I have spent most of my life living in a Florida swamp. Sometimes I sleep in an expensive North Face tent in torrential rains, and terrifying, midnight lightning storms. Occasionally, I figured I might end up a “fried chicken,” being very afraid of lightning. I always take a real, paper copy, of a Sunday New York Times with me going camping. Sometimes I read it in my tent, with a flashlight — this helps me, if I ever am frightened. I can use the NYT to start a campfire, too.
I am a creature of the swamp, and in the summertime, I become a vampire, only venturing outside in the early mornings, to avoid the burning heat of the sun. My skin can burn to the color of a lobster, if I am not careful.
I have worked in the film industry, working with cameras, shooting photography artwork, and as a lighting technician in professional theater. If you work backstage, in a totally dark theater all your life, vampire jokes are common.
I know what it is like to wake up at 4:00 a.m., load up my F-150 truck, Big Blue, and drive far into the country. I go to places I’ve never seen, getting there extra early to assist in getting that first Panavision shot as the sun rises, during the morning “magic hour.” Dusk is also a magic hour for photographers.
During COVID-19, in the past two years, I have acquired many new neighbors. Almost all of them are wonderful people, and I am thrilled about my new community. Americans who have lived in places like Iowa, New York, and Arkansas, are fairly new to living in a Florida swamp.
One of my new neighbors was becoming very upset at how her beautiful car was becoming covered with mud, and how she was creating deep “mud ruts” as she parked it in her swampy side yard.
She had previously commented on my driveway, which is also not paved, and one day she said it “was overgrown.” I decided to swallow any reply. A couple weeks later, I explained to her that I was not offended by what she said, and that my driveway has been grassy and “overgrown” for 16 years. I have “paved it” with oyster shells and Spanish moss.
My neighbor got a “quote” to pave her driveway with concrete, an estimate for almost $6,000. She was dejected and dismayed over the cost. I calmly explained to her, that if she did pave her driveway with concrete, her property taxes would increase because of Florida stormwater runoff fees and laws. She is a very intelligent person, and completely understood my comment.
I decided, at that point, I must help her. I knew how to fix a mini Monster Truck mud yard. I also figured I would end up working for 5-6 hours in extreme heat, and this time of year, in burning sunlight, to get the job done. After having suffered heat exhaustion three times in my life, always on the job, I understood how to protect myself.
I explained to her that a simple solution would be $300 worth of sand and pea gravel. I told her that I could order it all, and do the job. She agreed to trust me.
I ordered the sand and pea gravel package, and was pleased to hear it would be delivered the next day. The next day, my neighbor left for work early, and I took my steel rake, and began refilling the mud into the deep ruts she had carved.
I came across some beautiful, vivacious night-crawlers (fat worms). I took them to “higher mud,” so they would not be crushed by the sand and rocks. As soon as I finished this prep work, I received a text message that my delivery of sand and rocks was on the way! I was ready, and was grateful, that it was arriving before the heat of the day.
A delivery driver with an “Atlanta, Georgia area-code” called my cell phone.
He said, “Ma’am, I have your delivery for you.”
I answered, “I’m ready!”
He asked, “Do you have my breakfast ready?”
I laughed, and explained, “I have coffee!”
He replied, “I had to quit drinking coffee.”
I responded, “I had to quit drinking coffee one time, because I was working so hard I didn't have time to go pee. It worked!”
I told him over the phone, “I will look funny. I will be wearing goggles and a face mask. I am COVID-19 careful, and an elderly person lives in my house.”
We spent the morning getting to know each other from a distance, hollering over the sound of a large forklift, and his diesel engine tractor-trailer, rumbling, parked across the street.
I have spent my life operating diesel truck lift gates, giving Teamsters hand signals as they backed up their big trucks, guiding them to loading docks. I was used to working with forklifts.
The sand and rock delivery driver, “William,” was a tall, thin, African-American man with some gray hair. He stood strong and upright. He struck me as someone who has worked as hard as I have, all his life.
Like many men, he was taken aback that I knew how to direct his forklift with my hand signals. He was dismayed that I was the only person that was going to lift all those bags of sand and rocks. I had a ready envelope with $20 cash for him, and a “love note”, I had written, “Thank You! From a Union Stagehand.”
As soon as he carefully dropped his load, he picked up the envelope, read it, and took the money out.
I hollered out through my mask, “You must eat the envelope!”
He looked at me quizzically.
I clarified, “You must leave that envelope here, you must burn the envelope!”
He then understood what I meant, crumpled up the envelope, and threw it in the grass. He smiled at me.
He looked at me, asking, "How are you gonna carry all these rocks and sand?”
I assured him, “I am in the Union!”
I showed him my Senior Mag-Liner. I expertly kicked it out, and laid it down for him to admire.
I grinned, “I don't lift anything, I just roll it onto the wheels.”
He couldn’t see my smile underneath my KN95 mask.
William suddenly appeared “uncomfortable” thinking about a mature woman about to do manual labor.
He hollered, “Hey, I’ll do that for you!”
I replied, “Oh, I'm good, you are on the clock, and I know you are a busy man. I just wish we could have a beer together, later.”
He then told me how old he was, about 6 years older than me. I told him how old I was, I never lie about that.
I decided to say, “I really like Val Demings, for Florida Senator.” I thought maybe he would appreciate my comment.
William replied, “Oh…oh! I'm not sure about… that.”
I said, “I think Val Demings is the best person for the job, and I also like Stacey Abrams in Georgia.”
William said with slight disdain, “You must be a liberal.”
I was offended, I refuse to be “labeled” or caricatured. This man knew nothing about me.
I stood straight up, and said firmly, “Look here. I am REAL.”
William replied, “I'm headed back to Georgia tomorrow.”
I said, “I have family in Georgia, and I am trying to get them to vote for Stacey Abrams. Women deserve respect. Think of the little girls.”
I got his attention with the words, “little girls,” and felt he was “feeling me.”
William replied, “I am going to vote for the Jesus candidate.”
I hollered loud and clear, "Have a blessed day!”
William beamed a big smile at me, and replied, “You too!”
He then drove his massive forklift back to his tractor-trailer. I began rolling the sand from the pallet onto my dolly, and placing bags of sand around the mud ruts I had already filled in. Suddenly, I noticed that under the bags of sand on the pallet, there was a bevy of paver stones. This was wrong, and not the pea gravel needed for my job. His forklift and truck were loud, so I called his cell phone and said, “William! It’s the wrong order!”
William gratefully replied, “I was just wondering the same thing!”
During many of my previous jobs, I learned how to not only predict “Murphy’s Law,” but I had become an expert in “Murphy’s Law.” I had learned “patience.”
William apologized, “I’m sorry.”
I replied, “We are all human beings.”
William said he would switch out the loads, I told him I was going to take a “Union break,” but I would leave my dolly for him to use.
I went into my dark, cool house, and filled a soup-pan with water to boil up some eggs. Granny was still asleep. I went to the refrigerator, and ate a cold, crispy, dill pickle, knowing that the salt would protect me from heat exhaustion. I drank a bunch of ice-water, poured a cup of coffee, and decided to check on William.
I asked him, “Do you want a cold pickle?”
William looked at me “like I was crazy.”
After years and years of working with men, I was used to “that look,” so I just went back in the house.
The eggs were just about boiled, I ran them under cold water, peeling one, like a ravenous young osprey chick. After I ate one egg, I went to check on William again, because if he had finished switching out the loads, I did not want to leave my $300 Mag-Liner in the yard, all by itself.
Then, I saw William unloading my entire package into my neighbor’s yard, himself.
I went back into the house, peeled and salted another egg for him, picked out the biggest, coldest pickle I could find, and took everything outside on a small plate.
Wearing my mask, I put the plate on a chair close to him, and said, “I have a hot egg and a cold pickle here for you.”
The heat was building up, it was almost 12:00 noon.
I hollered out, “Hey, William, have you ever heard of James Clyburn?”
William hesitated, then replied, “That name sounds familiar.”
I thought for a moment, and then I asked him, “Have you ever heard of John Lewis?”
Williams face lit up as bright as the hot sun that day, “Yes, ma’am! I definitely know who John Lewis is.”
I responded, "Stacey Abrams wants to pass all that voting rights legislation, all those laws that John Lewis was about.”
William began to understand how I felt.
He explained, “I’m so busy working, I can’t keep up with all the politics.”
Before William left, he got my order correct. I worked hard in the hot sun until 3:00 pm, pouring sand and rocks, raking everything smooth and perfect.
As William was leaving, I had hollered out to him, “What if, you just tell your kinfolk in Georgia, that we need a Blue Wave for Jesus?”
William thought about my words carefully for a moment. He smiled with a new determination.
He hollered back, “Yes, Ma’am. Have a blessed day!”