, but time was rolling by. Thought I had better pin down a place for ARGO and me for the night. That is hard to come by in Sedona. Even hotels are scarce for last-minute travelers. They’re mostly small inns accommodating New Agers.

The possibility for RV types is even rarer. But luck is always with me. At least, it has been so far.

A few spots on the map of the Coconino National Forest surrounding Sedona looked promising. About 15 minutes outside town were sites labeled "primitive" or "dispersed." A primitive campground has no fancy bathrooms or paved roads or water, and dispersed camping is the old-fashioned kind. You find a spot and set up camp.

That sounded like me. I took a chance and found a level spot to stay where a campfire had been before. Desert grass surrounded the open area around the site with rising hills on all sides. Cedar trees climbing the hill sides.

A vivid orange and multi-hued yellow and blue sunset was taking shape in the west.
It was very quiet. No one was around. No one. I stood outside ARGO. I listened. Envisioned banjo players from the movie Deliverance. Thought I could hear them beyond the hillsides.

I thought of leaving. If I stayed I would be all alone. No cell service. No one nearby to call for help. Would I be sleeping with one eye open all night?  

But my adventurer side kicked in. Silence. How often do I get to experience the sounds of silence? The silence of the desert … of nature. The real world.

I stood watching the clouds above. Slowly the tranquility of the place entered me, calmed me. I absorbed the sunset.

The desert heat was less intense. I always have trouble believing how the desert cools down at night. It can drop thirty degrees from the high of the day.   

The daylight slipped behind the hills. “Night cometh,” I whispered. Words some writer once penned.

The dry desert air cooled. I lay down and drifted away into the safety of my dreams. Interrupted of course a few times by the silence.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of a vehicle's tire crunching the rocky road next to my campsite. Surely not.

Popping up in bed I looked around. The sun was just rising. Enough light to see. Yes. Something was out there. Not far away, either. There behind the bushes to the northwest. A tattered fading blue pickup truck had creeped down the road past the campsite. That sound must be what woke me up. Dang. My heart raced a bit.  

I searched for my binoculars. Found them in the front passenger seat of ARGO. The front windows were covered with the night shades so I went back to the rear to peer through the open window.

The truck was gone.

My heart raced a little more. My mind turned the possibilities. The crazy attacks you read about usually occur in the early morning hours. Not the dead of night.

I couldn’t see anyone outside, but I wasn’t sure. I grabbed my night stick “defender,” opened ARGO’s sliding door and walked outside to look around. Ready to defend or drive away quickly.

From over head an enormously loud roaring burst of sound: Ba- rahrrrrrrrrrrmmmm came from the sky. What the …?

Again a burst of ba-rahrrrrrrrr …. ba-rahrrrrrrr.  I cocked my head upward. A balloon. A giant multi-colored hot air balloon was overhead.

The fire from its burner was blasting away.  Ba-rahrrrrrrr …. ba-rahrrrrrrr.  

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something race between an opening in the brush. I turned my head and focused to see what it was. I got a better look this time. A lizard chasing its breakfast.

Then from the direction of the old blue truck came another loud, but different sounding high pitched noise ripping past me. Bazzzzz-unnnn …. bazzzz-unnnnnn.  

It was a scale model airplane ripping through the sky. Next to the old truck was a man holding a controller. He was putting his bright blue and yellow model airplane through some rolls and loops.

Spontaneous laughing came from my belly. I couldn’t contain it.  People were playing with their model airplanes. Flying in their balloons through the sky. I was waking up in the middle of nowhere forest and I wasn’t alone. The silence of the night was broken. No one had killed me during the night. All was good.

I laughed more as I made coffee, sipped on it and through my binoculars watched the people in the balloon’s basket wave at me. I waved hardily back. It was the beginning of a new day. A loud one. A new and glorious day.

Cadillac Ranch is an art project that was funded by Stanley Marsh 3. He was known as a prankster and philanthropist in West Texas. It was created by an art group, the Ant Farm. It consists of 10 Cadillacs partially buried in the ground nose first. Each spray painted, continually, by those who visit. And visitors are encouraged to do so. It is located just off the road along I-40, by historic Route 66.

It’s not forever, but West Texas seems that way driving through. It’s a vast, often tedious, landscape. I had an unexpected connection with my dad driving near the old family farm on my way west.

Once you drive through the Grand Prairie and Western Cross Timbers regions west of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, you’re into the West Texas Rolling Plains with mostly sandy soil dotted by scrub oak, juniper, live oak and pinyon pine. Doesn’t change much in the High Plains of the Texas Panhandle. Same desert landscape with the addition of cottonwood, mesquite and prairie crabapple.

A New Yorker journalist once said, according to columnist Michael Barr, “I know all about West Texas. It’s the place with the most cows and the least milk, the most rivers and the least water, and where you can look the farthest and see the least.”

I left Fort Worth going northwest driving mostly on the two-laners. Soon I was passing not far from where my dad’s family farmed after moving from Mississippi to Texas in the thirties.

Stories my dad told me flashed back as I drove near the old farm; especially one. The one about the sudden death of his dad, my grandfather. He died from a respiratory illness that would be easily treated and cured today.

His death left my grandmother with five children. As I remember the story, my dad was still in his teens. He had one older and one younger sister, and two much younger brothers. As the oldest male my dad took on the responsibility of running the farm and making sure the family’s basic needs were met.

The Butler family cemetery plot was back close to their farm near Starkville, Mississippi. After a service in Ft. Worth, my dad was to accompany the body back on the train late the following day for another service graveside and burial in the family plot.

However, the morning after my grandfather’s funeral service in Fort Worth there was an unexpected and shocking surprise for the grieving family. An especial unpleasant surprise for my dad.  

In those days mules were used to work the farm, plow the fields. My grandfather needed extra mules and had purchased several from a neighbor. The mules were being paid for on the agreed terms with monthly payments being made till the first harvest was sold.

Dad said he woke up early the morning after the funeral knowing he had chores to do before boarding the train for Mississippi with his dad’s coffin. The events of the funeral and the pastor’s words still turning in his thoughts. He dressed. Put on his boots. Then ambled over to the barn to feed the mules as usual. Opening the barn doors he got the shocker.

The mules were gone.

The barn was empty. He called their names. He searched the fields, but the mules were nowhere in sight.

My dad said he soon learned that on the night of the funeral, under the cover of darkness, the neighbor, who had sold the mules to my grandfather, snuck over the fence and took the mules away.

Dad said, “Faced with no way to plow without mules and do the work in the fields that needed to be done … I only had one choice.”

He found the double barrel shotgun out of his dad’s closet. Loaded it with buckshot and proceeded to the neighbor’s house.

He confronted the neighbor in front of his barn. The mules were inside. My dad said he never raised the shotgun; just held it pointed at the ground. It was a show of force.

“Why did you steal our mules?” My dad asked him in as calm a voice as he could muster.

“You five kids and your ma,” the neighbor replied, “won’t be able to keep up that big farm and make payments on them mules with your dad gone,”

“Mister …,” my dad said he stated sternly while trying to control the anger he felt inside over the callousness of the neighbor, “we haven’t missed any payments! Every payment due has been paid in full … each month … none late. Not one payment has ever been missed … has it?”

“No, not yet,” the neighbor admitted.

“Then, like I said, you stole my mules,”

My dad said he felt like he was suddenly filled with authority beyond his years. The presence of the shotgun in-hand, by his side, also helped, he told me.

“Now, I’m going to take my mules back to our farm so I can finish plowing. If we miss a payment you can come get them. But we won’t.”

It was a difficult time over the coming months, but no payments were missed. And the mules were paid for in-full just a day after the first crops were harvested and sold. My dad was very proud of that.  

I continued driving on, passing through the little town of Decatur, not far from where I, in my youth, spent parts of my summers on my Aunt Dolly and Uncle Irving’s farm.

It’s where I learned to help around the farm, shoot a .22 rifle, watch out for rattlesnakes, fish and, well, just be a boy. A boy growing up in Texas.

It was an important part of my education. My dad had long left the farming and ranching life after he helped move the family to an easier life in nearby Haltom City, adjacent to the bustling "Cowtown," Fort Worth. That’s where he met my mom.

But he always maintained his love and connection to the land. He passed that along to me and my sister Cathy. He gave us a deep appreciation for the beauty of each of the seasons and the earth’s cycle of life. A respect for the birth and aging cycle of plants, animals and people.

My dad taught me a lot as we worked together in the yard of our home. He usually smoked a cigar while we worked.

Mowing, planting and tending. We would use some of the same tools he used on the farm. Same ones. Even the same wheel borrow with a forged iron wheel. These things reminded him where he came from. His roots.

For as long as I can remember, a weathered mules collar and harness hung in the back corner of the tool shed of the garage.

My dad showed me how to wield the long wooden arms of the old post hole digger to plant a tree. How to use the heavy iron bar to break up rocks as we dug deeper. Each year we planted a tree.

I had the satisfaction at the end of each of those days knowing I had put in a hard days work under the hot Texas sun with my dad. It was a gift.

"When you teach your son, you teach your son's son."   -The Talmud

"When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry."   -William Shakespeare

With sons and fathers, there's an inexplicable connection and imprint that your father leaves on you.   - Brad Pitt

Continuing my ultimate road trip, I drove into the French Quarter of New Orleans in the afternoon. Passed by Cafe Du Monde and had to stop out of tradition. I have memories there. Happy ones. A lot of people do. After all it was established in 1862.

Cafe Du Monde is an open-air landmark, the original French Market coffee shop. A spot where you indulge yourself with beignets. Just saying “ben-YAY” makes me smile. There are three to an order; deep fried choux pastries covered in powdered sugar (insert yummm here) served on a small thick ceramic coffee saucer. And the only proper drink to accompany these little delights is their strong Cajun coffee with roasted chicory. So strong most people prefer it cafe au lait style. With steamed hot milk.

They made coffee “cool” long before Starbuck’s; or rather I should say “hot.” Cafe Du Monde is open 24 hours a day 7 days a week and only closes on Christmas Day … or if a hurricane passes by.

I had to park a few blocks away. On the walk to the café it began to rain, and then rain harder. I arrived soaked.

A young waiter in a crisp white shirt with black bow tie, black slacks, and an old-school folded paper hat escorted me to one of the little tables. It was toward the center of the outdoor area covered by a large green and white awning, saving us from the rain. But the rain made for a perfect setting for a New Orleans afternoon at Cafe Du Monde.

The name roughly translates to the people’s cafe. So here I sat with the people around me, for the moment escaping the go faster world on the other side of the rain.

It was relaxing in this little cafe at the edge of the French Quarter, carefully sipping a cafe’ au lait. Three beignets later I reached a state of caffeine and sugar bliss.

The rain moderated, so I sauntered down the street past one curio shop after another. Those are the shops you enter with no intention of buying anything. Then some item grabs your attention. Some trinket that is destined to be a future garage sell item. Marked down to fifty cents before it sells.

Buying it seems like a rational idea at that moment. A gewgaw to remind you of the rainy day you spent in New Orleans. Yep, I bought it. A coffee mug. And yes, I’ll send you an email before my next garage sell.

The rain stopped. I meandered down several of the French Quarter sidewalks. Very seedy. Questionable people standing around corners, laying in the doorways. Dirty streets.

I returned that night, curious if things were different. They were. Many of the street people were moved on by the local police. Couples and groups filled the French Quarter going from bar to jazz club to bar. They walked with drinks in hand in party mode. Talking loudly. Laughing for no apparent reason. Bursting out with random chants. Greeting strangers as old-long lost friends. Great people watching as the smell of bourbon, daiquiris and beer wafted through the air.

But being by myself, midst the party, I suddenly felt alone. I do not feel that very often. And I don’t feel lonely when I am alone. It’s when I am in a situation like this, friends laughing at stupid jokes. Couples affectionately holding hands. I feel a void. No one to share the experience with. No one to laugh at my stupid jokes.

Time to get back to ARGO. ARGO was parked in a public City of New Orleans’s parking lot. Not cheap. Another hour in the lot and I would have to finance it. Plus, ahead of me on this night was a drive over Lake Pontchartrain to Covington, where I would spend the night. I would be driving on the longest straight bridge over water in the world. The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, especially if it’s windy, can be dicey.

The street party was still going strong when I left.

What a thrill.  I got to slip the "surly bonds of earth" in this WW II trainer open cockpit biplane built by Boeing in the 40's.  Owner and pilot Keith Carver took me up over Tampa.
Keith also owns the Happy Hanger Cafe at the airport where we took off north of Tampa.  After the flight I had one of the best Ruben sandwiches I've ever had.

People ask me, “What's biggest downside to traveling alone?”

Well, I tell them, "One of the big draw backs is … there is no one else to blame. When I make a wrong turn ...  it is ALL on me. It’s a heavy burden to carry.”

Okay, I am way behind on my blog posts. I have excuses but won’t bore you with them. Albeit one involves me accidentally erasing several video posts that I had worked on for days.

(Fortunately I still have the raw footage on an external hard drive so I can recreate them for posting later.)

After New Orleans I spent several days at the Marine Pilot’s Institute sitting in on the training of ship pilots brushing up on their skills of docking whomping-big container ships. They use simulators like airline pilots use, plus training on 1/25 scale model ships on water in model channels similar to major ship harbors. I post that video later.

Next I drove ARGO to Thomasville Georgia and stopped at a Georgia plantation. A well-to-do gentleman there looked wistfully at ARGO and me. He asked what it was like traveling around America. I will not use his name to protect the envious.

“I have dreamed of doing that,” he said, “Driving the back roads, exploring, stopping at small cafes. How do you like it?”

“Love it,” I answered, “Love it. I’m having a ball taking my time on the circle I am making around America, talking to people and just discovering America.”

After a bantering about it for some time, he thanked me and started walking back to his group he was with made up of several couples. Then he turned back towards me.

“Would you mind taking a minute to meet my wife and friends?”

“Sure.”

He walked me over, making the introductions, lauding me with almost celebrity status.

I soon realized why he instantly held me in such high regard. And I quickly comprehended his dilemma.  

“Honey,” he said to his wife, “This is John Butler, the man who we saw driving the big silver Airstream. He’s traveling around America like I’ve talked about wanting to do someday. Tell her about it John.”
 
She was a charming beautiful Southern lady. Well dressed and poised. She turned to me, smiled, and gave me her full attention.

“Well … I am really enjoying it,” I started. Clearly my role was to help his wife see the merit of her husband’s dream.

I rambled on about my project to discover America one story at a time.

“Tell her about how comfortable your interior is and how the sofa makes a bed at the push of a button, John,” he coaxed.

I obliged him with a vivid description of the interior with its various features, and how easy it is to drive it. The man looked like he was in a near trance-like state envisioning the day he would be talking a trip like mine.

His wife nodded, smiling as I continued talking and as her husband continued wheedling me along.

Her smile said she understood what I was saying. Her eyes and body language said, THIS IS NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN.”  

They invited me to stay and have dinner with them and their friends but I needed to move on down the road before night fall. And so I left my new friend, with his dreams, and his wife, with her dream of stopping his dream.

I’m being funny with that line and that’s a little unfair of me. My guess is that the thought of such a trip was scary for her, fearing the discomfort of traveling on the open road so far from the safety of her home, family and friends.

I think of them from time to time. I hope he won her over and they are off on the adventure of their lives away from their comfort zone. I hope they find what Mark Twain, one of my favorite authors, knew to be true:

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Worked my way up the west coast of Florida and across the Florida Panhandle.

I semi-awoke from a deep sleep this morning. More like a coma, actually. I knew the semi-coma state would not go away quickly. The cloud would hang over me for hours.

My brain begged for coffee. I started reaching for my coffee kettle in the bottom drawer of ARGO’s kitchen. But even in my lethargic state I knew this morning would require a mean caffeine infusion. This was a Starbucks morning.

An authoritative voice from the morning cloud hanging above me said, “Find a Starbucks. Get the big ‘venti' one.” A lower tone followed: “Or whatever they call the large one now. Sip coffee and write till you wake up.”

Some people say when they hear the voice of God it is not actually an audible voice. This one was audible. I swear.

Great ideas come in semi-coma states on mornings like these, especially as the coffee starts kicking in. Later those ideas may not be classified as great. But in those moments they seem so. Write them down. You never know. You never know.

When the morning cloud lifts reread the ideas your wrote to see if your ideas are a hit or a miss.

Thank God for Coffee. Coffee listens and understands us. Coffee is there for us.

Stay caffeinated my friends !

“Without my morning coffee, I’m just like a dried-up piece of goat.” – J.S. Bach (yes, that Bach .. the one who wrote the snappy tunes.)

Nice people. Nice people. All I have met are nice people. I wasn’t expecting it.

So far on this adventure I have traveled from Maine to the southern tip of Florida. Sailed to Cuba; spent a week there and sailed back. Now I’m working my way up the west coast of Florida.

Before starting out I expected to see people throwing insults and rocks at each other. People with their hair on fire. That’s the negative image of Americans I had from watching the national TV “news” and listening to the angry clowns filling the late-night talk-show slots. (The last thing I want to hear before going to sleep is anything about politics from either side of the divide!)

So, that is why I have been shocked that literally everyone I have encountered along the way has been helpful, pleasant, and positive. America is still America.

Sure, I could have a different experience tomorrow. But this has been my experience so far on my journey traveling America -- especially outside the big cities, where the real America is. People are living their lives, making ends meet, focusing on family, friends.

They're who I want to focus on. That's why I no longer watch news or political jokesters on what my long-departed aunt in Mississippi called the "idiot box." (She also called the radio the "chatter box.") I've even turned off the news alerts on my phone. Instead, I read. If I need a TV fix I watch Netflix. Usually documentaries. Sometimes I binge-watch a series.

And I strike up a conversation with someone. Maybe the server at the restaurant. People I encounter going about my day. Just a “How’s ya day going?” Maybe it just brings an “Okay, how's yours?” Maybe just a nod.

That's the real news. The American Spirit is still alive and doing well in the real world. You know, the world outside the idiot box. The real world. The real America.

OKPA traveled from Africa to America to start a new life in a new land.  His stories and his view of America may surprise you.  I think you will enjoy meeting OKPA and learning more about his story in my interview with him. 

OKPA

What a wonderful morning in the Florida panhandle. Out my window is sand, sea, and sun … and it’s Saturday ... and it's the beginning of summer. Not a bad start to the beginning of summer, eh?

My story continues to unfold before me on this drivingjourney so far from Maine to Key West, to Cuba, to the west coast of Florida. I have filmed interviews with so many interesting people for the documentary, Discovering America One Story At A Time. I am way behind on my blog posting. I have a long list of things I want to do.  But this morning I am taking a time out.

Sipping on my precious and necessary 7 a.m. morning coffee, I am laying in bed in my American touring home on wheels, ARGO; looking out the window at the bright sand on Panama Beach. Truly the most beautiful soft white powdery sand of any beach in the world I’ve seen.

It will be a sunny beach day with a temp high of only 82. My plan is a no-plan-beach-plan. Walk at the waters edge. Lay in the sun. Listen to the waves. Read. Doze off. Rinse and repeat.

This morning I am already so relaxed I may need a second cup of coffee before I can call my body to muster. But the anticipation of my day on the beach is slowly overcoming my inertia.

This is too good of a day to miss. And I don’t want to miss a minute of it. As the Beach Boy’s Kokomo song goes, “… we’ll get there fast, then we’ll take it slow.”

Wishing you a relaxing day. Wishing you the best ... on the start of Memorial Day Weekend. Monday we honor the military veterans who made the ultimate sacrifice, giving their lives that we may live in freedom. May we never take it

The plane landed at Ft. Myers/Naples airport 15 minutes early.   I caught the remote parking shuttle to the green lot . The green lot is designated as the truck lot. ARGO was the only large vehicle parked in it. The rest were over sized pickup trucks shattered around.

An odd feeling came over me as the shuttle drove up to ARGO.   I had parked it there just before Easter only intending to fly home for a few days.   Now, 33 days later, here I am, returning and realizing that I may not have.   The reality struck me … the near death miss from the blood clot passing up from my leg through the right side of my heart, lodging in my right lung resulting in a pulmonary embolism.

According to the Center for Disease Control statistics about one-quarter of people who experience this die immediately.   10 to 30% of people die within one month of diagnosis.  It can happen at any age. So take note if you are going on a long drive or flight soon. Although I exercise regularly, the long driving, sitting while writing and editing the documentary film I'm working on, put me in the high risk category.

I know it was my imagination, but ARGO seemed as glad to see me as I was to be standing at her door with luggage in hand. It took only a few minutes to reorient myself.   ARGO cranked right up on the first turn of the key.

I drove toward the water. Toward nearby Pine Island. Driving across the bridge from the mainland, seeing the sun shinning across the water, the boats going in each direction, I couldn't contain the big smile that broke out across my face. I was on the road again !

Along Pine Island Road around Matlacha I came upon a short string of low slung shanty huts set on each side just a car length off the paved way. Rambling wooden structures, some dating back to the twenties, that had survived the Florida sunshine and hurricanes. These shacks had morphed into restaurants, shops, B&B’s and homes.

An old fishing village of sorts. Elvis Presley had made a movie in 1962 called FOLLOW THAT DREAM based on the book PIONEER GO HOME about the area around Matlacha by Richard Powell. During WWII, soldiers from nearby Page Field army base would spend weekends fishing and hanging out at the local places. The bridge spanning Matlacha Pass would later be nicknamed “the fishingest bridge in the worlds.”

Driving through, the most cars seemed to be parked a Bert’s Bar and Grill. I found the back deck and ended up sitting at a table barely big enough to fit two plates on. It was just me so it was big enough.

The sun is going down, but the sunset watching was on the other side of the road. Still even with out the sunset, this view was peaceful as I looked out past the well cared for docks with two pleasure boats tied up. One was a customer’s small party barge boat. Looked like it just pulled in.   The other was build for speed; proudly perched on it’s boat lift above the water.

I had just ordered and settled into my chair taking in the scene when the wind began stirring, cooled and sprinkled tiny water droplets over me and the paper menus.   All from a cloud that I swear was not there a minute before. A tall waitress in tiny jean shorts rushed out to fold up the umbrellas that were out over some of the tables.

“You might want to go inside,” she said reaching her hand up high inside the a blue canvas umbrella on a heavy base next to a table near me.

“Probably a good idea, uh?” I said.

“Yea, when it comes,” she said, “It comes fast ‘round here.”

She was right.  Seemed like it was less than a minute.   The rain poured down as the few people on the outside deck fled into the music inside. Scotty Brian, who I took to be a popular regular local entertainment feature, was strumming his electric guitar to recorded beats on his iPad. He was was belting with high energy into the mic an inch from his mouth one oldie but goodie after another.   The packed bar was his crowd. The ear ringing decibels helped the beer flow.

At a side table just off the main bar I nodded my head to the beat of Neil Diamond’s 70’ hit CRACKLIN’ ROSIE as I nibbled on fried spiral potato chips and lightly fried fish. Fish freshly caught that day.   All piled high in a paper basket which included a plastic cup of coleslaw. With the lemon wedges, malt vinegar, local brew and Scotty’s tunes … I was good.

Back on the road again, where ever it leads. Back for the next chapter of life, whatever it brings.

Maybe it was the boy in me setting out on a boy’s adventure. A wild hair. The ticking clock impressing on me to not set idle … to move … to keep moving.

The indigenous Australian people are known to go on a “walkabout” for short periods, some times for months before returning home. Some say it relates to various life stages; young males transitioning to adulthood, rites of passage, a solemn ceremonial or spiritual journey.

(I have to insert a note here: the political correct police have stepped in; they feel the term stigmatizes people on “walkabouts,” thus they want to rename it “temporary mobility.” I am not making this up. Renaming it “temporary mobility” kinda misses the whole point don’t you think? Sounds more like a walk to the bathroom in a nursing home. So I’m sticking with “walkabout” at the risk offending anyone.)

Actually, I am not quite sure of the WHY part of what I am doing on my “walkabout” … this circumnavigation of America discovery tour I have embarked on. I just knew when I began, and still know inside me, it is what I must do at this point in my life.  A mystical spiritual river flows around me, pulling along to a destination I can't yet see.

Some ideas are planted in you and fade away. Some ideas stick around like a grain of sand in an oyster. An idea that won’t go away. An idea that turns inside you, irritating your imagination, till over time, maybe … just maybe … something meaningful and beautiful is created.

This idea of driving across America was planted when I was a teenager reading the story of a man who set out to travel America in a camper with his dog. Perhaps the concept stood out to me at that time as I related to it in my own adolescent rite of passage stage of life. It seemed like a cool adventure. John Steinbeck’s TRAVELS WITH CHARLIE documented America as he encountered it driving in his camper in a big circle, looping the continental United States.

“I’ll try to do something like that some day,” I said to myself. The idea would fade and reappear at odd times as the years continued to pass by me. And the years passed faster and faster.

In recent years I thought of converting a van or SUV into a camper to make a fishing trip through the Rockies, Montana, Wyoming. I like fly fishing. It was still just one of those “some day” bucket list items germinated during my high school days. I never acted on it having a series of excuses. I didn’t have a wife to travel with, no one close to be who could probably endure the long journey (without possibly wanting to shoot me or themselves during the uncharted trip), no friends who could get away for such a long trip … and my dog had died.

"Do or do not. There is no try."
- Yoda (Star Wars - The Empire Strikes Back)

This journey was converted from a TRY to a DO the end of the summer of 2016 while kayaking in Colorado with my friend Rickly Christian. The idea reappeared like a lightening bolt from the sky above. I will write more about that later.

Do you have a TRY idea in your life that keeps reappearing? It may be time to covert it to a DO.

I stopped for the night at a small state park camp ground on the side of a lake at Spanish Fort, Alabama.

Beautiful weather as I arrived. Watched the sun go down as I sat at an old wooden picnic table. A faded table in need of repair. A few spider webs woven between the legs. The webs architect poised on the edge waiting for dinner to fly into the web. I wished the little guy well and sat down next to him. Didn’t bother me. Might have bothered him.

I wrote as the sun went down over the trees on the western edge of the lake. Tired, ready to doze off, I tucked myself in between the bed sheets in the back of ARGO. I was just on the other side of the dozing off to dreamland when ARGO started rocking back and forth. Like someone was pushing on the door.

In my semi state of sleep I tried to dismiss the threat ...  thinking maybe I caused it when I rolled over to go to sleep. Maybe I made ARGO sway.

Didn’t feel any movement now. Maybe it was my imagination. I rested my head back on my pillow.

ARGO began rocking again. I was more awake now. A noise outside sounded like someone trying to get in. Another loud noise, a hit against the door.

I was wide awake now. It was real. A real noise. Not my imagination.

I abruptly stood up. Grabbed my flashlight that is a long metal tube. It would be my defensive weapon to fight off who ever was hitting on ARGO.

Another noise, another hit, but from the opposite side of ARGO. That threw me. I couldn't figure it out. Was someone throwing rocks at ARGO?

More rocking. I pulled the curtain back quickly on the sliding door window and pressed my flashlight against the window to blind anyone that might be standing there.

I didn’t see anyone. Then rain started pinging on the top of the roof. A gust of wind blew ARGO back and forth. ARGO starting rocking again harder side to side. It wasn't a person rocking ARGO. I realized it was the leading edge of a strong weather front that had popped up in the Gulf and was moving on shore. There was another loud bang on ARGO.
I pointed my flashlight to the ground outside the window. A pine cone hit the ground right in the circle beam of my light. I realized the sound I had heard was caused by falling pine cones from a tall pine tree next to where ARGO was parked.

Not like any pine cones I had seen before. These were solid ones. I weighted one of them that hit the top of ARGO: a one pound green and brown cone shaped missile. Yep, a hefty little guy. Would have hurt a lot if ARGO’s roof hadn’t been between me and the falling pine cone.

I breathed a sigh of relief over not having to fight a person off. This was God causing all the commotion outside. It was out of my hands at that point. Nature was in control. ARGO and I would have to ride out the storm. ARGO took the brunt of it. I dozed off to the sound of rain and thunder as the wind rocked me to sleep.

NOTE:  This is part 1 of my blog notes written in Seaside, Florida on Memorial Day. For part 2, see the next blog post after reading below !

Last night in Seaside, an idyllic upscale family beach community in the Florida Panhandle, groups of neatly dressed teenagers clustered in the streets. In flip flops and shorts, of course. Beautiful casual teenagers.

I watched them actually talking to each other. Well, in between looking at their phones. They were figuring out if they wanted pizza for dinner or something more exotic like a grilled cheese sandwich from one of the food trucks.

(They did not see me. If you are over the age of 25 they do not see you. I am well over that age. Invisible, like cellophane.)

Seaside is a small planned village 25 miles down the coast from Pensacola. If you saw “The Truman Show,” the 1998 movie starring Jim Carey, you get a flavor of it. The utopian town was as much a character as was Carey. Locals were extras in the movie.

Seaside was envisioned by Robert Davis. When his grandfather purchased the land, his associates mocked it as a “worthless 80 acres.” Years later Robert proved them wrong.

Begun in 1981 with two beach homes, Seaside now has roughly 350 homes along the purposefully narrow brick streets. It was named as the world’s best beach for families by Travel + Leisure magazine in 2013 and by the Travel Channel in 2015. PBS featured Seaside as one of “10 towns that changed America.” If you want to vacation in Seaside, you need to book a year in advance.

The speed limit on Seaside’s two-lane road next to the sand dunes is only 15 miles an hour. And traffic rarely even moves that fast. Cars go slow and people interact. Even time is required to slow down here.

Yes, even for teenagers. More on that in my next blog post from Seaside, Florida.

 NOTE:  This is part 2 of my Memorial Day blog post. For part one, see previous blog post.

Last night, besides those clusters of beautiful teenagers in picturesque Seaside, Florida, I saw 100 or more bicycles parked at the edge of the town square or leaning against light poles. But I didn’t see many adults.

I am fairly sure the kids had their parents tied up somewhere. Or worse.

I decided to figure it out later. I too was too hungry to wait. I chose the grilled cheese. Stood in line behind the teenagers at the Melt Down truck. The warm American cheese oozed between the hot toasted bread wrapped in foil. Turned out to be the best grilled cheese I have ever had. A complete meal with the two main food groups, bread and cheese. Combined, there is a bit of magic created.

Then you become sleepy.

I woke up today – Memorial Day -- to rain gently pinging ARGO’s metal roof. Thunder rolled in the distance, and threatened to intensify. In the background I could hear the faint lapping of waves on the shore.

Then I thought about last night’s idyllic scene, and wondered again: Where were all the Seaside parents? And why was I shocked, in today’s world, to see well groomed and well mannered teenagers hanging out quietly together around the town square?

Then it hit me. The operative words are “in today’s world.” It was only shocking because of what we are told about today’s world. The topsy-turvy one portrayed on American TV.

Strangely, though, it was also familiar to me. The peaceful kid-centric scene reminded me of the world I grew up in. Back then, your friends lived in your neighborhood; they went to the same school as you did. Families knew each other. Your parents didn’t worry about you as you rode off on your bicycle to ride to the store or meet your friends at the corner. The only hard rule was to be home by supper.

Robert Davis’s tightly designed plan for Seaside recreated a classic American neighborhood. Parents are close by and confident enough to let the kids go with friends on their bikes to the shops on the square, the amphitheater and open-air diners. It also helps that no one under 21 is allowed on the beaches after nine without a parent. The result? A communal sense of security.

It is comforting to me to know the classic neighborhood feel survives here and other places around the world. Perhaps our current culture's obsession with social engineering has forced simple traditional living into becoming something considered radical.”

But we still have the freedom to choose in America.

It is easy to take that freedom for granted. We should remember not only on Memorial Day, but everyday, the men and women who serve and those who have given their lives that we may live freely in America. Our freedom isn’t free. And the fight to keep our freedom continues everyday.

Tomorrow I am back on the road to continue my journey, Discovering America One Story At A Time.

This made my day.   This link was sent as a "get well wish" from Argentina by a cooland talented media producer by the name of Yolanda Zorio  (and star in her own right)  who is following our BUZZ tour, Discovering America One Story At A Time.    The link is to a song by Texas Legend Willie Nelson and according to himhe's still not dead.

The doctor’s voice came through the phone firmly. “Do not drive yourself. Have someone drive you directly to the emergency room.”

Before my cell phone rang, I had been going thru musty boxes of old photos, notes my wife had written before she died, college notes, writings, etc. Each box was being reduced to a handful of things I thought would be nice to keep for the proverbial day of sitting in the rocking chair in my old age reflecting back on life someday. Since I flew back to Dallas for Easter, I thought I would take a few hours to clear out some of the “memory boxes” taking up storage space.

I stayed over an extra day and had some extra time. Had a routine CT scan the day before related to slightly bulging disk that gives me a little discomfort periodically. No big deal.

My cell phone rings with a NO CALLER ID on the screen. Probably a telemarketer I think putting the phone back down. The NO CALLER ID is either a junk call or a very important call. I decide to answer. It’s the doctor. “I have good news and I have bad news.” I immediately assume he is setting me for a joke since I know him.

“Okay, good news first,” I say playing along.

“The good news is the spot we were watching is not a problem. The bad news is you need to go to the hospital … to the emergency room … immediately. You have a blood clot … a pulmonary embolism. Do not drive yourself. Have someone drive you directly to the emergency room.”

“You realize of course,” I said still with my sense of humor radar out and not comprehending what he was telling me, “I don’t have time for this.”

“John, you’ve heard of a widow-maker … well, ah, you have a serious situation … and you are lucky to be here. You could die on the way to the hospital. Again, do not drive yourself and do not delay,” he stated authoritatively to drive the point into my thick scull.

“I get it … I hear you. I will leave now.”

His words bounced around inside my head. An out-of-the-blue bit of shocking news.

A surrealist moment walking downstairs where my son had just entered. He drove me to the Presbyterian Emergency Room. I was still processing the phone call.  My son was also.

Hospitals are not my idea of a place to hang-out especially if you are sick. The Emergency Room was filled with cold and flu sufferers. People coughing, spitting into cups and an occasional moaning. I felt for all of them, but the whole place struck me as a Russian Roulette germ exchange.

So, boring details aside, I went through questioning, a series of tests, scans and, of course, several blood draws. I’m convinced it’s a scheme by the head nurse to take enough blood to weaken each patient into submission. Just a hunch.

When the ER doc appeared, the verdict: Blood clot or clots had passed through the right side of my heart, then into my right lung, lodging there.  "You are lucky to be alive," he said.

The next day, after more tests, scans, and, of course, more blood drawn I got the best of the bad news. My heart was NOT damaged. A little stressed, but no long term damage. What damage it caused was in the right lung and it would heal as the clot dissolves with a new med. Had the clot been slightly larger it would have stopped at my heart. I could have dropped dead on the spot. The fatality rate is as high as 80% with this type of condition depending on factors such as the size of the asteroid, or rather, the clot.

This one apparently came from my leg. It can happen to anyone. Take note if you are going on long flights or long car rides. The sitting/driving part for long periods in ARGO this year put me in the high risk category.

I didn't want to write till I was sure I was in the clear.  I had been in intense pain, but was trying to power thru it.  My daughter gave me a stern lecture about not doing that again when she came to help me.   She is a good caring daughter and I pay attention to her advice.

I am out of the hospital and laying low.    Good news: There is no long term damage to my heart.  So, instead of a game over scenario for me, it's back to where I left off.   Flying back to Florida to continue my American discovery journey project as I mental process my near miss with the staircase to Heaven.  Grateful I can continue the project of talking with folks across America and filming stories for the documentary.

So the take away from this for me, AND FOR YOU:   1. Stay hydrated by drinking extra water (as a double benefit the extra water will motivate you to get up sooner)   2. Stop at least once an hour and walk around if you are driving or flying long distances.   3. In between stops, rock your feet back and forth and wiggle your toes. . These simple things help will move the blood around to help you avoid a blood clot. Not doing so puts us at risk for blood clots for a few weeks following driving/flying long periods.

I found that out first hand. Even though I have no history of any clotting or heart problems and I work out regularly … it happened to me.

Fortunately I get to hang around a bit longer to continue my project Discovering America One Story At A Time and my blog: JohnButlersBuzz.com.

“Life is a near death experience.”
- George Carlin

I am driving thru miles and miles of the Florida Everglades over the old Tamiami Trail. Gators to the left of me.  Gators to the right.  I spot so many alligators in the trenches on the side of the road that it becomes commonplace.  Presumably watching the tourist go by. Maybe it's their version of the Food Channel ... they are watching us to pass time working up an appetite for dinner.

The old Tony Joe White song pops into my head.   "Poke Salad Annie" ... "Gator got your granny" ... "cause her momma was workin' on a chain gang...."   I'm thinking that Poke Salad girl had a rough start in life.  It's one of those tunes that you can't get out of your head once it starts playing inside your skull.  So I just go with it as a sound track to my drive thru the gator laden swamp land. 

I'm still unshaven from my sailing trip to Cuba. With my beard I fit right into the untamed watery wilderness surrounding me.

The Florida Everglades are an interesting place to visit. A reminder that America is a vast place filled with a wonderful assortment of creatures. And some of those creatures would love to have you stop by for dinner. Chomp ... chomp ... chomp.  

In my drive up the west side of the Florida coast I stopped for the night at a beautiful little state park north side of the Tampa Bay.

After I settled in I went on a short walk just before dinner. The peaceful scene was broken by angry voices from just beyond the small camp ground building with showers.

A man and a woman were yelling at each other across from their picnic table. The man, a very large African American, was bellowing at a smaller but still large white women. She was being equally aggressive with her volume and her less than gentle language.

"Then you just get your $#%@ and get out of here!” The woman's screaming a few inches from the man's face.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere!" he shouted.

It looked to me like this wasn’t the first argument for these two. Not their first rodeo. What was I about to see here? I do not like to argue or hear other people argue. And I sure didn’t want to become “the witness” they both turned on. You know, the one that gets caught in the crossfire. The thought of that visualized in my mind.

I quickened my pace and scurried into the building. The voices followed me through the louvered windows, bouncing off the block walls.

Maybe I should mosey back to my campsite and find another spot -- farther away, I thought to myself.

Then I thought of calling the park ranger, especially if I heard any slapping or worse. Like gun shots. My imagination was speeding up.

I decided it might be better to wait a bit. Safe inside the confines of the cement brick walls. I could see the couple through the top louvers. One advantage of being tall.

“He called you! Why did he call you?” The man leaned forward. He had a cooking spatula in his right hand. He pulled it backward.

It looked like he was about to whack her. Then his body froze. The spatula hung suspended, gripped in his fist, in mid swing. He took a step back.

Undeterred, she continued to yell obscenities at him, leaning even more forward toward him in a provoking stance.

“But he called you, didn’t he!” He took another step back, lowering the spatula a little more even as he kept yelling. They were shouting over each other. “He wouldn’t have called you unless you had given your number!”

“I didn’t! I didn’t! I … just…” Then she slumped and began to cry.

The man lowered his head and his hand. She sat down at the picnic table with her back toward him. He began walking in a circle, and then walked away from her.

The situation seemed safer now. I felt safer. At least enough to make my way back to my campsite. Away from, as Bob Marley & The Wailers sang, the fussin' n fighting. Back to the safety inside ARGO’s metal walls.

Back to my peaceful little camp next to the palm trees, just off the water. Get an undisturbed (hopefully) good night's sleep, wake up and then it's on down the road I go ....

Ahead is partying on Boubon Street in New Orleans. Then crossing the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, the longest straight bridge over water in the world to spend a few days at the Marine Pilots Institute. That is a cool school for the people who dock the supersized tankers and container ships when they come into port.