Farmworkers on Strike

Labor Day got me to thinking about this photo of farm workers on strike in Immokalee, Florida. I spent a lot of time covering migrant farm workers in South Florida and had gotten to know this crew well enough that I talked them into taking a reporter and me into the fields with them.

I spent the day shooting photos and trying to avoid being shot by the farm owner (fortunately for me, the guy’s wife liked me well enough to intervene). My partner spent the day picking peppers. He was paid $18 for a day’s work: $17 of it in cash, and a buck withheld for Social Security by the crew chief. Whether that buck ever made it to Washington is a matter of conjecture. My buddy said, “When I retire, the very first dollar I spend is going to be the dollar I earned picking peppers.”

Not long after that, I went back to Immokalee to cover the workers striking for their pay to be raised from $18 a day to $22.50 a day. The strike was unsuccessful.

I am, if you haven’t guessed, the guy with a camera over his shoulder.

Ties That Bind

There’s a closet in the basement that contains some clothes dating back to just past the middle of the last century. (Sure sounds old when you put it that way.)

When you open the door, you see an assortment of neckties. I recognize some of those – and, no, I’m not going to tell you which ones – once adorned my neck. Most of them are fakes.

Cops wear “breakaway” ties so that the bad guys can’t grab them by the necktie and strangle them. Of course, it’s MY contention that strangulation is the primary goal of the necktie.

Knots known to sailors and serial killers

I was a Boy Scout who earned the Pioneering Merit Badge. Not only could I tie every required knot, I enjoyed playing around with ones known only to sailors and serial killers. The only knot that I’ve never been able to master is a necktie.

Even though I got to cover Queen Elizabeth because I was the only guy on the staff with a suit, I’ve had to depend on fakes and Wife Lila to drape respectability around my neck.

Two instructions

My family has two instructions for the day when there will be “two at my head, two at my feet and two to carry me when I die:”

  1. Not in a necktie.
  2. Not in Florida.

Obligatory Isaac report

We came through Tropical Storm Isaac in pretty good shape. The rains pretty much moved on by early evening, but Son Adam, who lives west of town in a rural area got between 10 and 15 inches of rain. His house is on a high pad about three feet above the water, but he has huge Koi (“ornamental varieties of domesticated common carp”) swimming in his front yard. I warned him that alligators have been know to use those as bait, so I wouldn’t get close to them.

Our Comcast Internet connection is still down, so this is going to be a short post tonight.

A Customer Service Save

I have two usual routes for getting from Cape to West Palm Beach, depending on my mood. If I want to take the scenic route, I’ll go Cape to Cairo to Wickliffe to Mayfield (KY) to Benton (KY) to Cadiz (KY) south on I-24 to Nashville, where I’ll pick up I-65 to Birmingham and Montgomery. There, I’ll get off the Interstate and cut through Dothan, (AL) until I cross over the Florida line at Mariana. If it’s a busy holiday weekend or bad weather with lots of traffic, I’ll ride I-10 to just east of Tallahassee, where I’ll drop down the center of the state on U.S. 27. Traffic’s generally not as heavy nor as crazy as on the Interstate. In the days when the speed limit was 55 mph, that was my preferred route because I could run about as fast there as the Big Road and there were fewer speed cops.

If I just want to make speed, it’s I-24 to Nashville, climb over Monteagle Pass, then pick up I-75 in Chattanooga and blast on through Atlanta until I pick up the Florida Turnpike in Wildwood, which takes me all the way home. I guess I should amend that. I’ve never “blasted” through Atlanta. Every time I go through that town, I’m more convinced than ever that General Sherman had the right idea.

(By the way the Cadiz sign above has nothing to do with the story. It’s on a nice family-style restaurant off the main drag. I just wanted something that said “Cadiz.” You can click on any of the pix to make them larger.)

All roads lead through Cadiz

All of those routes take me through Cadiz, which is about the place to gas up no matter whether I’m heading west to Cape or east to Florida. I’ve been hitting the same Shell station for probably 20 years. It used to be on the north side of the road, but has moved to the south side and has added a nice gift shop. Many moons ago I won 50 or 75 bucks on a scratch-off lottery ticket, so I always buy another try and pick up some local Kentucky Lake area newspapers. They also have clean bathrooms.

Great, they’re the cheapest station

So, when I was eastbound home and saw my tank was getting lean, I looked at the gas prices signs. Good, my preferred station was $3.59 and the two other stations were a dime higher.

When I stuck the nozzle into my tank, though, I saw the pump price was $3.69, not $3.59. Some stations display a higher price if you don’t pay cash or use a company credit card. I pressed the go button. The price didn’t adjust downward. While it was still dinging away, I walked  back to look at the sign and take a picture of it. Yep, it showed $3.59 to eastbound traffic. Curiously, though, it showed $3.69 to the westbound folks.

When the pump shut off, my receipt showed that 15.127 gallons had been pumped at a cost of $3.699 per gallon for a total of $55.95.

“Oh, the sign is wrong”

I went inside to speak with Nice Cashier who said, “Oh, yes, that sign has been wrong for about a month. We keep reporting it, but nobody comes to fix it.”

“That’s not my problem. I pulled in here because I’ve been doing business with you for years and because your advertised price was a dime less than the other stations at this location. I want a refund for the difference.”

“I can’t do that. My drawer would be out of balance.”

“Who CAN do something about it?”

“You’ll have to call this 800-number.” I did. After I had explained the situation to Very Nice Woman, she asked to speak to the cashier. The cashier asked if it would be OK if she walked outside with my phone. I followed her and watched as she looked at the sign and at the pump. She verified what she saw to the woman on the phone (mouthing to me “I believed you”).

How about putting a check in the mail?

Very Nice Lady on phone said SHE wasn’t authorized to give me a refund, but she’d have her boss call me. I said, “Look, we’re only talking about a buck-fifty-one here. I don’t want to have a conversation with anybody while I’m rocketing down the road at 78 miles per hour. How about when I get home in a week I’ll find a letter in the mail containing $1.51, and I won’t have to research which Kentucky agency deals with misleading advertising at gas stations.”

I got home and waited nine days for my letter. Three days ago, I called the station in Cadiz and asked, “Anybody fix your sign yet?” The answer was no.

I called the 800-number, but Very Nice Lady was on vacation. I was put through to Gerald White, vice president of MaxfuelXpress. We had a pleasant chat where he said that somebody should have just given me the lousy $1.51 (not his exact words, but it came across.that way).

He gave me his personal assurance that a check would be in the mail to me that very afternoon. “By the way,” I told him, “the station says your sign is still showing the wrong price today.”

The check WAS in the mail

True to his word, the mail came today. It contained a check for $1.51, along with the following letter: “Thank you for taking the time and effort to let me know about our poor service with the sign and price at the pump at Broadbent’s Shell convenience store. Please accept my sincere apology and this check for the difference in price. I am embarrassed that it took this long for it to be rectified and really appreciate you giving me the chance to make it right. Please do not hesitate to contact me on any further issues.”

So, I guess I’ll be gassing up at Broadbent’s Shell on my next trip through, replenishing my stash of junk food, picking up a couple of local papers and hoping lottery lightning hits again. Had the mail not come, you’d have been reading a much different ending. Thank you, Mr. White. Good luck on the sign.

Bridges and Goodbyes

I really enjoyed my visit to Cape, but it was time to get back to Florida. Judge Bill Hopkins said he had gotten a call from Wife Lila asking how long I had to be gone before she could have me declared legally dead.

Since I was headed that way, Mother said she’d follow me in her car (for the record, she may be 90, but she’s still a good driver) over to her trailer on Kentucky Lake so I could help her turn on the water and check for any problems.

Not surprisingly, it took me longer than anticipated to get everything loaded in my van. Because of the late start, we didn’t waste any time sightseeing along the way. I did bang off a couple of frames as we headed over the Ohio River bridge leaving Cairo for Wickliffe. You can tell that it’s about as wide as the old Cape Mississippi River Bridge (plus it’s got that crazy 90-degree bend on the Kentucky end).

35 years

The pipes at the trailer froze winter before last, so she had to have them replaced. When I went to turn on the water, nothing happened. After much head scratching and mosquito swatting, I discovered that they had moved the main shutoff valve. I decided to stay there overnight instead of pressing on to Nashville as I had planned.

By coincidence, we were there on August 7, 35 years to the day when Dad had a heart attack at the lake and died. When folks posted stories this week about it being the week that Elvis died, I tell ’em that my dad died that week too; the difference is that I don’t miss Elvis.

We were going to eat breakfast, but the place we planned on stopping at was closed, so we said our goodbyes at a gas station. I’m getting a little better at the teenage girl self-portrait thing. My arm must be getting longer.

More narrow bridges

I’m glad I’m not pulling a travel trailer or driving an 18-wheeler. These bridges linking sections of the Land Between the Lakes are narrow and showing their age. At one time, I could have told you what body of water these cross, but I have long ago jettisoned that knowledge.

I covered the aftermath of the Silver Bridge collapse on Dec. 15, 1967. The eyebar-chain suspension bridge linking Point Pleasant, W Va., and Gallipolis, Oh., failed while it was filled with rush-hour holiday shoppers. Forty-six people died in the icy waters of the Ohio River.

When I cross a bridge with a lot of rust on it, I wonder whether it’s cosmetic or whether it’s another Silver Bridge waiting to happen.

Photo gallery of Kentucky bridges

I think the shadows of the bridge structure are interesting. I have to admit I wasn’t doing any careful composing. I was just holding the camera with one hand and trying to keep from scraping the bridge railing with the other. I didn’t see the shadows until I saw them on the computer screen. Click on any photo to make it larger, then click on the left or right side to move through the gallery.