Rain, Rain, Go Away

When the rain arrived last night, it blasted with a fury--horizontal sheets driven by 30 m.p.h. winds. Andy stood in the motel doorway, watching the tornado-like storm.
"Usually the morning after a thunderstorm, the skies clear, but here it's all grey," he said this morning. As we drove toward Tallahassee, the sun broke through. We could even see beautiful blue beyond. Twenty miles from the capitol, the clouds painted feathery white brush strokes on blue canvas.
For the first time in months we switched back to "home" time, Eastern Time Zone. Somehow that seems significant, and more than once in the last day or two, Andy has reminded me about our time left on the road. "You know, we only have a month to go," or "You know, we're back on our own coast," or "We will be touching the Atlantic Ocean again today." I guess it is significant too that Punxsutawney Phil did not see his shadow this morning, so early spring is in the offing. Unlikely. Improbable. But appropriate for a homecoming on a Monday in four weeks, 26 days to be exact.
Compared to areas of East Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas and Mississippi, the Florida roads are clean. Maybe it's because of tourism or they have an older population. Whatever the reason, we see a huge difference in cleanliness.

Driving across northern Florida equates to crossing Pennsylvania. It goes on forever without much to see. But Punxsutawney Phil got it right. Spring arrived 150 miles west of Jacksonville: deep green roadside grass, swamp maples budding red, other hardwoods tinged with life. Sparsely populated, lumber and cattle dominated. And the cows were all lying down on the job.

On the other side of the road, three cop cars flashed lights. A Lincoln, already pulled over, had its contents spread in front and behind with police in black uniforms and gloves surrounding the vehicle. "That's drugs," said Andy. "They are searching the car."

On the outskirts of Jacksonville about 20 miles from downtown, Andy said, "We're back in Pensacola." After crossing the whole state with beautiful blue skies and puffy white fair weather clouds, we drove back into the heavy overcast. "It's muggy too," he added. Temperatures reached 72 degrees. How unfair to find heavy clouds here after our longest driving day yet!

We stopped at Fort Caroline, France's first attempt at a permanent claim in North America in 1562. The settlement started as a commercial venture and expanded as an escape from religious persecution for Protestant Huguenots. Initially, the exploration expedition, commanded by Jean Ribault, erected a stone monument at the mouth of the St. Johns River. Ribault named it the May River and sailed north to Carlesfort near Port Royal Sound, where he left a small garrison of men. Within months the desperate, starving men returned to France. Two years later a second expedition of 200 soldiers and artisans and a few women sailed to the St. Johns River and, with the help of the Timuculan Indians, built a fort and a village named La Caroline, Land of Charles, after their French King Charles IX. The wooden construction commanded an impressive view of the river from the highest point on the south bank.

That same year, mutinous parties sailed off to seek their fortunes. Some, captured by the Spanish, revealed the presence of a French fort.

"Did you read what happened to the Timuculans?" asked Andy, as we browsed in the museum.

I looked at the display. These native peoples, who helped the French survive and establish a village in the New World, died of the white man's diseases after Spanish forces conquered the fort in 1565, and killed most of the French inhabitants.
After driving out the French, Spain imposed tribute on the Timuculans and forced them into missions. Tens of thousands died, and, if I counted the lines on the chart correctly, a population of about 37,000 in the mid-1500's declined to 550 by 1698 and only 100 in 1757 after epidemics of smallpox, measles, bubonic plague and Cape Verde Island fever.
The remaining Timuculans left with the Spanish. The log fort on the heights of the Florida river with only a few cannons had offered limited protection, even with its water-filled moat on the land side, and the climactic battles between French and Spanish marked the first time that European nations fought for control of lands in what is now the U.S. It would not be the last time.
Our skies darkened. A few gnats swirled.
"I really think we will see rain before evening," said Andy, "but let's walk until the weather stops us." We followed the nature tail in a loop through the upland hammock. Everywhere Spanish moss dripped from the trees and undergrowth choked out the daylight.
This was the only spot where France challenged Spanish claims in North America and failed. How different our lives might be with just a few different twists to history!