One January morning, breathing frost, a truck driver stopped in front of my building. Piece by piece, he wheeled out two years of memories from my Fells Point apartment.
My furniture went into a small compartment of a larger trailer that contained the worldy possessions of two other families. One was from Maine, the other, Pennsylvania - we were all moving to Florida.
I wasn't planning on driving by myself; my Mom was still too weak for my Dad to leave her side, and at the last minute David cancelled to take his Stepmom back to her trailer park. It was better this way, I decided. No strings.
So I sat George in the back seat, filled up the tank, and turned on the Jimmy Buffett CD. That night we made it to North Carolina. There was still snow on the ground. George was uneasy in the hotel room, and while I went across the street to Outback Steakhouse, he stood by the door, his dinner untouched.
I have no idea what's in a Mango-Rita, but it sure tasted delicious.
I have to admit, I was a little scared myself, once what I was doing sunk in. But the next morning was bright and full of promise, so I filled up the tank and off we went. Savannah was our destination. The temperature rose with each passing hour. I tossed our winter coats in the trunk. We took a detour past tobacco farms in South Carolina, and I counted the blue truck in front of me as a friend.
Safe in Savannah, I learned the joy of being a girl all alone in a bar. I made quite a few friends and felt comfortable enough to share my story. They thought Florida a much better location.
The third day we drove thru Georgia and all the way down Florida. We pulled up at Crane's Beach House just as the sun was starting to set; in the pink light George's nose was twitching - there were so many plants to sniff! The placard about the gate said "No Worries." We had made it.
