"I want to go to the beach with my silent typewriter and I don't want anybody to bother me because I want to enhance this planet. I came here to be a poet."
I was about 10 the first year my parents took me to Treasure Island, Florida. In fact, it was the first time we'd gone anywhere except for day trips to Coney Island, River Downs and Meadowbrook swimming pool. I'm not sure why my father decided it was time to make this adventurous trek out of state. Perhaps he'd spent one too many minutes in my uncle Frank's barbershop listening to his own family's vacation plans. Maybe it was his longing for the seawater and a desire to share it with his only daughter.
Several weeks ahead of time, my cousins Chris, Nancy and Carol, who were all close to me in age, made lists of what we'd need to pack. In fact, when Chris was in town last week from San Francisco, we recalled together how seriously we took our duties of picking out the perfect library books to take with us to read in the car. Our parents planned too - maps from AAA to make sure they knew the way, what to take, where to stop. Should we call ahead and make reservations at the Holiday Inn or Howard Johnson's. Did dad and uncle Frank think they could make Atlanta before rush hour? It was all so mysterious and oh so exciting.
Way before dawn, probably around 4 a.m., I'd climb sleepily into the backseat with my blanket and my pillow. I recall being so utterly content knowing that a grand adventure was unfolding as a slept under my soft blanket.
Down I-75 we'd go, stopping for breakfast near Lexington, Kentucky and lunch at a Stuckey's in Tennessee. Depending on the route we took, we'd stay overnight in either Tennessee, Alabama or Georgia. (The Jellico Motel is still right across the Kentucky/Tennessee border and I can still find it whenver I'm driving through the area!)
We stopped frequently at rest stops or roadside fruit stands. Who could resist Georgia peaches after all, and the urge to get out of the 1959 Chevrolet Biscayne was almost too much for us girls. We possessed explorer's hearts even then. Along the way, we left footprints in the bottom of a motel pool in Marietta, Georgia. Its new concrete had been poured earlier in the day, and of course, we disregarded the "Do Not Enter" signs and happily danced around leaving footprints of Keds redball jets in the "deep end." Our fathers quckly pulled us out and made us sit on chairs for what seemed like days but in actuality was probably no more than a 1/2 hour.
Because I am an only child, my cousins would argue over who got to ride in my car with me. My uncle Frank was the lead driver in his navy blue Impala. Going a good 90 mph with the windows down was always quite an experience (though my mother's hair was sprayed with so much lacquer it barely moved).
When we arrived in Treasure Island, we girls would tear through the suitcases like cats in search of a mouse. Our number one priority was always to find our swimsuits and jump straight into the pool. And though we never visited Cypress Springs, our slim, stick-straight figures cut a slash into the water as we turned from shy, gawky pre-adolescents into graceful mermaids as we parted the water with our hands, dove down and kicked our feet above the water, feeling every inch a princess of the deep blue sea.
