June 30, 2021
There were more water incursions in the truck yesterday. Actually, it didn’t come from outside so incursions is probably the wrong word. One of my half-gallon containers of water tipped over. The lid didn’t come off but it leaked enough to get the bottom of my mattress wet and a large part of my sheets. Lesson learned: keep water in cab.
Most of yesterday morning was spent at another laundromat. This time I found an old school version operating with quarters. A new school version Price is Right was playing on the TV. Did I mention that Elijah was on the Price is Right in the 1970s? He has had more than his share of 15 minutes of fame. Here is the full episode he was on:
I had a nice chat in the laundromat with the lady running the place and a couple of customers. I forgot how a laundromat can be a hub of community for people.
I’m now in a McDonald’s—one of my many offices along with libraries. I’ve heard a number of people talk about how a cup of coffee at Mickey D’s is part of their community engagement. I’m curious how people make connections beyond the internet.
I got a little even with the Wyndham Gardens Tallahassee. I stayed in their parking lot last night bringing my average cost down to $44/night. (It was $88 for one night.) As is often the case with vengeance, it doesn’t pay. At 2:30 in the morning a trash truck came and set off an atomic boom picking up and dropping a huge, beige-colored dumpster forty feet from my head. The piercing, back-up warning sound lasered away any vestiges of sleep. Being next to the four lane Apalachee Parkway wasn’t great either, but I did manage to get five or six hours of mosquito free shut eye in between all the commotion. Don’t park near dumpsters!
More big news about making old connections! I was able to hook up with my first, best friend in Tallahassee. Tracy was the son of my mom’s boss, Victoria Warner, a sociology/social work professor at Florida A and M, the historically black university here in Tallahassee. Mom was the department’s secretary.
The Warners were a big family of 2 girls and 3 boys—Claire the oldest, Tracy the youngest. All the children were just about grown when I met them, but there was at least a decade between Tracy and his next oldest sibling. He was the real baby.
I can’t tell you how much it means to reconnect with this person. Tracy is two years older than me and was always a head or more taller. He felt like a big brother. I admired him and probably did my best to annoy him at times. The oldest sibling Claire confirmed my memory of myself.
“I was a little demon, wasn’t I,” I said to her yesterday.
“Oh, yes you were,” she said.
Claire answered the door at their old homestead when I showed up yesterday. I had driven by the house several times the day before just to scope things out—hoping I’d see someone in the driveway. What were the chances someone I knew would be there after all these years? The last time I’d seen a Warner was around 1987 when I came back to Tallahassee during a vacation away from college. I sat with Mrs. Warner and reminisced about old times though the times were only about 17 years old then—not the 48 years they are now. Mrs. Warner passed in 2006.
I went to the front door though I knew no one ever entered the house that way. After knocking on the door I backed up to be able to hear the sidedoor at the same time. I heard a creek come from there and backed up some more to see an older woman come into view.
“Can I help you,” she said?
“I’m Eric Robertson, an old friend of the Warners. I used to play here as a child when my family came to visit. I’m wondering if any of the Warners are still around?”
“I’m a Warner,” she said.
“Joyce?” I asked.
“No, Claire.”
The fact that Claire existed had slipped my mind, but it came back as soon as she said her name. I didn’t have a lot to do with the older siblings. I was a pipsqueak five-year-old running around their knees, probably getting in the way more than anything else.
“What were your daddy and momma’s name?”
“Reva Jo and Warren,” I said.
“Oh my goodness. Little Eric Robertson,” Claire said.
She invited me in.
“Wow, this brings back all kinds of memories,” I said walking into the kitchen. Everything was exactly the same.
“Go wherever you want. I’m going to call Tracy so you can talk to him.”
A memory I always associated with that kitchen came to mind—something about St. Joseph’s aspirin. (It’s not a candy even though it’s pink and it tastes sweet.)
In the living room I looked at the modern (1970s) offset shelves that once displayed dozens and dozens of trophies. The Warners are a family of high achievers. Joyce was a Miss Black America. There were trophies for everything, football, baseball, basketball, track and field.
I talked with Tracy and we set a time for me to check in later and try to make a plan to get together. I wasn’t sure if he was excited to see me or not. I followed Claire into a room that had been an alternate living room that was never used when I was there as a child. Now this was her bedroom and she had a big, comfy chair in there with a tv. As if I were being dropped back in time, Bonanza was playing on the tube.
We caught up about family and work. She told me about her twins. One died in 2014 and she said her mind hasn’t been right since.
Twins! I suddenly remembered those babies and looking down into their bubble-producing faces.
“What year did you have the twins,” I asked.
“1971!”
When I left, Claire said, “I always loved your mama.”
I told her I still missed her, which I guess will always be true.
The day before a hawk had crossed my path and flown up to a dormitory window at Florida A and M. I always associate birds with my mom, especially hawks which she once rehabilitated with an organization in Hattiesburg. As part of that work she raised mice in a little house behind ours. Hundreds of white mice!
Tracy and I met at a local brew pub that night. He was much more ebullient in person. I immediately felt comfortable with him.
After years working with incarcerated youth including being the director of several programs, Tracy started a second career eight years ago selling Cadillacs, Buicks and GMCs. A long conversation ensued with the restaurant manager who had just bought a new Cadillac. Tracy had such an easy rapport with the man, it was like listening to long-time friends talk. The manager ended up comping our meal.
The father of Tracy and his four siblings was always a mystery to me. As a child, all I knew of him was the portrait of a man in military uniform on their wall. He was deceased and because I knew he had been in Vietnam I assumed he had died there.
Last night Tracy told me his father died of a heart attack at the age of 39, a few months before Tracy was born. He was not in the military when he died but back in Tallahassee working.
Tracy showed me recently discovered photos of his mom and dad that he now had downloaded on his cell phone. The beautiful photos are a series of snapshots of the young couple laughing and holding each other dressed sharply in the fashion of the day.
It’s hard to remember sometimes that we were all once young. We have all lived many lives.
Well…a rolling stone gathers no moss and as much as I like the hanging grey moss in Tallahassee I feel like I need to put some miles toward my next destination where I will take a break and continue this story of Tallahassee, how I reconnected with the Warners and memories about my life here. I’ve been from McDonald’s to visit Tracy’s in his home near Wakulla Springs, back to Tallahassee and the Main Library and now I sit at a Denny’s, the first place I could think of that might still be open. It’s 11:15 p.m. This place closes at midnight and I need to put some pictures with this. Then, a little night driving is in order.
Good night for now.
Spotty West Goes East 