I found this photo at https://www.vintag.es/2021/03/daytona-beach-1970s.html Paul wanted to stop at Daytona Beach on Day Two of our trip; back then, you could still drive onto the beach and park very near the ocean, while mindful of the incoming tide so that your car didn’t get stuck in the sand. We rented inner tubes (anything aquatic beyond dog paddling or floating was beyond me). The tube and I were blissfully on our way to Morocco when I heard the lifeguard’s whistle. But I was too far out; he had to swim out and tow me back in. I slightly twisted my ankle, so for the rest of that day, I propped it on the cooler with ice on it. Paul had a sunburn, so we made quite the pair. The principal had sent directions to the home of a married couple, my new colleagues, with whom Paul would stay; the school would pay for me to stay in a hotel, alone. Somehow, we missed a turn. Because of our stop in Daytona, it was already dark, and we were in a neighborhood that I found a bit scary. “Pull in at the Burger King,” I told Paul, “So I can use the pay phone.” I called Mr. Griffith. “We’re at a Burger King next to a hospital. I think the street sign says Dixie Highway. Can you give me the directions again?” “I know exactly where you are. I’ll come get you,” he said. And so, sunburned, gimpy, wearing shorts (verboten, I would soon learn), I met my new boss. I had a week before teacher orientation began to find a place to live. I suppose Mr. Griffith gave me a list of places; Paul and I went searching. I chose a small, partly-furnished detached building behind a large home. It boasted one large room—the first thing we saw upon entering was a double bed, followed by a rattan chair and space for a sofa, capped by a small kitchen table with two chairs set in front of a window. Two short legs were built off the living area, one for a kitchen and one for a bathroom, reached via a hallway open closet that housed a dresser. There was a window air conditioner but no heating unit. That didn’t bother me. This was southern Florida; when would I need heat? It was near the school—a left turn and a right, only a few miles away. We carried in all my worldly goods and headed off to Montgomery Ward to buy a sofa. I’d never had so much as a checkbook; I doubt I knew how to reconcile my balance with the statement. My new Ward’s plastic, used to pay for the sofa, was my first credit card. I had no idea what a mess I would be in shortly. The plaid sofa bed I bought was ugly, but it was 1973, when décor options ran to orange, brown, and olive green. It fit in the space, that was the main thing, and I was ready for company, should any decide to appear.
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Baptist GirlI was a conservative Baptist girl who grew up to become a career Christian, working first in a Baptist school and then in a Baptist college. For about three decades, it was very good until it wasn’t, and I had to leave. But the Baptists formed me. This is my homage to the good times and good people of the world I left, finally, at forty-three, when I became an Episcopalian. These are my memories; others might disagree with my recollections. So be it. Archives
December 2023
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