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Palatka

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Contributed by: Walter Franklin on 1/25/2007

John's telephone call interrupted one of those rare and all too brief periods of total happiness, so when he invited Clare and me to his home for a visit, the acceptance was given without deep consideration. Former college classmates and close friends, John and I had resolved all of life's issues over countless mugs of cold beer - thirty years ago.

Now, there are four hours of driving time to mull over a mix of emotions. The conclusion had been reached long ago that reunions were no more than excuses to compare successes. That was a game that had no winners and should therefore be avoided.

Nineteen sixty-nine was an incredible year. It was the climax to a four year long buildup of hopes and aspirations. Everyone was excited about what lay ahead. For many, there would be years of travel and excitement (compliments of Uncle Sam) with opportunities to explore the mystical Far East. The risks of military servitude had diminished by then. Others chose to focus on advanced studies and were preparing to have one more summer "experience" before entering graduate school. Then there was my group. Having decided to cast aside the student's mantle, we prepared to head out into the business world to make our fortunes.

As each story came in of a classmate being hired by a Fortune 500 company, an "alphabet house (one of those insurance/securities/legal/advertising firms that is so prestigious as to be instantly recognizable by its initials alone)," or some other high profile organization, our dreams grew. A work start within two weeks of graduation and plans for an August wedding made my puzzle complete. Commencement exercises were approached with confidence, knowing that my life was just about perfect! Over four years, John and I had spent hours dissecting every aspect of our backgrounds, our education, our relationships, and our futures. We had assembled each other's parts in every imaginable way. We knew we had all the answers.

This trip is going to be tiring - three hours on the Interstate followed by another hour on two lane roads. Why would someone ever decide to build a life and a career in Palatka? My limited knowledge of "The Potato Capital of Florida" included a vague recollection of a standout football player at the University of Florida who had grown up there. Now, I'm driving there to see someone I have not seen or heard from in thirty years! The plan was to leave in the morning with a mid-afternoon arrival. John had organized a barbecue and had invited a handful of former classmates as well as some friends and "community leaders." He had assured us that we would feel "right at home."

It bothers me that I can't conjure up a vivid memory of our last days as classmates. I remember that John had decided to immediately fulfill his military obligation. While he had been assigned to the Signal Corps, he and a cousin had decided to try to get into helicopter school. Our paths had begun to separate when a vision problem stole my military opportunity. John wanted to be a pilot. Beyond that, a late night phone call (clouded with alcohol) from some military base in Alabama was the last contact we had. In four hours, now three and one half, we will begin the game. As a little kid, when the family would gather together, cousins would be forced to stand back to back to see who was taller, who was heavier, who was better. This will be the adult version. I don't want to play.

What happened to all the hopes and dreams? Where are those lofty goals? Not that I'm unhappy, ashamed or disappointed with my life; but how did I ever get so far off track? As I look back now, I feel as though I was dragged through the last twenty years. Instead of cutting my own path, I followed someone else's. I did the family thing quite well. That was expected. My children have grown to be strong and independent. They all have promising careers and have earned the respect of their peers. I did the divorce thing at just the right time, having garnered friends' respect for a long-lasting marriage, and now sympathy and understanding for the emotional upheaval of a divorce.

There will be no gold watches in my future, no retirement parties, no special honors for dedicated and loyal service. After too many fits and starts, lumps and bumps, I learned that I thrive on the independence and freedom that comes with self-employment. Self-motivated, strong-willed people find difficulty dancing to the beat of someone else's drum. There! After years of making excuses for my inability to work with others, I have come up with the precise patois to describe my shortcomings. Will it stand up to John's scrutiny? How will it measure up when we stand back to back?

Palatka can best be found with a magnifying glass and a large map! While it is the Putnam County Seat, there are less than 75,000 people living in the entire county. Not wanting to appear dumb, I took some time this past week to learn a little about the place we will be visiting. Clare and I have gone through this routine a hundred times. "Howdy y'all, my name is... Welcome to ouah little community. We dearly hope y'all have a real goood time." A quick dip into a discussion of median age, population density, median effective buying income, and ad valorem millage rates, and the soppy, sugary façade breaks away to reveal the serious concerns not often shared with new acquaintances. Today will be no different. We are prepared.

Since there are very few buildings in South Florida dating back to the 1930's, visiting a county that is celebrating its sesquicentennial should be quite revealing. John had said that he and his family lived in the Northeast Historical District. Their home dates back to the late 1800's.

"Are you ok? Russell, is everything all right? You seem so quiet." Clare's expression is full of concern. Her touch: so warm. I can't believe that I could find someone so understanding and supportive.

"Yes, Darling. Everything is just fine. Can you believe this weather? It's too cool for the first weekend in May. We'll be wishing we brought sweaters." I'm back to reality. The turn off the Interstate takes us through Sanford and Deland. We skirt the edge of the Ocala National Forest on one side and the St. Johns River on the other. The rolling hills, quaint cluster of homes at every intersection, and Spanish Moss draped arms of towering Live Oaks are an enormous contrast with the flash and brash of the South Florida megalopolis.

The bridge across the St. Johns is guarded by two World War I soldiers, frozen forever in action poses. Nestled against the far bank of the river, Palatka can be seen from its lofty arch. Following John's detailed instructions, we turn right at the second light. At the first stop sign, the road turns to brick, uneven brick that keeps speeds to slightly more than a crawl. Just driving this old road is an experience. The tree canopy turns the bright mid-day light into soft shadows that dance on the sides of old, old homes. The rays of sunlight that manage to break through the thick foliage are like spotlights searching the ground for actors in an outdoor play.

A slumping balcony here, a boarded up window there, lawns that are more leaves and periwinkle than grass, front steps that droop. Gentrification has not yet reached into this neighborhood, although there are indications that people are beginning to recognize the potential value of the turn-of-the-century homes. The house on the next corner is painted in bold yellows, blues and reds. The sign on the mailbox says, "Azalea House," while another sign in the middle of the front lawn says, "Minute Maid." This three story Victorian home stands out, if for no other reason than its color and straight lines. Unlike the others with their sags, twists, warps, and bends, the Azalea House at least appears to be square. After a quick right turn we are in front of a home with house numbers that match John's description.

As I reach for the ignition key, I can feel Clare's soft touch on my forearm. A turn of the head, and I can see her expression. Her eyes say it all. Clare knows my fear, my regret for having agreed to this foolish meeting. If we have had no reason for contact in the past thirty years, why should we make this attempt to restore a friendship that died long ago? The slightly tilted head, the delicate smile and the beautiful eyes put me at ease. Clare will be there with me, and that will be enough.

Circling the car, I open Clare's door. She steps from the car energetically, fighting the stiffness of the long ride. In a moment, we are walking arm in arm. The uneven slate makes the trip to the front porch like an excursion through a minefield. Clare's high heels pose quite a challenge, and she holds my arm firmly. The porch step yields to our weight with a solemn groan that alerts a lazy calico cat to our arrival. Barely opening an eye, the cat appears to be accustomed to this type of intrusion. We both stop for a moment and allow all of our senses to absorb the scene.

"I love that rich, heady fragrance," says Clare as she glances toward an arboretum covered with Jasmine. "It's hard to believe that such a powerful scent could come from those delicate little flowers." My eyes settle on an old swing suspended from the ceiling of the porch. I can imagine a summer evening spent swaying back and forth.

Our reverie is broken as the front door swings open and a big old man fills the opening. "Welcome to Palatka! My name is John." The words cut through to the bone. This fiftyish man was my college classmate. How could he have aged so much more than I? He doesn't look middle-aged. John is old. Without batting an eye, Clare quickly and firmly responds, "I'm Clare. Do you remember Russell?" Now it's John's turn to be speechless. I can almost see identical thoughts screaming through his brain. Brushing aside my outstretched hand, John gives me a big bear hug exclaiming, "Why you old son-of-a-gun!" You don't look a day over fifty! How the hell are you? Come on in. Thank you for coming. You look great. I'm so glad you're here." God, will it ever end? Let's cut through the useless drivel and get down to facts. Sure, I look great, John. Just like you. It's going to be a long afternoon.

Somehow managing to get around behind us, our host pushes us through the open doorway and into his home. "Clare, Russ, some of our other guests have already arrived. I'll introduce you to the family and friends. We can catch up on old times later on tonight. I hope you're hungry. We've got more food than a whole battalion could eat. Everybody's out in the back yard. So, come on! Let's go!" John's affable smile and easy-going style is soothing. As long as I don't think of him as a classmate of the same age, I am ok. It is like being on a boat in choppy water. The queasy feeling goes away as long as I don't look down into the water. I realize that I am the one clutching Clare's arm instead of the other way around.

"Hey everybody! Look who's here! This is Russell, my old classmate from Bates. We haven't seen each other in thirty years. Why don't you all come around and introduce yourselves. It will be easier that way. This here is Clare. Give them both a nice welcome." With that, John made his way to the barbecue grill.

John's wife led the parade. "Howdy y'all, my name is Helen. Welcome to ouah little community. We dearly hope y'all have a real goood time." It's going to be a long afternoon. Our heads spin as we swim through all the introductions. Warren is the president of Putnam State Bank where John has worked for the past twenty years. Henry owns the Azalea House. He runs it as a bed & breakfast inn. Mary runs the antique mall. Her husband, Joe (or was it Bill?) works for the County.

I keep looking over at John, trying to come to grips with the fact that I'm the same age and no doubt have the same appearance as this old man. Through little bits and pieces shared by the other guests, I learn that Helen grew up in Palatka. After John left the Army, he and Helen met through typically unusual circumstances. The drawn out courtship culminated in marriage back in 1976. Helen brought John to live in Palatka in 1979. That was the year he started working as a bank teller. John and Helen have one child, a thirteen-year-old daughter with Down Syndrome. Suzanne is visiting a friend today.

The picture melds together as the day wears on. The square shouldered, jut-jawed, cock-sure military student who graduated with me has somehow softened and mellowed. The shoulders are a little rounded, the eyes a little duller. The crisp and precise mannerisms of youth have given way to a languid and flowing style that lacks either a starting point or an end. John seems to be floating on the ocean of life, somewhat detached and uninvolved. The swells raise him up momentarily and then let him glide back into a trough. I wonder if John reflects back on our childhood goals and aspirations.

The late afternoon sun manages to break through the canopy and spread its orange-hued light in every direction. Flitting back and forth on the peak of the house, a single mockingbird mimics the sounds of our party. First screaming shrilly, then singing melodically, he seems to have gathered some sound from each one of the guests. The first yawn has just been stifled.

"Well, Russ, you don't look too bad - for an old man!" I turn to see John's approach from behind. People have settled into small groups and are chatting. The lid has been closed on the grill, and Helen is setting out the coffee, tea, and sweet rolls. His expression confirms everything I anticipated. Why would someone submit to this brush with reality without a threat of violence? I know I'm old. I don't need someone to shout it out. Yet, here I am with the truth so close I can touch it. John is too, and the pain is obvious. I describe, without detail, the high and low points of the last thirty years. Listening and nodding at key points, John absorbs every word with the alacrity of a southern preacher. When his turn comes, a deep sense of longing emerges from John's demeanor as he looks off into the distance.

I'm puzzled and confused. The silence becomes palpable as his eyes come to rest on an old garage tucked in the corner of the yard. Reluctant to ask, I let the moment pass. Guests bidding farewell interrupt us and bring us back to reality. While it's only eight o'clock, the long drive and tension of the morning have left me drained. I complete the final pleasantries without emotion. Clare is helping Helen carry things inside as the last guests depart.

"Walk with me over to the neighbor's. I have to get Suzanne." John was moving slowly and seemed to want the companionship. How we must look, two old guys strolling deliberately down the twisted sidewalk in the last light of day! John remarked, "I'm fortunate with the way my life has turned out. I didn't plan it this way, but I have a wonderful family, a nice home, and I have been able to provide for the future. My work is rewarding, and I have some wonderful friends. What more could someone ask for?"

Suzanne had a good day. She was bright and animated and was excited to see her Dad who greeted her warmly, giving her an even bigger bear hug than he had given me. Suzanne took her Dad's hand in a tight grip, forcing me to walk behind on the narrow sidewalk. I had to marvel at the way she worships him. The talk was about dolls, toys, and a picnic lunch on the back lawn.

Arriving back at the house, John opened the door for Suzanne. "You go on inside, and help Mom with the dishes. Daddy and Mr. Russell will be in shortly. I'm going to take Mr. Russell out to the garage." My curiosity about the old garage would be resolved. "Come on, Russ. I've got something to show you."

A single post lamp illuminated the path to the garage. The white-hot filament of the gaslight poured a milky white haze over everything in its path. The sagging roof and slightly twisted frame confirmed in a second that a better name for this building would be "carriage house," since it must have been built long before the idea of an automobile ever crossed someone's mind. It was odd to see how easily the huge doors swung open to John's practiced touch. One would expect them to groan, drag on the ground and bind at the hinges. Instead they opened with fluid precision.

"Wait here while I get the lights." That request did not have to be repeated. I was looking into a dark abyss where shapes were indistinguishable. Disappearing into the gloom for a second, I could hear John's single comment, "There!" It was followed by a crisp, "Click!" A huge room bathed in the glow of multiple fluorescent fixtures appeared in the explosion of light. The view was so out of place as to be difficult to absorb. Before me was spread out a twenty-first century workshop, clad in a nineteenth century facade. The overgrown building with misplaced shingles, warped siding, and a tangle of vines and dried leaves was immaculate on the inside. Lower shelves lining the walls held every power tool imaginable. Upper shelves held an expensive inventory of mahogany stock cut to different lengths and thicknesses. Work surfaces were spotless. The concrete floor was white and devoid of a single blemish. A central vacuum system with a maze of tubes was suspended from the ceiling. That explained the absence of even a single speck of sawdust.

John grasped my arm and nudged me into the workshop. "We'd better close the doors before we start attracting mosquitoes. Around here, they wear landing lights." At his touch, the doors swung effortlessly and snugly into place. I could feel the gentle cool breeze of air conditioning although the accompanying sound was absent. As John flipped more switches and scurried around, music from the sixties began to descend upon my ears from speakers tucked into the corners of the shop. Digging into a huge cooler, John pulled out two Budweiser's.

"Let me show you my baby." With that, John pulled a lightweight cover from the one remaining object in the shop. Standing square in the middle of the floor was a wooden boat. It appeared to be about twenty feet long, and you could tell by its immaculate appearance that it hadn't seen water in quite a long while. The mahogany exterior was polished to a brilliant shine.

"Russ, I came out of the Army disillusioned and discouraged. The dreams we had in college seemed naïve and pointless when I was wearing a uniform stained with blood. I had so much to celebrate, yet I didn't even know how to smile. Meeting Helen helped me. She was so patient and understanding. I bathed in her love." In that instant we could have been standing on a hill, thirty years away, sharing our most intimate thoughts.

Lightly running his hand over the silky smooth finish on the boat, John directed me to two chairs where we sat in a slow and purposeful motion. "Helen had so many dreams of her own that it was easy for me to focus on her goals: a career, a family, a home. Without even realizing it, I turned out the light on the past and everything that had been important to me. Not long after we were married, we moved here, to Palatka. Her folks were in poor health and needed her. I started working at the bank.

"When Suzanne was born, we awoke from our "daze." Life became important as we dedicated ourselves to her future. By her very nature, Suzanne is incredibly loving and innocent. It's as though her mind doesn't have time for the harsh realities of life. This hard bitten, cynical man had been confronted by the most gentle and delicate of God's creatures. Who would teach whom?

"While it was filled with love, my life lacked direction. There had to be something to get me out of bed in the morning, to make me look forward to a weekend. That's when this old boat came into my life. It's a 1958 Chris-Craft Sportsman. It belonged to Peter Galbreath, over in Green Cove Springs. He bought it to restore but discovered that he was having a harsh reaction to the sawdust. He had no choice but to sell it. Word came to me through one of the bank customers. Helen and I drove over to see it one Sunday, after church about four years ago. Boy, was it a mess. It lay in pieces that were strewn about his old barn. The motor was sitting in a bushel basket with parts stuck in oil stained cardboard boxes.

"Helen took one look at the mess and one look at me and decided that we were made for each other. She insisted that I write a check right there on the spot. Everything about this project has been a challenge - even getting it home! Russ, this old boat has helped me to turn my life around. At first, I didn't even realize what was happening.

"Working with wood is like restoring one's soul. You start by stripping away all the dirt and grime that has built up over the years and then remove what remains of the old finish. Once the wood is laid bare, you have to smooth it down with great care, making sure that you don't gouge it or sand too deeply. You must then choose the kind of finish you want, building it coat by coat. The work is never done. It must be revitalized from time to time, and unexpected nicks and scratches must be repaired. Done properly, it becomes a work of art with all the warmth and beauty of a living being. The most important thing to note is that wood will never show its true beauty without the help of man, nor can man restore his soul by himself.

"People have told me that an old Chris-Craft is like a Harley Davidson. It has a distinctive, resonant sound that can't be duplicated. Whenever I put it in the water, people crowd around to see it and to hear it purr. While that always brings me pleasure, it's in moments when I sit with her in this old shop that I find peace.

The harsh crumpling sound of the beer can was a contrast to the soft and mellow tone set by John's words and the beautiful wooden sculpture before us. It was easy to remember the hundreds of times that same sound had permeated our conversations before. This time it was different. This time, it provided an emphasis for everything John had said. It brought the past and the present together. There was now a balance, a harmony where none had existed before. It was the pin in the middle of a turntable. A cold and polished piece of indistinguishable steel with no other purpose, it was the center point for all the music in the world. Every record played had to rotate around that pin.

We both stood up without speaking and approached the Chris-Craft. I admired the bleached mahogany trim, the precise lines of the caulk between the deckboards, the nearly perfect finish of multiple coats of varnish. John flipped back the motor cover, exposing the old in-line flathead six cylinder Hercules engine painted in Chris-Craft blue. Raked at an odd angle to match up with the propeller shaft, the Hercules proudly displayed the three two-barrel carburetors that were responsible for the 131 horsepower it put out. John also pointed out the bilge that was not only immaculate but also finished in varnish instead of paint.
It was difficult to imagine the original condition of the boat as John described it. No one would doubt that hundreds upon hundreds of hours of painstaking work had gone into the restoration. For John, this was more than an old boat. It was an extension of his very being. I then knew that my old college classmate had found the most important and basic goals of our youth: peace and happiness.

Leaving the garage and walking back to his home, I placed my hand on John's shoulder and held it, trying to make a physical bond to compliment the emotional one we had reestablished. I came here thinking of myself. I was leaving what had become a special place, in awe of this gentle being and the life he had carved for himself. Clare and I would have much to discuss on our way home.

Copyright (c) 1999 Walter R. Franklin
PALATKA By Walter R. Franklin

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