Wherever the Road Leads

Kelly’s Update

I Can See Clearly Now

Paddy, Mick and Ryan were at the pub, reflecting that they hadn’t seen their friend Kelly in a while. They finished their drinks and went round to the tiny cottage where he lived. Mrs. Kelly said she was glad to see them as her husband was thoroughly convinced that he was about to die, even though the doctor could find nothing wrong.

She directed them back to the bedroom where he lay, warning them to watch their heads on the cottage’s low ceilings. The three friends went back to the bedroom, ducking their heads as they went.

After an hour of cajoling their friend Kelly, they finally had him convinced that he was going to live, there was nothing wrong with him that a few pints couldn’t cure. Pleased with their success, the three stood to leave. Paddy and Mick remembered to duck, but Ryan whacked his head on the low door jam.

“Lard Jaysus,” quipped Ryan holding his forehead, “dey’ll never be gettin’ a coffin through this door.”


I got invited to dinner at the Kelly’s (the RV Park owners) this evening. What a treat for my taste buds. And a challenge to my ears.

My first very wrong assumption about the Kelly’s was that, given their Irish name, they are Catholics. Wrong: Church of God.

Wrong assumption number two: With their Irish ancestry and this being Florida, they would not  have a thick Southern accent. Very wrong. Miss Patti, who is the most visible in the RV Park, is fairly easy to understand, speaking one-on-one with a northerner. In her own environment amongst family, Lord have mercy, Georgia accents have nothing on them. I was harkened back to the strongest Alabama accent before my ears got somewhat acclimatized to the correct pronunciation of the English language, y’all.

The food? Pure Southern delight. Pork ribs dropped in a deep fryer, pinto beans simmered all day in ham hocks to pour on top of boiled rice then sprinkled with chopped onion, and white corn bread so sop up the juices. As one of the Kelly sons commented, the only thing missing was ‘Nilla Puddin’ for dessert. At least I think that’s what he said.

If I ever get invited again, I’m sure not going to be so polite with the first plateful, thinking I could go back for seconds. Elbows up and ears back.


And then there were none. The burned-out fifth-wheel trailer…



A dumpster was delivered and a couple of guys stripped it down the the platform that it was built on, shown here, attached to the reddish pickup, being pulled away…



What fifth-wheel…? What could not be sold for scrap metal was put in the dumpster…




Sixteen months in the making…

Longer, really. Two summers ago in Texas, I heard a loud whack on my windshield. The glass seemed to have withstood the onslaught.

January 4th, 2014, driving north through Michigan, with the hot air from the defrost blowing on the inside, and the cold air of Michigan blowing on the outside, the windshield began to crack, beginning at the weak point from the Texas stone.


This is the first opportunity that I have had to get the windshield replaced in Florida. Florida license, Florida tags, Florida insurance. I wanted to make the claim as close to my home base of Green Cove Springs Florida as possible.


The Insurance Company arranged to have a mobile unit come out to the RV Park the next day to do a Re and Re. (Remove and replace.)


After pert near a year and a half and two winters in Canada, it’s like driving a brand new truck.


The Florida Fleabag…

Is settling in comfortably, thank you, with the bald spots filling in nicely.






It’s an exhausting life… for both of us.

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