The Road Ahead

By Dayton Lummis

The Road Ahead is something that we all are on, and like the old saying, When you come to a fork in the roadtake it, you will travel with the author in this volume of rambling thoughts, observations and acerbic opinions with a certain amount of unease. You are not expected to agree, but may be provoked, challenged, and occasionally outraged. The author reminds us that America is at a tipping point beyond which a whole new society awaits. Whether that will be good or badwe wont know until we are there. And, if The Shadow Knowshe aint tellin

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491790472

Dayton Lummis

Dayton Lummis is now of that advanced age where there is a confusing amount to look back on, and a frightening current scenario to confront and evaluate. His education and experience (Yale University and various Museum directorships), plus informal degrees from “The University of North Beach” and “The Cripple Creek School of Hard Knocks,” have enabled him to navigate through “The Sea of Sorrow and Regret.” He lives in a casita in Santa Fe, NM, with his pet armadillo “Crusty.”

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Copyright © 2016 Dayton Lummis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-9046-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9047-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/30/2016

Contents

Introduction

PART I

The Doculator

PART II

Royal Coachman

PART III

Sulfur Parachute

PART IV

Dun Variant

PART V

Indicator Spinner

PART VI

Parmachene Belle

To Meredith, who has been present

in so many of my books, and the adventures.

I thank her for keeping me sane,

which has been only partially successful!

Introduction

The title of this book, and the cover photograph may be indicative of something. I will try to explain: A long time friend used to frequently apologize to me for not writing (then) or e-mailing (today), explaining that he had nothing to say. I suggested that if that was so, why not communicate about why he had nothing to say? Develop the theme about having nothing to say. After that there was a burst of communication—about nothing to say! It turned out that he had a lot to say but could not put his thinking down on paper or on e-mail. This from a man who used to speak for two hours on the telephone to a mutual friend—nothing to say?

The lesson here is that we all have quite a bit to say, but many of us have difficulty communicating except in spontaneous conversation. I like to write—this is my 16th book! A good friend who is rather critical says that he has not been bored—not yet. This may be my last book. Everything has a beginning and an end—even our universe, one of billions we are told. Of the order of things we know the beginnings but not the endings. Thus, in The Road Ahead there is always the possibility of a DEAD END. The place where progress stops, where there is no going on. No turning back, no starting over. That’s it…

The chapter headings in this book are all named for trout dry flies, that is the artificial lures used in mountain streams for dry fly fishing. The flies are tied onto fish hooks clamped on small metal posts. It is intricate but rather satisfying work. One then ventures into northern waters, perhaps Maine but now Montana and Alaska, to seek one’s luck with fish lurking in cool waters. I learned to tie flies at Camp Allagash on Moosehead Lake in Maine back in the late 1940s. It required patience, self-control and manual dexterity, things not always easy for young boys. I spent quite a bit of time at it, and was particularly pleased with the results of two of my favorites, the Royal Coachman and the Parmachene Belle. I caught more than a few brook trout with those flies in northern Maine streams and ponds, which is why I remember them fondly. The old Maine guides who led us on our weeks long canoe trips in the wilderness were pretty accomplished at setting us up with good fishing. The fish we caught supplemented our evening meals, which were often from the canned goods that we brought along in wooden crates. There was no foraging for wild greens that I remember, and mushrooms might be poisonous. So, we were eager to catch trout in those unspoiled northern waters, unpopulated back then. Not now -over-run with people from away, and pretty well cut over by the timber companies leaving only a mile or so uncut beside the lakes and waterways to provide the illusion of unspoiled wilderness. Ha!

So, I spent many a rainy day at Camp Allagash hunched over a fly-tying bench in a chilly room in a building called, for reasons that I do not remember or perhaps never knew, The Crow’s Nest. The finished flies went into a small sheepskin pouch, stuck in the wooly inside of the pouch. This we carried with our fishing gear and guarded jealously. We all had our favorite flies and thought them better than anyone else’s.

PART I

The Doculator

I mentioned to Tom E. that quite likely my recent book, In the Velvet of Universal Emptiness, might very well be my last. He replied that he hoped not, that I might get some ideas from reading SFGate online. Or perhaps some commentary on the upcoming election? I dunno… First, I have to have a title.

Reading the daily SFGate online sometimes I wish I was crazy again.

Possible new title: He Saw A Doctor.

The upcoming election? God help us!

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The Judge’s pretty daughter in Miles City, Montana, wanted to marry me, but the old man said that I would have to stay in Miles City—doing what? Stayin’ out of trouble, the Judge said, I’ll get you on at the courthouse, a good lifetime job! I left like a thief in the dark of night. I still think of the pretty daughter’s Friday evening get-togethers, ginger snaps and vanilla ice cream, the Judge keeping me on for a drink after the kids were gone and his daughter up to her bedroom to look at porn (she was a sexy and possibly uncontrollable lass), the old man saying to me while the Montana winds made his old Victorian house creak, a nigger in the White House—I never thought I’d live to see that! He was not a bad man, just a bit confused and from an earlier less complicated time. I liked him and he liked me, tracked me down in San Francisco and said he understood why I had left, that his daughter had married a two bit loser who beat her, a man he would have to hire a fellow to kill. He has it coming, the old Judge said. My reply—Don’t we all? His terse response—Yep!

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Tucson and Marfa this year were pretty much a rerun of previous visits and events. Tucson is always pleasant, and the Arizona Inn seems to upholding it’s high standards—unlike so many other places I can think of. Marfa this year was a little bit different, mostly because of the weather. A real Texas norther with biting cold, snow flurries, freezing mists and dangerous road conditions, particularly between Marfa and Alpine where we had to retreat for shelter New Year’s Eve because we could only secure rooms at the Paisano Hotel in Marfa for two nights. The Jimmie Dale Gilmore concert at Padre’s was enjoyable but the drive back to Alpine treacherous. We made it in time for a few drinks at the bar of the venerable Holland Hotel (which I enjoyed because of its historic atmosphere but Meredith did not because of its funkiness and the freight trains passing by outside.) Outside our room we found a small gathering from the bar. A couple of UT students and their girlfriends, a burly Texas bull rider and his somewhat drunk and overly amorous girlfriend Amy. She seemed to take a liking to me, hugging me and saying I love him so much but I could love you too! Meredith extricated me from that and later said that the quiet, competent bull rider is going to have a problem with that! Heading back to Santa Fe the weather improved and we had lunch at Hatch, NM, in the friendly non-pretentious local restaurant we have patronized several times before. (The New York Times had called their red chile the best in the Southwest—what had their (man) been smoking?)

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Not long after my return to Pennsylvania I was on a plane flying south to Florida, something I was not entirely enthusiastic about but Meredith had encouraged interest in South Beach and the Art Deco architecture. So I deplaned at Fort Lauderdale, already a bit uneasy from the massive seaside development I had seen from the airplane window and the wall to wall houses—ending abruptly at swamplands to the west. Odd. A small van took me to South Beach and the hotel—The Hotel of South Beach, a very nice and well situated, reasonably modest establishment. The van took a most circuitous route to drop off other passengers, so I had a sort of impromptu tour—which was interesting, informative but not encouraging. Terrible traffic, pretentious wealth (at least in the coastal areas), and an overwhelming sense of over-crowding. Many of the people I saw did not seem in top health, underscoring that unfortunate reputation Florida has as a place where people come to die… Meredith was flying in from a different point of origin, and at the hotel I grew nervous as she grew later and later. Had to set back our dinner reservation at a French restaurant several times. No problem, said Robert, the friendly and efficient concierge. Meredith finally arrived and we organized ourselves to cab off to the restaurant Pied a Terre, which was in the Cadet Hotel in a quiet neighborhood. The place turned out to be a very pleasant surprise, quite sophisticated, very good food with a jazz trio playing. Not at all like what I had seen along the beachfront during an excursion waiting for Meredith, which was a riot of bars, restaurants, exhibitionism, all very over the top. We thought so highly of Pied a Terre that we decided we would be back. Not far to the hotel so we walked. All sorts of unusual sights and interesting architecture. Very unusual store fronts with bizarre merchandise. South Beach!

Several excursions up and down Ocean Drive, lined with restaurants and clubs, revealed total over the top excess. Many Europeans—they seem to be attracted to this sort of American decadence. Meredith commented, No wonder the Muslims don’t like us. She did not elaborate, but we both agreed that the spectacle was unrestrained vulgarity! Not boring, and lots of money being exchanged. Pretty much what we expected. The art deco architecture is impressive—would be more so without the carnival atmosphere. One nice thing—a lovely park along a stretch of Ocean Drive next to the beach. Called Lummus Park. I learned that Lummus was one of the early founders of the city of Miami.

I am not going to go into a day by day account of our visit, but rather hit some high spots and elaborate. Beginning with dinners:

Previously mentioned—Pied a Terre (twice). Excellent.

A place called Havana 1959, on a noisy and crowded pedestrian passageway. Evidently paying homage to pre-Castro Cuba. Colorful but the food was heavy and uninspired. Perhaps traditional but I would think better exists.

For something simple we went to a Thai restaurant on Collins Avenue. Pretty much average—good but not great. Satisfying.

In search of good seafood we went to Grillfish, where the night before we had stopped in to patronize the interesting bar. The seafood was above average and neatly served. After dinner we went to the bar next door, where the bartender exuberantly remembered us. (Me!) Nice.

We had noticed the infamous Versace Mansion and determined the only way to see it was to reserve for dinner. This we did and dined on a barely adequate meal in a stupendous room with walls entirely covered with seashells. More pizzazz than quality. We did get to tour the ground floor of the mansion after dinner.

Meredith has always had a sort of fixation on the splendiferous(?) Fontainebleau Hotel, so we made an exploratory visit and found it even more over the top than I had imagined. Interesting, though. We made reservations for dinner at Michael Mina’s 74 restaurant—Meredith being enchanted by the Michael Mina restaurant in San Francisco. We cabbed up there the next evening and had a gracious but not overly impressive meal—a bit over-priced. But hey, Miami Beach! (Which I learned had recently had an influx of Russian gangsters and their big bucks. Albanian gangsters, too!)

On our final night we dined once again at Pied a Terre, and found it every bit as fine as our previous experience. One interesting thing. At the bar waiting for our table I talked to an economist from Columbia. He expounded on the South American money in Miami, but then astonished me by saying, Miami is on the way down, finished! I found this a bit incredible from everything I had seen. He elaborated: It is all leveraged money, a house of cards on sand—literally, ha ha. I have to admit I was a bit confused.

As for our various lunches—hit or miss. A few places along the ocean walk, twice in Miami itself, which I will mention when telling of our two city excursions. One lunch was in the super upscale shopping center Bal Harbor (Excuse me—Harbour, the British spelling. How pretentious!) Meredith had some item that could only be returned to a very upscale shop there, so late one morning we took the bus to the northern extreme of Miami Beach. We wandered around in this huge citadel of getting and spending, finally lunching in a very large restaurant where the meal was reasonably good and the service poor. Good place for people watching, though. The level of materialism and exhibitionist was quite high. After Meredith exchanged her item we came upon a most fetching lass with a large ribbon reading MISS ALABAMA. She was apparently posing for publicity for some store. I asked if I might have my picture taken with her and she charmingly agreed. Those I have shared that photo with online have been most amused.

One of the more unusual happenings during our visit to South Beach was the party bus. This vehicle, an old school bus painted psychedelically and covered with flashing lights cruised slowly at night up and down Collins Avenue. People seemed to hop on and off, and at one of the bus’s stops we were beckoned aboard. The interior was filled with flashing lights of all colors. There were bench seats with about a half dozen young people in various states of awareness. A large tub of iced beer was on the floor. And at the back of the bus a three piece electronic band was playing away in tune with more flashing lights. The whole vehicle reeked of marijuana. As we rolled past The Hotel of South Beach we saw Ernesto, the night porter, standing on the porch watching the passing traffic. We waved to him; he saw us and waved back. Later, back at the hotel, he said, I can’t believe you folks were on that thing. The cops are always stopping it. I don’t think they were, because I noticed that they paid little or no attention to the bus, and I think the operators were pretty careful about staying within the bounds of the law. Marijuana? I don’t think that’s a big deal in South Beach. I added $5 to their tip jug. It was worth the experience.

We made two commercial tours of Miami proper, on a tour vehicle that one could get off, then back on later. We got two day tour tickets because there were different things we wanted to see.

The first tour, which left from South Beach, took us across the causeway where the big cruise ships were docked. Huge! The skyline of Miami is very impressive—I think we were told it was the third most impressive in America. The tour took us south along Biscayne Bay, and we opted to get off in Coconut Grove, to walk around and have lunch. I could see immediately that Coconut Grove is an affluent and hip place. Several restaurants we encountered did not appeal, until I spied something called Jaguar. South American inspired, with various ceviches and seafood tapas, we had an excellent lunch that we agreed was just right. Then we caught the scheduled tour bus for the rest of our tour of Coral Gables, Little Havana, and the Brickell Art District. Coral Gables reeked of affluence, Little Havana went on and on and did not seem all THAT interesting. The Brickell District was a construction boom, with elegant high-rises all over the place. South American money. I was interested in the very large number of vultures circling all over the Miami region. I think I learned this had something to do with annual migration. Something…

For our tour the next day we got off at a sort of terminal near the west end of the causeway, a giant indoor mall where tour buses came and went. We got one for the Arts and Design Districts, north of downtown, two areas that we had read about and were interested in. We had researched where to get off to begin our first walking tour, an area of very extensive and quite creative graffiti. For lunch a young woman directed us to a semi-hip café where the meal was adequate and the atmosphere interesting. A lot of hip young people, mostly Caucasian.

Back on another bus and we were delivered to the Design District, seemingly just being developed. Very sleek architecture and all sorts of very high end shops going in. And a most sophisticated outdoor restaurant where we wished we were having lunch. At a very expensive men’s shop the salesman admired my Panama straw hat, said $500, no less. Great hat. He was amazed when I told him $40 at a store in Philadelphia. He gave me his card, saying he wanted information to get a hat like mine. (I did send Eduardo the maker’s name, etc.) I want to mention here that the Cubans we interacted with seemed a rather savvy and capable bunch—something I think they pride themselves in. We hopped on another bus to reach our last stop on our design tour, a large area of very creative murals, many with South American themes. Quite impressive, all that creativity in Miami. We missed our bus back to the point of origin and had to take a taxi. No big deal. We had time to wander around and check everything out. A very large mall devoted to getting and spending, hanging out. Quite a few very large and sleek yachts moored. Money! Even if it is all leveraged—which I don’t believe. I have to say that Miami is a happening place, even if it is not my sort of place. Not boring…

The Everglades. Ah, yes, one might posit that no visit to South Florida would be complete without some view or tour of the Everglades. Except for those slugs clustered in the clubs and restaurants along Ocean Drive in South Beach. Forget those… So, the day before we were scheduled to leave Florida we arranged to pick up a rental car at Miami International Airport. The plan being: drive out to a visitors point in the Everglades, see what we could, drive back to South Beach and put the car in a garage for the night. Then, the next morning Meredith would drive me to the Fort Lauderdale airport and continue west across Florida to Naples where she would meet up with her old friends. Sounds like a plan? Yes.

We took a convenient bus over to the airport, picked up a nice small Chevrolet sort of SUV, and then had a rather difficult time finding the road west from Miami into the Everglades. The suburban area seemed to go on and on, then abruptly stopped and the grassy swamp began. We were on the right road to the visitor center, a National Park Service facility, which was about two miles off the highway into the Everglades. There were some interesting exhibits about flora and fauna, etc., and a tram that took visitors several miles into the Glades on a tour. We signed up for this and it proved to be quite interesting. The young woman guide was very knowledgeable. All sorts of unusual fowl, and of course—alligators. Dozens of them, sleeping (or seeming to) in the warm sun. The tram guide said they can move