FLORIDA FISHING

Grandson Martin, Jacob,
and Vickie (l. to r.)

While visiting in the home of Vickie Sullivan's 97-year old mother in central Florida recently, Vickie's sister came over with two old photographs of me and my grandson Martin in hand. The photos probably dated back to 33 years ago, and one photo showed me holding a large bass I had caught; the other photograph showed my grandson Martin, Mary Ruth's oldest son Jacob, and Vickie holding a nice string of fish they had caught in canals on the Latt Maxcy Corporation Ranch. I couldn't believe that the large bass I held was my catch of the day, but there I was, wearing large-frame glasses popular back in the day, smiling over the fish that was stretched to full length in a snapshot that Mary Ruth had discovered among her memorabilia.

Fishing was once among my favorite recreations, and I felt a jolt about my aging process when I looked at the photo. My blissful expression and that of my grandson in the photographs also jolted me into a consciousness of how recent photos of me show a lot of white hair and a certain worried look on my face. I was in my forties when we made this fishing jaunt, and I was enchanted with the landscape of central Florida — the grassy pastureland savannas with scattered clumps of saw palmetto, hammocks of live oaks trailing moss, and orange groves scattered among many glistening lakes. My nostalgia and memories of the past make it a happy time among hospitable people.

Me with bass

At the time of the photo-taking, an abundance of bass, bream, and catfish filled the canals on the ranch with overflowing high water from the nearby Kissimmee River. Every cast that day had brought in a fish; however, I never returned to this bountiful fishing spot and later confined my fishing to casts from a pier that Vickie's mother built on the beach of her lakefront home. For a long spell, she fed the fish in Silver Lake daily, and on one occasion, I caught 23 bream, ceasing my fishing only when dusk came... and I began to think about having to clean the catch!

In my forthcoming book of poetry, Sifting Red Dirt (see cover below), I included a prose poem about fishing expeditions entitled Big Creek:

They called it “floating the river,” one paddling, the other casting his way into eddies all day, pulling close to shadowy pools, perch beds where blue gills and sun perch darted for multi-colored flies thrown into their hunger. One summer, they allowed me along, and I was given a fly rod and shown how to crack the whip, two flies attached. When I felt the hard pull of two blue gills, plump, dark blue bodies tugging at the lures and breaking the surface of the water I knew why they went out on the river. Most days the sun was so hot they had to come to a hiatus under overhanging oaks every few hours to open a can of beer and say a few words to each other, but the less words, the better, the overwhelming silence a relief from talk required for the unending necessity of hands at work, making a living. The Bogue Chitto, Choctaw for “Big Creek,” was then clear water, and when we stopped under the bridge by The Tavern to replenish the beer, I could see the gravel bottom of the river, breathe in the desultory air, feel a part of that silence that had been broken only by the whiz of the line and a small snap as the line hit the water. They were both on their way to becoming alcoholics, and floating the river soon became something less spiritual, less recreation, and more drinking in the shade of the watchful oaks. I knew the only peace either of them felt was on that river, and I did not go with them often but when I did, I wasn’t afraid, even in sudden summer thunderstorms when we had to pull up on the banks and sit until the white flashes and rumbling stopped. I was only afraid of water moccasins dropping into the boat, preferring to be at the outer edges of the perch pools. Sometimes when the sun became unbearable, the paddler would start the motor of an old outboard and stir the heavy air, riding the current for a few minutes, the breeze pushing us on to another pool. Years later, I would understand the meditative quality of those trips, no thoughts persisting, just concentration on the line flying into the dark pools searching for hungry perch, a hypnotic gesture, not caring what anyone thought, not wanting to hear anyone else’s problems, not moaning about life not being intact, but feeling the soul’s bliss, heart contracting with joy in the simple goodness of floating the river. 

TRAVELING SOUTH AGAIN

A journey through south/middle Georgia and northeast/central Florida proved to be a relaxing and, at the same time, a not-so-relaxing break from a writing routine this past week. Our destination was Frostproof, Florida, orange grove territory. The highlight of the trip through middle Georgia was an agricultural experience with a stop just off I-75 to visit Lane Southern Orchards, a farm that includes 3,000 acres of peach orchards, 3,000 acres of pecan orchards, and a 6-acre patch of strawberries. The roadside market offered peaches and pecans ‘a plenty, and we bought both in a huge marketplace that has been open since 1908.

The pecan trees in Georgia can live up to 200 years, but they only produce every other year. Even so, the State remains the largest producer of pecans in the United States, and Albany, Georgia has the distinction of being the pecan capital of the U.S. Lane Orchard’s brochure touted that pecans are heart-healthy and contain antioxidants, including 19 vitamins and minerals, healthy fat and fiber. And for trivial pursuers, the Lane merchants told us that there’re 78 pecans in a pecan pie (one of their specialties). Driving through the farm heartland, we thought about the old question Cajuns ask when they encounter a stranger: “Who’s your mama? And can you make a roux?” except that the question in south/middle Georgia is: “Who’s your farmer? And can you make a cobbler (blackberry, blueberry, strawberry, and the premier one, peach cobbler)?”

The day after our farm tour, we veered off course to coastal Florida and came to an abrupt stop at Amelia Island, not far from Jacksonville. The Island is a barrier island in northern Florida -- a place touting itself as the “southernmost jewel in the Sea Island chain.” Amelia Island has 13 miles of pristine Atlantic Ocean beaches and is the size and shape of Manhattan. Eight different flags have flown over it, and it’s home to Civil War Era Fort Clinch and American Beach, which was a refuge for those who sought freedom from segregation. We had planned to stay at an inn on this island, but when we entered the lobby, we found cats and dogs occupying choice places on the sofas. As I’m allergic to animal dander, we cancelled the room and went on to Fernandina Beach, the northern part of Amelia Island that is referred to as “tropical Mayberry.” 

Two docents in an art gallery of the 50-block Historic District in Fernandina Beach gave us a rundown on the artsy life of the town where culture is alive and doing well, including poetry readings and an event that particularly interested me, the Amelia Island Book Festival, which is 15 years old and offers a free Reader’s Festival. The famed John Grisham has a home in the area and visits often, and international crowds are drawn to theatre, dance, and open air art walks. We experienced a strong pull to stay awhile, particularly when we dined under the canopy of giant oaks trailing Spanish moss that reminded us of our home in south Louisiana.

But we meandered on to lake country Florida near Lake Wales to visit with my friend Vickie’s relatives and spent four days on Silver Lake, watching the bird life and sunsets that outclass any in locales to which I’ve traveled, beginning with the memories of our family trip West to “Diddy Wah Diddy” (California) back in the 40’s.

We’d been so taken with Fernandina Beach that we scheduled a stop there on our return trip to Sewanee, Tennessee and were disappointed to read reports of rainy weather at Amelia Island and Fernandina Beach. Rain began to fall after we ate dinner in the historic district of Fernandina Beach, and by the time we returned to the motel, the wind had begun to pick up. A few hours later, we heard gusts roaring outside as rain pelted against the windows. I didn’t watch the weather report until the following morning and was glad I had avoided the news when I learned that we had been in a tropical storm and a hurricane watch during the night! We had driven into the heart of a dangerous storm and slept through the worst of it. I can remember surviving Hurricane Andrew in the same manner when it hovered over south Louisiana.

However, by 8:30 a.m., we were traveling the highway inland toward Tifton, Georgia and didn’t abandon the road until 4 p.m. when we reached The Mountain and familiar territory sans stormy weather.

                                                                                                           

Photographs by Victoria I. Sullivan

EXPLORING FLORIDA

The tranquil scene above depicts the kind of Florida trips we usually make to the Sullivan home located on Silver Lake in Frostproof, Florida. The home is set on this site that allows for perfect views of tranquil sunsets and a shimmering lake—breathtaking scenes conducive to visual relaxation. If I were choosing a site for a resort and a golf course, this lake setting would be an ideal one.

However, after spending a few days at this location, four of us set out on an exploratory trip searching for serendipity and an atypical Florida site. We had heard that we could find a moderately-priced lunch at a 100 million dollar resort about thirty miles west of Frostproof, near Fort Meade, Florida that lived up to its intriguing name, "Streamsong."

We drove west on a two-lane highway lined by palmetto scrub, small ponds, and mounds of discarded materials from phosphate mines, weaving our way beside dying orange groves, cattle-grazed land, unnoticed for many years, and through scenery that we called "the boonies." It was reclaimed mining territory, and within an hour we had entered a 16,000-acre site, last mined in the 60's, where two 18-hole links style golf courses had been carved out of huge sand dunes left behind by the original mining operations of Mosaic Phosphate Company. Our first response was one of incredulity when we viewed the particularly stark and undeveloped setting -- or so it seemed.

The place was remote, and when we saw the huge 216-room lodge looming ahead, we were amazed at the architectural dream that has become a global destination for golfers and those who like to stay in buildings that reflect the natural environment. I didn't take a photograph of the six-story lodge because it was a gray day, and the innovative design of the building didn't particularly appeal to me, but I was told that the lodge wasn't just a product of artistic sustainability, it had been hailed as an extraordinary piece of architecture. To me, the building had an institutional, stronghold aura—even the turret on the roof resembled a guardsman's post, but the design has been heralded as "bold and audacious."

We lunched in one of the three restaurants within the lodge, the "P₂0₅" (chemical formula for phosphate), which featured Floridian comfort food including chicken pot pie and fried grouper, and were told we could visit the grotto-style spa if we wished. We declined that invitation, as well as an invite to enjoy the "infinity" pool. The concierge informed us that Streamsong's two golf courses have been ranked among Golf Week's best golf resort destinations in the U.S.

Streamsong, a destination set in a remote area halfway between Orlando and Tampa, may not have been our idea of perfect serendipity but we agreed that it could be a place to escape the stresses of post-modern living and to re-connect to a natural environment indicative of pastoral central Florida.

As I said when I began this blog, the scenes on Silver Lake (shown in the attached photos) appealed more to my sensibilities. However, for golfers who like luxury and minimalist nature in one package, Streamsong offers a unique experience off the beaten track.