When I have some heavy decisions to make I often get in my car and drive. Sometimes I find myself on back country roads and at other times just in the right hand lane of the Turnpike or some Interstate doing only 65 or 70 mph. Where I drive is not important, what inspiration I get along the way is.

My life has been a full and satisfying experience but it is in its closing phase and I decided the other day to start “putting my affairs in order.” I had already decided to visit a friend in St. Augustine, so why not slow down the trip up I-95 and come up with a plan as to the disposition of all of the “stuff” my wife and I have accumulated?

I know what you’re thinking right now…just hire an attorney, draw up a will, maybe form a Trust or two, and forget about it. We’ve already done all of that but that still leaves a lot of “stuff” falling through the cracks as “personal possessions.”

Almost out of gas, I turned off just south of New Smyrna at exit #82 and noticed that the sign said CR 5A, Oak Hill, Scottsmoor. I didn’t know Florida had an Oak Hill or Scottsmoor. Evidently I wasn’t the only one, there was nothing at the Exit except a filling station and a decrypted old trailer park. What I assumed to be County Road 5A dead ends going west at the Interstate and looking east there’s nothing but miles and miles of empty road and piney woods.

At the pump and gassing up, I noticed a very unusual caravan of vehicles parked nearby. While I was trying to determine just what it was that I was looking at…

“Never seen anything quite like it, have you?” A slender, T-shirted, baggy panted, African-American man in knee-high black rubber boots had come out of nowhere and we were soon having a discussion about not only his very bazaar collection of conveyances but, ironically, also about my estate planning dilemma.

After introducing himself, I found out that not only did Henry Lomas own all of the vehicles I was looking at but that he and I had something in common. He too had, in his words, recently decided to consolidate his holdings and put his affairs in order. This was too good of a coincidence to pass up so I insisted, after gassing up, that Henry jump in the front seat of my car, let me pull over to the side in the parking area, buy him a soft drink, and let me pick his brain.

I started the dialog.

“Tell me Henry; before we get into any details, what got you started assembling your collection of wheels?”

Lowering his gaze and speaking almost in a whisper…

“I started with only a bicycle but as time went by I decided to forsake the traditional store houses of wealth, concentrate more on metals and collectables, and widen my horizons by traveling more. As you can see, I’ve accumulated a lot and I’ve had to make accommodations to protect my property as I transit from one destination to another. I realize that I’m not the wealthiest man in the world but I truly treasure what I have and try to add to it every day.”

Carrying the conversation to the next level and deciding to go along with the Lloyds of London level of verbiage , I asked him…

“Tell me Henry, I notice that most of your vehicles are covered with tarps or plastic covers. Is that to protect the paint jobs and chrome trim or is it to satisfy some provision in your insurance coverage?”

“No.” He responded… “Let’s cut the crap Jim. As you can probably tell by my sarcastic verbal autobiography, I’ve got a college background but I would prefer not to elaborate on the course my life has taken. It would serve no purpose and its trajectory should be tragically obvious. In reality, I’m not as bad off as it appears. I’ve got a PO Box in Titusville where I have a few government checks mailed to and, every now and then, my younger sister sends me a card or letter. She doesn’t know anything about my financial situation and that’s the way I like it. My big problem is emotional. I struggle to maintain my self-respect. I remember the pan-handlers on the streets that I used to look at with disdain and wonder how anyone could have so little pride as to let themselves stoop so low. The looks I get from passing cars on the highway don’t bother me, but patronizing gestures of charity in what few one-on-one encounters I have these days are, how can I say it, … challenging. As to the coverings, I just keep the things I’m carrying in the wagons covered to keep the rain and sun off. I’ve got some furniture that’s upholstered and I can’t let the aluminum beer cans I’ve accumulated fill up with water or I can’t sell um. I keep the bike covered too because I just have to push the whole thing along the side of the road now. The load has gotten too heavy and hard to pedal.”

Sensing a new-found closeness with this obviously intelligent but very humble man and realizing we had dropped all the Wall Street talk and pretense, I pressed on … I told Henry about boxes of old letters, my mother’s rare book collection, my grandfathers police whistle and uniform, a stamp collection, varsity letter sweaters, old vinyl records, and numerous scrapbooks. I told Henry about all of these and all the other junk we had stashed in corners of our home and various safe deposit boxes. While I was itemizing these accumulations, I was picturing in my mind just how many tarps and covers all of my “stuff” would need if I was ever forced to hit the road.

How long I bared my soul?…it was awhile…

…turning to my friend…

“I have to ask you one last thing Henry. What are you doing out here at the end of this road? We’re three or four miles from US 1 and the pavement ends here at I-95. You surely can’t go out on the highway with your bike and everything you’re carrying with you.”

Stoically looking at me…

“No, you’re right, I have to just turn around and go back to where I came from but there’s a lot of places in the woods off this road where I can spend the night without anybody calling the Sheriff on me. I carry enough rice, dry beans, and canned goods to make it for a few days and, like what you’ve told me about yourself, it gives me time to think about what I’ll end up doing with all this junk I’m carting around. I hate to think that I’ve spent my whole life accumulating so little that I can carry every bit of it along with me, and worst of all, asking myself–when I’m gone will anyone want any of it?”

We talked for another half hour or so and, realizing I had to get on up the road, I took a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and laid it on dashboard in front of Henry.

“I know you don’t want to take it but it would make me feel much better if you did. We’ll never see each other again, so just pretend it just showed up in your PO Box or flew out of the window of one of those automobiles that pass you on the highway.”

With a sad look of resignation, Henry took the bill off the dash and, turning to face me … “Okay, but only if you will let use the money for a special purpose I have in mind?”

After I nodded my head, he reached into the brown plastic fanny-pack he was wearing and took out what looked like a cigar, but ended up being only the metal cylinder that had once held one. He then fished out a ball-point pen and a folded-up sheet of yellow legal pad paper. As I watched, Henry tore the sheet of paper in half, rolled up one section with the $10 bill and, before replacing the cap, slid both into the small tube. With the money canister and ball-point in hand, he faced me, grind, then turned and opened the car door … “I’ll be right back”.

He had gone into the filling station and, after ten minutes or so, was back seated with me in the car. My supposition was that Henry was up to some benevolent mischief, but it wasn’t my place to ask and I did need to get on my way. I shook his hand, gave the little nod that acknowledges “see you never again” and watched as he walked over to his rig and started pushing his wagon train of covered treasures back out to the road.

Three days later, I was back home and unpacking my car. Why, I’m not sure, but I couldn’t get Henry out of my mind. Even though my trip back to where I had come from was much longer and my life’s accumulated carts of junk more scattered and worth much more than Henry’s; there wasn’t any difference in our situations. Deep down inside I knew I would never forget the sight of him leaving or what he had taught me that day. and, let’s face it, we were both just trying to put our affairs in order.

I had grabbed my duffel bag and the little cooler out of the trunk and was checking for anything I might have left in the console or around the front seat of the car when I saw it. The little cigar tube was tucked into, and barely visible between the seat cushion and back-rest on the passenger’s side. Taking out and opening the container, I slid out the yellow piece of paper and read the note …

Jim, I appreciate the thought. Hopefully you realize that, if the circumstances were reversed, I would do the same for you. As we discussed, my pride means as much to me as, I’m sure, yours means to you. That being the case, let’s pretend the circumstances are, indeed, already reversed and good luck with your affairs.        …      Henry

Setting the note aside and sliding my finger back into the cigar tube, they came out easily–both of them … there were two ten dollar bills.

This is a haunting statement for an old sailor to have to make but it is true and why not face it head on?
By now, most of you know that Sammy Bigbie and I plan to spend a little time at sea over the next few weeks. Ruthie has dubbed the trip as a “bucket list” adventure but this is not exactly the situation. The route we have decided on (around south Florida) will, indeed, be new to Sammy but it is one I have enjoyed many times, going back to the early 80s.
Each time I covered the distance I met new people and renewed old friendships. When I could not persuade anyone to crew for me I would just set sail and go by myself!
You notice I said: “set sail”. Most of my ventures were on a little 24 foot cutter rigged sailboat I bought new in 1980. Over the years I sailed north to the Chesapeake twice, four or five times to the Abacos, three time up the St. Johns River, a few times up the west coast of Florida as far as Cedar Key, and twice to Cuba.
Many of these trips were taken during the years when I could only be gone from the family business for a maximum of five days, so I always ended up leaving the boat at some randomly selected little stop along the way. Most of you have never heard of White Water Sound, Thunderbolt, Crow’s Bluff, Good Hands Creek, Barron River, Marina Hemmingway or New Found Harbor but, over the years, I’ve been forced to leave a trawler or sailboat at all of these places and fly, take a Greyhound or rental car, or even hitch-hike to get back to work.
Early on, my wonderful wife, Dianne, would sometimes reluctantly go along but I guess she burned out over the years and it was (to borrow from Jimmy Buffett) “probably my own damn fault”. I never considered it an inconveience to run with the rail in the water for hours on end only to find out that she had been continually mopping seawater from the cabin sole. The final blow, no pun intended, came when I had to put her on an airplane out of Treasure Cay in 1997 when I decided to ride out a Hurricane on the trawler at New Plymouth. Just let it suffice to say: in recent years “I can sail anywhere, anytime with the emphasis on the “I””.
As many sailing trips as I have been blessed to be able to take, none have been more gratifying than those over the route that Sammy and I plan to cover. On most of these voyages I was by myself. My memories include hours spent in highly intellectual (sic) conversations with friends I had never met in assorted tiki bars, marina pavilions, and other various nondescript dives in Key West, Fort Myers Beach, Key Largo, and, a particular favorite establishment – Dockside on Boot Key Harbor.
So as to dispel with what most of you, especially Sammy’s wife Barbara, are thinking about this time: I am not a total waste. The most memorable moment I may have ever had was years ago on Florida Bay. I was alone in my sailboat halfway between Cape Sable and Marathon. The sun was setting over the Gulf and it was Good Friday. The wind was fair and there was no storm on the horizon. It was a quiet and peaceful time but my concern was the pending darkness and the approach to an unfamiliar coastline. If a sinner could ever be closer to God, I don’t know where it could be. The journey through life is a lot like a search for a safe anchorage in the darkness. The words in the little prayer I said are not important but it was a moment I can never forget.
I’m sad to say it but I donated my sailboat to the Chapman School of Seamanship last year. Now I’m left with what most old sailors revert to: a floating condo called a trawler………….so Sammy and I will just pretend like we are “sailing”.
Okay. You all have the picture. What Ruthie has billed as the “Bucket List Cruise” for two upstanding and respected classmates of “58” is really Sammy Bigbie and an acknowledged deviate floating away to some 70+ year old lost weekend! In order for any of you that are crazy enough to want to meet up along the way; I have put together a little Google tracking schedule that will give you a clue as to where we might end up on any given day.
Just print out this page and Google exactly what is in BOLD. It will show a place we could meet. Some of the locations are on the water and others are ashore – but I’ve been to all of them before and I may never get to go this way again.

Starting point in Palm City
3352 nw perimeter rd, 34990

Rowan Martin’s Marina in Clewiston
920 e del monte ave, 33440

Library Dock at LaBelle
461 n main st, 33935

Marina in downtown Ft. Myers
1300 lee st, 33901

Restaurants & anchorage at Goodland
401 papaya st, 34140

Rod & Gun Club in Everglades City (DO NOT MISS THIS PLACE)
riverside dr, 34139

Little Shark River (water only)
little shark river florida

Billy Wilkinson Home on Marathon (fine dining, romance, and live bait)
1111 calle ensenada, 33050

Indian Key (water only – a must see for history buffs)
indian key florida

Caribbean Club on Key Largo (or what ever other dive may have taken its place)
104100 overseas hyw, 33037

Pumpkin Key (water only)
w snapper point dr, 33037

Rickenbacker Causeway anchorage
3201 rickenbacker causeway, 33149

Lake Sylvia in Ft. Lauderdale (water only)
1310 w lake dr, 33316

Peanut Island (if you don’t know where this is you are in the wrong class)
98 lake dr, 33404

Peck’s Lake (last chance – water only and bring your bathing suit)
7950 se dock st, 33455

“I believe you have a gentleman by the name of Max Gelders here. I wonder if I might visit with him for a little while?”

Ever since his name came up as an unlikely but possible reunion attendee, I have been waiting for someone’s first hand account of just what Max thinks of the situation and what his day to day life revolves around. All of the white knights, myself included, have come to his imaginary rescue from exile by suggesting everything from limousines to helicopters to bring him to Singer Island but no one seems to have “asked Max”. Family matters had put me in Miami on Easter Sunday morning so what better time to drive down to Homestead Manor Nursing Home?

The pleasant lady at the reception desk smiled and picked up the phone.

“Certainly, I’ll page him. -Max Gelders to the front desk – Max Gelders to the fron – wait a minute, I think I just saw him right around the corner!”

She was right. Standing at a nurse’s station counter, not twenty feet away, was a slightly stooped man with pen in hand and concentrating on filling out a form or application. He wore glasses, his hair was thinning and his casual dress seemed to fit in with what I expected.

“Hello Max”

“Who are you?” He said as he looked quizzically at me.

“Just a friend from the Palm Beach High class of “58” who had a little spare time. You don’t remember me?”

How could he remember me? He and I probably never exchanged a full sentence of conversation in our lives and now here I was, showing up in his world totally out of context.

“Give me a hint.” He said cocking his head to one side and adjusting the thick glasses that were his trademark as I remembered him.

“You sure are tall! Are you Earl Stewart?”

“No.” I grinned and shook my head.

I wasn’t playing a game with Max. Looking ahead, I honestly didn’t know what we could possibly talk about once he actually knew my name. I planned to spend a meaningful amount of time with him and this little version of conversational intrigue was probably going to be one of the high points of the day!

It actually didn’t take Max long to figure me out and he was emphatic in his insistence that “you tell everyone how quickly I remembered”!

I would be lying if I told you that the hour or so I spent with Max was fun. There is nothing about a nursing home that makes you want to stay longer. When we were kids we called them “old folk’s homes” but they’ve changed – now all the people in them are almost as young as I am. The fact that it was Easter Sunday meant that there was an unusual buzz of activity and I suspect that the staff had taken extra measures to dress up the decorum but what is it about a “sow’s ear”? What I did enjoy were the exchanges Max and I had about people and experiences we both knew/shared or, at least, could imagine. He and I sat for much of the time in the front waiting area and he seemed happy and very outgoing.

Excerpts from our conversation:

“Do you want to go to our reunion?”

“Maybe for 2 hours or so.”

“Why not longer?”

“Because I have to get back. I can’t stay out over night. At least I can’t stay out over night unless a member of the staff stays with me. All of the staff is female. I told them that would work out okay for me if ‘I could pick out the female’. Anyway they said ‘No!’.”

“Dudley Barber or his wife would have to ride me up because Gail Prather is not going to the reunion and Louise Marcy lives in California and that’s too far to come. Maybe I’ll call Ray Bender. You know Connie Berry lives in Miami. Jim Anstis may be going, he has a long drive to get here.”

“I lost my bagging job at Publix when I came here. That’s how Dudley found me. He called the store where I worked. His daughter lives in Key Largo and they stop by to see me all the time. Here, let’s call Dudley now………”

He did call on his cell and insisted I leave a message. Dudley Barber and his wife, along with the Anstis family have evidently gone out of their way to make Max’s life better with regular visits and keeping him connected. All of our classmates should take note: they have been doing this for a long time without photos or written accounts for Ruthie or Connie to post!

“Wait here, I’ll come back. I bought a lunch and it will get cold if I don’t eat it.”

Max disappeared for five or ten minutes. Thinking he may have forgotten I was there, I went looking and tracked him down in a small meeting room in another part of the building. While finishing his sandwich and french fries he continued;

“I hear Russo’s has a lot more stores now!”

“Do you go to the breakfast meetings – they’re on Forrest Hill Blvd., right?”

“Frank Madsen died, didn’t he?”

“Do you remember Reggie Hurley? He had the dry cleaning business in back of the cemetery across from the railroad tracks? He had junior high football on Thursday nights. Friday night was high school football. My father would take me to the games and I saw one of the Knowles play. I don’t remember his first name but Doug Knowles said he was his uncle. He was great! You should have played football! You’re tall enough. It was during a football game that my father found out I needed glasses. I couldn’t read the scoreboard. I remember Conniston. They were the Blue Devils. I used to be a Wildcat but now I’m a Tamecat!”

“They have a restaurant here in Homestead called the Royal Palm Café, that’s the name of our year book! They also have a Hibiscus St. and a Palm Beach Ave. I spent my whole life on Hibiscus St. in West Palm Beach!”

“I don’t know why I’m here? I’m talking to an attorney. They take all of my Social Security check and only leave me with $57 a month. I send $25 every month to Quattlebaum. It’s for a Jewish service. I’m going to be with my mother and father.”

It was only at this juncture that I recalled that Max was a Jew. Two things came to mind, first I fondly remembered that a classmate’s religion was never considered or spoken of on “the hill” and secondly, I was glad I hadn’t brought my Bible along to share with Max a few inspirational Easter readings from the book of Matthew on the evils of the Pharisees in the Temple.

Max had free access to go and come from the building and the last instructions he gave me as I left him in the parking lot was:

“Thanks for coming and don’t forget to tell everybody how quickly I figured out who you were!”

He was still carrying the worn brown leather briefcase that never left his side. It contains all his important papers and his treasured gift copy of the 1958 Royal Palm along with a short note from Ruthie Hall.

No one has ever told me the reason or diagnosis that put Max in Homestead Manor and I choose not to ask. He appears physically sound so I suspect someone just decided he needed help in his day-to-day decision making process. Please don’t get the wrong impression. Never during my visit with him did I feel like we were in some scene from Rain Man or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Max has a tendency to ramble but it’s not annoying. His mannerisms would not be out of the ordinary at any table at our reunion banquet and I certainly welcome the chance to see him again. He seemed very much in control but wanted desperately to get his feelings and remembrances expressed to me in what, we both knew, was so little time. I guess that’s the one thing we all share with Max – ……so little time………

Jimmy Powell

On September 17, 1955 my father Eugene Bradford Powell took me to a Ga. Tech vs. Miami football game at Grant Field in Atlanta. He had picked me up earlier that Saturday morning at Riverside Military Academy in Gainesville, Ga. It was just six days since he had first dropped me off on that hilly North Georgia campus where I had anxiously anticipated spending my sophomore year in high school as a “cadet”.

During the intervening week Daddy had driven alone up to North Carolina to spend some time with family and was on his way back to West Palm Beach. During those few days in uniform my excitement had morphed into a hopelessly desperate case of homesickness.

Arriving at the stadium on the Tech campus, I was crest-fallen when Daddy and I walked up to the ticket window only to be greeted with a small sign: “SOLD OUT, NO TICKETS FOR TODAY’S GAME” What turned out to be the first ever college football game nationally televised in color would, it appeared, also be one that I would never see.

“Don’t worry boy, I’ll be right back.”

Daddy disappeared into a crowd of old gold beanied freshmen in front of a dorm across the street. Soon reappearing in their midst, I saw him nod his head and pull out his wallet……….we only sat in the goal line student section for part of the 1st quarter ……… after Daddy got back from “the men’s room” for the second time, it wasn’t long before an elderly uniformed usher was leading us to two empty seats 8 or 10 rows up on the 40 yard line!

It was a magical day! I think Tech won the game but, at that time and under the circumstances, it made no difference………I was happy, I was with my father, and the world was right.

Late that afternoon we drove back up to Riverside and my father dropped me off again. I don’t believe I cried but it was obvious that I wanted to go back to Nottingham Blvd. and be with my friends from Conniston and Southboro.

My father died 24 years ago today (3/19/94). Every day until that day came, if I had asked him what was the hardest decision he ever had to make in life, his answer would have always been the same …….. “leaving you that night on that north Georgia hill”. But, he was always quick to add that “if I hadn’t it would have ruined you for life!”

This mindset of stick-to-itiveness is what set our parents generation apart and he was so right. Looking back, he always was. … I was 15 years old.  

   In March of 1986 I packed up my son Robert Eugene Powell and headed off to the Southeast Regional NCAA basketball tournament. The venue for the event was the Omni Coliseum in Atlanta.

Bobby was an up-and-coming high school round-baller at Martin County High School and one of the favored teams in the NCAA Regional was my alma mater Ga. Tech. Over the next few days father and son watched Tech be eliminated by LSU, visited my old dorm and fraternity house, cased out the largest city in the South, and even drove up to visit Riverside Military Academy in Gainesville.

The high point of the trip for my son, and what he remembers most to this day, was not the basketball games or site seeing but what he learned from his old man about ticket scalping, bartering, and up-grades. We started out the first day with some of the worst seats in the house and ended up watching LSU defeat Kentucky in the finals from almost courtside. The Alabama fans that chose not to hang around after their team bit the weenie the first day were only too willing to part with tickets for the best seats in the house and an LSU team that, unexpectedly, had made it to the finals had brought half of New Orleans over at the last minute. Those Cajuns certainly knew how to party, but they all hit town right before game time and none of them had tickets. “Such a deal I’ve got for you…..!!!”

When it was all said and done, the important thing was all the time that Bobby and I had to spend together. It was truly a magical 3 or 4 days!

   Oh! and I almost forgot to tell you………..  Bobby was 15 years old.

Last night I got a call from my son. He lives in Greenville, SC now and he was all excited. Later this week he is taking his oldest son Elias Bradford Powell to the NCAA South Regional basketball tournament at Philips Arena in Atlanta. They have tickets that were purchased online and my son told me “they aren’t very good but I’m not worried, they’ll get better after the first day”. It sounds like he has a plan.

I’m sure Bobby and my grandson will have a few magical days and, by the way,

   Eli is 15 years old…………