Bob Deakin Short Stories

Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton sing their hearts out.

It’s another wonderful evening together – Lucy and me at the rooftop lounge. The margaritas are going down like water with hors d’ oeuvres to die for. The moon is rising over a turquoise sky with a velvet breeze rustling our hair as the soft pop tunes from the late 70s so appropriately score the scene with an undercurrent of melancholy.

Could she be the one? I ask myself – a fleeting thought comes to me before I stop it in its tracks. Let’s just take it easy and enjoy our time together, I reassure myself knowing the challenge that lies ahead.

My life with Lucy is developing into a thrilling love story but still, there is but one giant hurdle to conquer before we reach the next level, and she doesn’t even know it. I wander and wonder, looking for a way to break it to her gently: I am an openly obsessed Kenny Rogers fan.

That’s right. The Gambler. The Coward of the County. Kenny Rogers Roasters fried chicken restaurants and the duets with the ladies.

Maybe Lucy will take it well. Maybe she’ll love me and maybe she won’t, but I hope if she leaves that she believes in me. I’ll just have to suck it up and go home singing “you picked a fine time to leave me Lucille.”

All of a sudden I decide it’s time to get this over with. I steady myself, puff out my chest, look Lucy in the eyes and announce loud and clear, “Lucy, I’m a big time Kenny Rogers fan, I’m proud of it, I’ll never stop loving his music and if you leave me as a result, I’ll take it like a man. All I ask is that Lucy… don’t take your love to town.”

I can see she’s uncomfortable, wriggling in her seat, looking at her hands, and I find myself deeply concerned with the condition that her condition is in.

“Lucy,” I stammer, the words crashing into the lump in my throat. “You’re my lady. I don’t expect you to fall in love with a dreamer, but you’ve decorated my life in ways you’ll never know. I’ll understand if you don’t need me baby but if you accept me for who I am, through the years, we can love the world away.”

Out of the blue Lucy sings out, “Islands in the stream!” I start to smile but I don’t know where she’s going with this. “That is what we are,” she continues in her best Dolly Parton.

“No one in between,” I respond at the top of my lungs in my stellar Kenny impersonation, hopping on top of our table. “How can we be wrong!”

“Sail away with me, to another world!” Lucy sings out as she joins me on the tabletop, in the cutest, most adorably shilling, delicate Dolly impersonation anyone has ever heard, as if she’d spent years pretending to be Dolly… as I had Kenny.

Then we sing out in unison, for the whole lounge and the whole world to hear:

“And we rely on each other, uh huuuhhh.”

Copyright 2010

Mark Grusauski, Brian Orth and Ted Gereg (L to R) launch their raft during the old "Huckleberry Finn Raft Race" on Lake Waramaug in Warren, CT in the late 1980s.

Labor Day is often a quiet holiday. It does not come replete with marching bands and speeches, but some residents may remember the summer activities put on by Dick Combs, the late owner of the Inn on Lake Waramaug.

One of the most popular events was “The Huckleberry Finn Raft Race,” a homemade raft race on the lake that drew hundreds of spectators each year. The race continued a tradition on the lake that was born in the 1800s and ended in 1906. It was revived in 1981 and offered as a trophy a one-foot tall statue.

There was no entry fee to join the race and the rules were simple: each raft had to be homemade and the total amount spent on materials could not exceed $25. “This rule will be strictly enforced” entrants were warned. Sails, oars and any other methods of propelling the craft were allowed with the exception of motor power. Everyone had to wear a life jacket and those 10 to 14 years old had to be accompanied on the craft by an adult. No one younger was permitted to compete.

The race route was short, beginning at the lawn of the restaurant on the shore of Lake Waramaug. The former inn is now a private residence, located just west of the intersection of Bliss Road and North Shore Road. The restaurateur usually placed an obstacle out on the water for the boats to reach before returning to the shore as the finish line.

Former Kent resident Mark Grusauski participated in a number of the races with friends and remembers a year when the turnaround was a carefully arranged group of buoys and another when it was a boat full of reporters.

“It varied from year to year but I can’t imagine the thing lasted for more than 20 minutes,” he said recently.

Judging by old newspaper photographs it was probably a good thing the race was short. A front page photo from the Washington Eagle in 1987 showed a rickety wooden craft with three men from Bristol titled, “Trial and Error.” It was propelled by two men on bicycles with the rear wheels attached to paddles in the water. A third man paddled and steered from the side.

Another photo from the previous year showed a man on top of what appeared to be a coffee table, flailing away with his hands and struggling to move his “raft” along the course.

A New Milford Times photo collage from 1984 showed a man and a woman piloting a raft shaped like and egg, supplying the power with their legs from below the surface, like ducks.

“I think we won that thing twice,” Mr. Grusauski said, laughing as he recaptured the memories. “Mr. Combs liked to have fun. The prize was a dinner for two for every person on the boat so we elected to go with a six-person boat.”

The name of his 1987 entry was “The Silo Six.” The crewmen were John Arno and Ted Gereg from Kent and Brian Orth, Scott Walker and the late John Buchmann, all from Sharon. They won the race with a time of seven minutes and one second.

The “Cider Barrel 6” won in 1988, crewed by Arno, Buchmann, Gereg and Orth, along with Eric Kaminski and Bob Skueglia of Kent.

Hundreds of spectators showed up, as was the case each year, cheering the competition on. Mr. Grusauski doesn’t recall an official ceremony to commemorate the event but said there were always a series of tailgate parties near the shore the day of the race.

Morette Robarge Orth was Mr. Orth’s girlfriend at the time and has since become his wife.

“We were the girls on the beach that cheered,” she recalled with much enthusiasm.

“The raft was like 40 feet long and they kept winning the race,” she said of the six-man crew. “The Kent Greenhouse lent them a flat-bed truck so they could get the thing to the lake.”

Marge McAvoy used to attend the races and remembers it being a great time for all. Many of the rafts never made it to the finish line, disintegrating under their own weight and faulty construction. One, she remembers, was made entirely of concrete.

“It was a blast but it was sad when they discontinued it,” Mrs. McAvoy remembered fondly. “It was so much fun.”

The “Huckleberry Finn Raft Race” continued into the early 90s and ended a few years before the Inn on Lake Waramaug closed. It may not have been the biggest or the most organized event around Lake Waramaug over the years, but according to those who were there, it was the most fun.

Labor Day is often a quiet holiday. It does not come replete with marching bands and speeches, but some residents may remember the summer activities put on by Dick Combs, the late owner of the Inn on Lake Waramaug in Warren, Connecticut.

Originally published in the Kent Good Times Dispatch on September 10, 2004

Andy Stirnweiss is shown in the open cockpit of his World War II fighter and in his Kent home. Photo by Bob Deakin (2005)

No one in the world can say they served in two wars, flew under the Route 341 bridge in Kent, Connecticut and had a brother who played for the New York Yankees. No one, that is, except for Andy Stirnweiss.

Mr. Stirnweiss lives on the Kent/New Milford border but has called Kent home for most of his 81 years, retiring as a captain in the U.S. Navy following a 26-year career. Originally from the Bronx and the son of a New York City cop, he remembers cows and farms in the days when the borough was still remote from the city.

He found Kent by way of the Schneider family from the Macedonia section of town and the Imberts, who lived in the Bog Hollow area just over the line. The three families could all trace their ancestry to the same region of Germany more than a century ago and the Stirnweiss family came to Kent for visits when he was a kid.

“We used to come and visit the Blanks when they had the Bull’s Bridge Inn,” Mr. Stirnweiss explained last Friday at his home. His father loved the inn and the town and soon enough the family bought a red brick home on Birch Hill Lane.

Still powerfully built, he looks a man not to be messed with but he peppers his conversation with a dry wit and the understated modesty typical of his generation of veterans.

From the time he joined the Navy in 1942 he flew more than 50 different kinds of military aircraft including single and twin engines, turbo props, seaplanes, helicopters and jets. He served in many capacities including as a bomber and missile pilot, but spent the majority of his time as a test pilot during the burgeoning era of high-tech flight in the 1950s. After stints at the Pentagon “pushing papers” as he derisively described it, he served as navigator of the U.S.S. Kittyhawk aircraft carrier in the early 1960s as he neared the end of his career. He wanted to spend more time with his wife, Emilie, and their young family he said.

“I don’t know of any other woman I ever knew that would put up with the stuff she did as a military wife,” he said. “I’d run off and leave her with the kids and she kept the family going.”

the couple spent their first years together in the 1940s in Hawaii, where their first two daughters were born. Soon after the Navy sent him to UCLA for advanced training and the young family lived in California. They moved around a bit more until settling back in Kent in the mid-1950s.

He remembers a tongue-in-cheek pact he made with Emilie early in the marriage.

“I told my wife before we got married that I guaranteed she was going to love me half the time because I’d be away half the time,” he said with a laugh. “Whether she loved me or hated me she’d be happy half the time.”

“She was the nicest person you ever met in your life,” interjected his daughter, Lyn, while flipping through old photographs with him.

Before he met his wife his brother, George, was already making quite a name for himself on the diamond with the New York Yankees. George “Snuffy” Stirnweiss, as he was nicknamed, was the Yanks’ starting second baseman throughout the 1940s and into the 50s, winning the batting title in 1945 and playing on four World Series Championship teams. Snuffy – nicknamed for his penchant for snuff and because he resembled and old-time comedian – was also drafted by the New York Giants to play pro football as a quarterback, but chose baseball instead. He later taught at the Canterbury School during the off-season coaching baseball and football.

Andy Stirnweiss never considered sports as a career, however. While he had athletic ability, he said it didn’t show up in the same way as with his brother, who had amazing foot-speed.

He got to see George play a lot in the minor leagues, but after World War II erupted there were fewer opportunities to see him play. Nevertheless, he did watch him in action in New York and in Boston on occasion and citizens in Kent used to get groups together to travel to the Bronx to cheer on their neighbor.

What was it like having a brother on the Yanks during the golden era of baseball?

“I got tickets,” he joked. “I was dating a very attractive girl one time and she was a Yankees fan and I brought her down to the game one day. We met George in the locker room after the game then went to a steak house for dinner with the team.

“The three of us went in and half the Yankee team was in there and we sat down with them. This girl was a big Yankee fan and boy, my ratings went up,” he said, laughing.

He remembers his brother – who was five years his senior – as “a great guy and a nice man” and credits him with taking care of the family after their father passed away at a young age. Tragically, George died young himself, in 1958, the result of a train accident in New Jersey. Unlike his brother, George did not like to fly and his niece remembers he almost missed the train that day.

“He actually missed the train, then he ran to catch it,” Lyn said. “That’s how fast he was. Unfortunately, he did catch the train.

“They were grooming him to take over the Yankees as manager,” his brother said, describing his rise as manager through the minor leagues following his playing career. “He knew more about baseball than anybody. After he moved away, he’d come up and visit once in a while and one of the things he always wanted to do was see (notorious Kent resident) Lem Segar. George claimed [Segar] knew more about baseball than any player he ever knew.”

Andy Stirnweiss remains close to his brother’s family.

Mr. Stirnweiss gained his fighter pilot’s wings two years after entering the service and saw action in World War II and Korea before moving on to post-graduate studies in Monterey, California. In the mid-1950s he became a test pilot and entered the navy experimental squadron VX4 at the naval Missile Center in Point Mugu, CA. Much of the testing involved aircraft carriers.

“There are one-seventeenth as many accidents on a carrier as there used to be,” he said, referring to the straight deck carriers that have since been replaced by the angled-deck variety. “The hairiest thing I ever did was landing on a carrier at night under the old conditions – a straight deck with practically no lights on. You used your instruments to get your time turnaround but at the last minute you had to eyeball it.”

He completed more than 450 carrier landings on a straight deck carrier and plenty more on angled decks, and made the first carrier landings with the Grumman A3 Bomber in 1963.

“Angled decks don’t count,” he joked. “They’re easy.”

He won numerous medals during his flying days but downplays any personal accomplishments.

“I thought it was great,” he said of his career. “I enjoyed all of the flying. The more experimental it was, the more fun it was.”

He had two tours of duty in the Korean War, flying both the Corsair F4U as well as jets. His training and testing became increasingly sophisticated as the years passed and he Cold War intensified. He was one of the first fliers to attempt dropping atom bomb shells from jets in the early 1950s.

“The jets were easier,” he said of avoiding trouble during war. “You’re going like hell and you drop your bombs from the higher distances.”

He was shot at during his career but managed to move through his flying career with nary a glitch – with one exception. “I bailed out between San Francisco and San Jose on the coast in a town called Atascadero,” he remembered. “My F4U was on fire at night and it was over the ocean. In a Corsair all you’ve got to do is put your head toward the back of the wing and roll out. The amazing thing was in 1943 I was taught the technique and the chute’s opening and I remembered the lecture. All I could think of was, ‘I’m glad I paid attention.’”

He landed in a coastal marsh and was picked up 25 minutes later without a scratch. His children gave him a framed front page of the San Jose Mercury News with his picture on the cover, taken the day after the near tragedy. He keeps the pull cord from his parachute as a souvenir of the 1951 event.

Through the Society of Experimental Test Pilots meetings in the 50s he met Chuck Yeager, John Glenn and many of the other notable test pilots of the time and applied to be one of the original seven Mercury astronauts in 1959. Though he didn’t make the final cut he became a friend of John Young, who twice landed on the moon and commanded the first Space Shuttle mission.

Of all the test flights Mr. Stirnweiss made, none may have been as risky as the one he made in Kent in 1945. There was a young lady who worked at Watson’s Store on Main Street and he wanted to make an impression on her and some of his friends. Though only 21 he was already an expert pilot and figured he could pull off a stunt for all to remember by flying under the Route 341 bridge across the Housatonic River, next to Kent School. A friend was going to join him but backed out when he saw how little clearance there was.

Before the flight he carefully measured the bridge and determined he had 14 feet of clearance with his Grumman F6F Hellcat fighter/bomber, which was just over 13 feet tall. The old bridge was about a foot lower than it is today and he also had to veer to the right to avoid rocks in the shallow water underneath.

“It was relatively safe and extremely stupid,” he says today.

Before he made the maneuver he buzzed the town center then headed down over the Housatonic. He made it through without incident then beat it back to his base in Rhode Island before anyone was the wiser.

No mention of the stunt has ever been made other than within a close-knit group of friends and in local legend, but on that day a complaint was filed with the state police. A subsequent check with controllers at Stewart Air Force Base in New York confirmed no maneuvers in the Kent area at that time and it was seldom mentioned ever again – on the record.

All in all, Mr. Stirnweiss feels fortunate to have survived his career and is happy with the results.

“I would have stayed more except it would have meant three or four more years at sea and we had three teenagers and a couple of little kids running around,” he said. “My wife had the five children and I decided it wasn’t worth staying in four more years and be away from the family.”

These days the retired Navy captain volunteers his time for FISH (Friend in Service Here) in Kent and is a member of Sacred Heart Church. He makes occasional visits to see his family and enjoys attending Navy reunions each year, primarily the Tailhook Reunions in Reno, Nevada. He’ll still take the controls of a plane when he gets the chance and recently flew a friend’s plane from Los Angeles to Nevada during one of the recent reunions.

“One thing I’ve learned about reunions is the older we get, the braver we were,” he joked.

Mr. Stirnweiss is hesitant to speak of his flight under the bridge over the Housatonic, somewhat ashamed of the “dumb stunt” as he calls it. As it turned out it may have been the smartest dumb thing he ever did, as later that year the young lady from Watson’s Store became Mrs. Andrew Stirnweiss and the two were happily married for more than 55 years before she passed away in 2000, raising five children, all with warm memories and rich tales to tell of a father who served in two wars, flew a daredevil flight under the Route 341 bridge, and an uncle who starred for the New York Yankees.

Originally published in the Kent Good Times Dispatch in January 2005

You can't rush the band getting ready for the gig.

The drummer arrives and begins an endless succession of thumps on his kick drum, snaps on his snare and booms on his toms – all to tune the drums – as well as pings and ta-dings on his cymbals, as if there’s anything he can do to change their pitch.

Next up is the bass player, turning up his amp and popping the strings with his thumb – a la funk style – then it’s long slides up the fret board to demo his rock & roll chops before he finishes off with the obligatory 4-string chords to show he can play jazz like Stanley Clarke.

The keyboardist then takes his turn experimenting with every conceivable sound effect on his synthesizer even though he’ll use only two different sounds during the entire performance.

Last but not least it’s the guitar player. He’s already late for the gig but he’s obligated to play the requisite riffs from “Smoke on the Water,” “Stairway to Heaven” and a Jimi Hendrix lick or two. After that he must have the absolutely-precise blend of Myers rum, ginger ale and ice topped with club soda in his tall glass before he’ll even consider beginning the show.

Heaven forbid there is more than one vocalist because they are each required to practice singing a phrase from a Beatles, Journey or Lynyrd Skynyrd song or, of course, the line, “Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends…” from the Emerson, Lake & Palmer song.

Once everyone is ready to go the lights dim, the background music is turned off and each member of the band must check the set list five more times, get another drink, smoke another butt then finally begin the first song.

A famous recording engineer once told me that the way to tell a real professional musician is if he doesn’t play even one note before the session begins.

As I sit in the audience I think to myself that bit of advice is too many miles and too many smiles ago, and how I wish that engineer was sitting next to me here for this evening of 50′s tunes at the rehab center.

Copyright 2010

A spider seems to walk on the clouds at the Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area in Leesburg, FL. Photo by Bob Deakin

Once deep in the Florida country in August, it’s a battle of conditioning versus nature. Armed with just a bottle of water and a cell phone, six-mile runs seem longer if there is no real scenery or adventure to enjoy, and such was the case with the Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area in Leesburg, Florida, this past week.

No slight on the Emeralda Marsh – millions of years of evolution were not intended for the entertainment of a runner on a Friday afternoon – but it was quite the effort to get through the trails on this property maintaining sanity and direction. Path after tree-lined path looked the same and with a heat index of 105 degrees, humidity at 90 percent and bugs circling, just waiting for the bug repellent (Off) to be sweated off, it became even more of a mental, as well as physical, test of endurance.

There are numerous entrances to the Emeralda Marsh but only three are marked, regardless of what maps of the area may show. The “Interpretive Drive” entrance on the southern end of Emeralda Island Road is one, another one is a mile or so further north on the same road as well as the boat launch on C.R. 452, which, unless on a boat, goes no further than the parking lot. With some preparation, one can find the alternative entrances (look for the metal gates) but be weary of maps provided online or in the park. They are very general and do not always correlate to markers or directions as indicated.

Get the picture? This is not an area to experiment with direction and assume that a circuitous path will end up back at the trail head. There are no facilities, maps, water, people or anything once out on these trails on most days, and the areas with parking lots are not near the most scenic spots, which are along the Yale-Griffin Canal.

All that said, the paths – a combination of hard-packed sand, worn grass or crushed sea shells and fill – make for a good running surface. With nearly ten miles of trail there is no shortage of distance if one knows the way around, and in the cooler months this is a setting for spectacular scenery. In summer, the oncoming storms contain their own evil beauty, just make sure there is shelter to be found nearby as it’s likely a long run back to the car.

The Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area encompasses more than 7,000 acres and includes a 4.3-mile Wildlife Drive through the wetland marsh and filtration system, which was created in 1994 to improve the water quality in Lake Griffin. The Wildlife Drive is open to four-wheel drive vehicles on weekends during the spring. A map of the area can be downloaded from the Lake County Web site, and more information is available from the St. Johns River Water Management District.

This has been a summer in search of new places to run, particularly off-road and way off the beaten path within an hour drive of the greater Orlando area. In that respect it has been a successful summer. Virtually unspoiled central Florida marsh is a sight to behold in many ways. There is a stunning presence of exotic birds, mammals and reptiles, depending on the time of year, and a wide variety of classic Florida creatures on foot, depending on the time of day. Go early or go late, watch out for the approaching storms, and go for a run along the Yale-Griffin Canal to see the best of the Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area.

Copyright 2010

The main pool pumping 42 million gallons of fresh water each day at Wekiwa Springs State Park in Apopka, FL. Photo by Bob Deakin

The Wekiwa Springs State Park in Apopka, Florida provides as unlikely a location for an off-road distance run as any in the Orlando area. The 7,000-acre state park contains four interweaving trails of varying distances for a total of 13.5 miles of running, hiking, biking and horse trails. It all begins at the 20-foot deep natural spring pool pumping 42 million gallons of water per day as the head water of the Wekiva River (yes, one Wekiwa has a ‘w’ and the other a ‘v’) and centerpiece of the park.

The water stays a constant 72 degrees year round and the park, once owned by the Wilson Cypress Company and later purchased by a group of hunters incorporated as the Apopka Sportsmen’s Club. The state purchased the property in 1969, opened it to the public in 1970 and it has been popular with overnight campers, canoeists and equestrians ever since, with approximately 185,000 visitors each year.

The run along the Volksmarch Trail (orange blaze) was the choice for a run at Wekiwa Springs on a recent August morning. This trail runs 5.3 miles through a combination of damp shaded woods and open dry scrub in direct sunlight over hard and soft sand footing. It begins near the main entrance on the top of the hill at the popular swimming area.

Right away this was a tough run with necessary hops and skips over uneven soft sand trail. Temps in the mid-90s and a heat index over 100 with high humidity added to the challenge. About a half-mile in, the trail passes the “Family Campground” and one wonders why anyone would camp way the heck out here in August in Florida. Unless they are part of a “Save the Mosquitoes” watchdog organization or just like sweating a lot, it seems a curious getaway.

Nonetheless, the trail gets drier and drier from that point on, evolving into desert-like settings for the next mile, alternating between saw palmetto-covered scrub to thin pine forest up to Lake Prevatt, barely visible to the south but a sign of life in an otherwise sun-dried lifeless environment. Shady oak and pine forest take over from there, leading to an interchange of all of the trails in the lower third section of Wekiwa Springs State Park.

Along the trails, no water is available so preparation is a must. Cell phone coverage is good throughout, so taking note of the park ranger’s number is a good idea. Maps are generously provided at the trail head and trails are well-marked throughout, both on trees and numbered wooden markers corresponding to the map. As with any trail in Florida in summer, come prepared with water and a sensible knowledge of endurance.

This is a tough 5.3 miles for a runner. It feels longer than that, especially in summer, and the finish line will be a very welcome sight. It will be heard long before it is seen, with kids screaming in the main spring pool at the entrance with a hill full of sun bathers, weekend football quarterbacks and Frisbee players ringing the swimming area. What may have seemed like an irritating, crowded pool at the outset of the run will be a welcome splash in the cool, cool water at the end.

There are a number of trail options for runners at Wekiwa Springs, short and long, as well as bikers and equestrians. Even if one wishes to run on pavement, there are miles of road to traverse, with plenty of opportunities to step off onto paths or at various camps. In addition to the main spring pool, swimming is available in the Rock Springs Run, used by tubers, which leads directly to the main pool. Keep in mind that snakes and gators also use this water path but it is typically safe because of the number of people in the water, but it is Florida, so caution must be exercised. Rock Springs Run is quite a distance from most points of the hiking trails, so if runners reach it they are likely to be more focused on cooling of than anything else.

Once again, the Florida Department of Environmental Protection has done a wonderful job of providing and maintaining a beautiful park for all to enjoy, and most will likely never see the majority of the park. It is a treasure but it is dry Florida scrub forest with very little water seen throughout so prepare accordingly and enjoy.

Copyright 2010

My Nikes after collapsing on the observation deck following the escape from the lightening storm.

The Sunnyhill Restoration Area in Weirsdale, Florida is about as far as one can go into the wilderness for an off-road run within an hour of Orlando. This place is out there, and once at the site, it’s a long run into the property to pick up the trails. Adding to the seclusion, it’s one way in and one way out, with no sign of humanity anywhere to be found.

This is another one of the alluring properties under the auspices of the St. Johns River Water Management District (SJRWMD) – 4,400 acres of forest and wetlands alongside the Ocklawaha River flood plain at the southern end of the Ocala National Forest. The park is found off C.R. 42, about 10 miles west of S.R. 19 in Umatilla, northwest of Eustis.

In what has been a long summer of off-road running trails deep into the wild of Central Florida, the Sunny Hill Restoration Area is as deep as it has gotten thus far. In retrospect, visiting these trails in the cool weather months would have been a much better idea as the areas would have been drier, not so overgrown with vegetation and safer to travel without the threat of rain, lightening, bugs and reptiles. At least the photos are more colorful as well as the tales to tell.

Going for a run at the Sunnyhill Restoration proved much more of a challenge than expected upon entering the parking lot/trail-head. The maps of the trails are fairly simple as is the topography – flat with very wide, grass paths and plenty of visibility. Upon setting off for the run, it was a jaunt through heavy oak forest to a cross section of paths where it was necessary to choose between a safe-looking unpaved road or a more challenging grass path with no markings: The grass path it was.

A mile or so in an observation deck appeared in the middle of a wide stretch overlooking a lake and the surrounding wetlands. A mental note and check of the map confirmed the location, then it was follow the yellow grass road. Soon after it was apparent that summer is not the best time to be here as the road became increasingly wet with aggressive horse flies and angry birds circling overhead. After much hopping and leaping over water, the scenic tour began.

It was a stunning display of wildlife thereafter, with gators splashing in a canal, water moccasins slithering about and lots of butterflies and birds of all colors and types. The pine forest of the Ocala National Forest appeared and it was long, wide grass trail from there on. More checking with the map confirmed that it would be about three miles in to the edge of the forest, a mile or so in the other direction to see the Ocklawaha River then a different trail back to the parking lot.

The plan was being followed, with all sorts of wildlife peeking out of the bush and water along the way, when it started to get a little cloudy. Once at the National Forest it was back toward the parking lot, and that was going to be about eight miles of running and walking when it was all done. On the way back the clouds quickly grew thick, the thunder started rumbling and it was decided to take a path west to another observation deck located near the river on the west side of the property.

Once near where that observation deck was supposed to be it turns out that the deck was actually on the other side of the river, some 100-feet across and no way to get there. Just then, the lightening started with reckless abandon and as a sitting duck, there was no choice but to hop into the brush alongside a ditch as the lightening was so close and so loud. More disturbing than the lightening was the rustling in the ditch. Plenty of snakes and gators were seen along the way and preparations were made to bolt if necessary. Faced with the choice of lightening bolts and reptiles, it would be back into the open to take the odds of the lightening.

After a few minutes the lightening moved a bit further away and it was out of the ditch for an urgent run back toward the parking lot, which was still three miles away. The pace was accelerated but it was time to ditch it again because of the bolts, suddenly feeling like the only person in the world. Eventually it was time to get up and start running again and finally the wet path originally crossed at the outset of the journey appeared, now filled with mud. This time there was no concern for the mud as the shoes were already soaked, sprinting through it like it wasn’t there. The observation deck was getting closer and closer but it was so exhausting, the urge was to stop and walk a bit, but the lightening kept the legs moving.

Eventually the observation deck was reached, a dash up two flights of stairs and a collapse from exhaustion at the top of the deck and a wait for the storm to pass. It suddenly felt safe and never had such a relaxing break occurred after a run.

After about an hour wait for the storm to pass and the legs and lungs to recover, it was down the stairs and back onto the trail back to the parking lot – about a mile and a half away. The run quickly turned into a walk, glad to not have been the victim of a lightening strike, a reptile attack miles into the wilderness or a heart attack from the run.

All in all, the Sunnyhill Restoration Area is a wonder, spectacularly preserved by the SJRWMD as a wetlands and wildlife preserve, and a treasure for Central Florida. Just a couple of tips: explore it on a mountain bike or a horse, or go in December.

Copyright 2010

The Friday the 13th Part 2 theater poster from 1981

It was 1980. Most of the actors had hairstyles modeled after the cast of TV shows C.H.I.P.S. or Dallas, and the women were entering the big hair era. Horror movies had just made a comeback, perhaps inspired by director John Carpenter’s Halloween, released in 1978 to rave reviews.

In Kent, Warren and New Preston, it was time to film Friday the 13^th, Part 2, featuring Jason, the horrid goon who would star in a series of movies wearing his trademark hockey goalie mask. Paramount Pictures filmed the movie and used local talent to provide the background characters.

The 87-minute Friday the 13^th, Part 2 was rated R and may have rankled some of the locals when it was released because of its brutality. The movie was set in the bucolic surroundings of Camp Kenmont and he Bromica Lodge in Kent, as well as The Casino, in New Preston, located on West Shore Road. A new house now stands on the site – The Casino having burned down just a couple years later under mysterious circumstances.

Part 2 was directed by Steve Miner and featured Jason before he donned his hockey gear, when he wore only a white sheet over his head with an opening for an eye. Residents in New Preston must have wondered what was happening in the town center when they saw a pickup truck used in one of the first shots of the movie stop in the village. A young man and woman bolt from the truck, headed for the phone booth where Eleven Main Street now stands. In a flash, a tow truck from Dowler’s Garage was on the vehicle, towing it away as part of the plot.

Lloyd Albin of Kent owned and ran Camp Kenmont at the time and had about 80 people living at his camp for the filming during September and October of 1980. He was first contacted by a location scout who was considering a number of camps in the area as a setting for the film. The timing was good, as the children from summer camp had just gone home.

A look at a draft of the script left Mr. Albin skeptical.

“I recommended a number of camps to them because I wasn’t anxious to have them in my own camp, thinking that they would wreck the place,” he said with a laugh. Eventually, however, he decided to allow filming on the premises.

“What we had was the ideal situation because we could accommodate the people,” he related.

Lloyd Albin of Kent, CT displays the "head" of Jason's mother, used as a prop in the movie "Friday the 13th Part 2." Photo by Bob Deakin

He had a full-time chef still on the premises and charged the crew room and board to live in the bungalows, many of which were used in the film. The camp also had an expanse of woods where Jason’s rickety shack could be built and it bordered North Spectacle Lake, where more shots were filmed. Bromica Lodge, owned by the late Janet Gordon, was next door on the waterfront, and served as the camp counselors’ lodge in the movie.

The plot of the movie involved about a dozen young people who were training to be camp counselors near an old camp where a couple of vicious murders had taken place a few years before, in the original Friday the 13^th.

“That’s camp blood,” warned Ted, played by actor Stu Charno early in the movie. “You don’t want to hear about it, man, believe me.” Such was the dialog and the constant temptation for the characters to poke around looking for signs of the haunting legend that lurked nearby. They quickly found it.

Friday the 13^th, Part 2 had one of the highest body counts in horror movie history, and a graphic killing could be expected with nearly every scene change. Even one of the wheelchair-bound counselors didn’t escape the wrath of the ax-wielding maniac.

One of the few conditions that Mr. Albin insisted upon was that no panoramic shots of his camp be used.

“It wouldn’t help the enrollment,” he added, “if the kids knew that Jason was swimming in the same lake as they were.”

Finally, he remembers, the movie makers decided his camp offered the best location and moved in. Still concerned about the prospect of a horror film being made at his camp and potential damage to it, an agreement was made that the production company would put up a bond in the event any damage was done.

Mr. Albin was pleasantly surprised to find the crew polite and well behaved. One of his employees even got a speaking part I the film as an extra.

“They ate very well and it was like having another group of counselors coming in” he said. “They were all very nice, outgoing people. It was a pleasure to have had them there.”

The crew worked nights and slept during the day. Breakfast was served at 11 p.m. and dinner at 7 a.m.

“It was like a Stephen King novel. If you drove in during the day no one would be around but then all these people started appearing late in the afternoon.”

Laurie Potter of Warren lived on Davis Road at the time of the filming and was still celebrating the birth of her son that August. She had coincidentally named him Jason, not knowing about the film to be shot just beyond her back yard, and noticed signs along her road directing people to “Jason.”

Her son’s feeding schedule coincided with the filming schedule.

“Because I would get up in the middle of the night, I turned my lights on,” she remembers. “They were doing night filming on the lake and I was right on the other side.”

The light was picked up by the cameras and one of the production assistants (PR) stopped by her home one afternoon requesting that she cover her windows at night, and was given the materials to do so. Ms. Potter had no problem complying and remembers that she and and the PR had a laugh discussing the recent birth of her son.

“She said she had heard that I just had a son and named him Jason and she said, ‘you don’t want him to be named after this Jason.’”

One day, roughly 100 extras were bused up from New York to The Casino in New Preston and the producer came to Mr. Albin in a panic after learning that the caterer for the day had canceled. Mr. Albin and his chef came to the rescue.

“I took my chef and we set up two 55-gallon half drums in the parking lot of The Casino and we cooked lunch for about 200,” he said.

Friday the 13^th, Part 2was released in May 1981 and some of the actors called to ask Mr. Albin for his permission to have a reunion camp out on his property.

“Of course I said yes and they had a great time,” he said. “When they left, they told me that they had left me a souvenir and I said ‘thank you but forget about it.’”

Soon after, one of his real camp counselors was shocked to find one of the heads used in a decapitation scene hanging from a tree in a net. The actors also left him the sign for “Camp Crystal Lake” and he saves both to this day.

Mick Deakin of Brookfield was an extra in the movie. He heard about the casting call on the radio and went up with a couple friends for a quick audition and got the part.

“It was a lot of fun,” he said. “It was my first filming experience. You do a lot of standing around and waiting.”

He appeared in the scenes shot in The Casino, dancing with a girl in front of the band, The Smokey Boys, who were an actual band in the area at the time. He remembers one of the male leads in the movie was somewhat full of himself – perhaps choosing not to step out of his character in the movie – but that the rest of the cast and crew were friendly. In particular, Amy Steel, the female lead, made it a point to spend time with the locals and even joined them in games of tabletop bowling in the bar.

“It was a great experience, overall,” he said. “The band was lip-syncing and the coolest thing was that they had to do the dialog in the next room.”

The extras were not paid for their efforts but all got t-shirts with the inscription, “I was an extra in Friday the 13^th, Part 2.” For added comfort, the bar at The Casino remained open for the entire evening.

The Kent and Warren volunteer fire departments also helped, creating artificial rain.

“I was fire chief then and we went up there and sprayed the hoses up against the Bromica Lodge to make it look like rain,” remembers former Kent First Selectman, Bill Tobin. “We weren’t really involved in much else of the production but they gave us a nice donation.”

Long-time Kent resident and attorney, Boone Moore, was also called to assist, lending animals for the film.

Mr. Albin remembered a particularly memorable night of shooting. “As careful as they were, the guy who was playing Jason got a gash on his arm filming the scene where the girls try to fight him off with a chain saw,” he said. “They brought him to Sharon Hospital with the fake ax still imbedded in his head and took about 28 stitches. They told me he said to the nurse ‘I have an awful headache.’ and caused quite a commotion at the hospital.”

Over the years, he said, about 20 or 30 cult followers of the movie series have come to his camp in search of Jason’s old shack or other mementos. He had the shack removed following the filming to prevent it becoming a tourist attraction and bothering the neighbors.

The budget for the movie was about $1 million. Reviews were awful but it did well at the box office, grossing approximately $19 million (opening the same day as The Shining) and DVD rentals continue to accumulate revenue.”

It had one of the longest pre-credit sequences in movie history – nearly 15 minutes – which made it unique and added to its cult status. Whenever anyone refers to a horror movie of the 70s and 80s, Friday the 13^th, Part 2 is always in the discussion and will be for generations.

It may be a tough movie for some to watch, but shots of camps, roads and homes in the area provide a good reminder of the way the area and its people looked in 1980. They may or may not be proud, but they remember, but their memories are forever captured on film, albeit it a horror story.

Portions of this story were originally published in The Kent Good Times Dispatch and The Litchfield County Times in late October, 2004.

Copyright 2010

Rough versions of the yellow and blue topaz.

I’m at this party Friday night following a poetry reading and meet a diverse group of interesting people. It is held at a beautiful home by the lake and many of the guests have very exotic names including Felicity, Brando, November, Heath and Brock. My name being Bob, I almost feel too common to be in their company but I make the best of it and welcome the opportunity to meet new friends.

The poetry was very well done. Much of it inspiring, some of it funny and of course the depressing poets were well represented too, bringing us down with the dexterity of a concert violinist. Not being a poet, I feel out of place at the reading but I’m happy to be there and glad to make my way to the party afterward at the invitation of Rain, the poetry group leader. It’s a step outside my normal bounds and I find myself discussing things I haven’t pondered in years.

The food at the party is wonderful and I’m discovering fascinating personalities, exchanging ideas and views of the world and fitting in rather nicely. It’s a rousing soiree and Vespa, the hostess, is quite the social butterfly with a habit of sternly yet eloquently pronouncing the name of each person she is conversing or joking with, usually Felicity, Brando or November.

After a while however, the names are starting to get to me.

Why would someone name their daughter November? I ask myself as I glance in her direction. Nice name, but everyone who meets her must wonder if that’s the month in which she was born. If not, there must be some long-haired story behind it.

Just then, Brando walks up.

“Hey man,” he says, asking my name and clicking my glass with his. “Brando. What do you do? You an author?”

I don’t even ask him what he does. He’s Brando, and that sounds like a full-time job in itself: I guess I’m starting to get a little bitter.

I then bump into Felicity as we both walk into the kitchen to freshen our drinks and she is quite the sassy lass. She’s had a few already and asks me if I’m friends with Vespa. I think to myself that I once rode a Vespa – the brand of motor scooter – but that doesn’t seem an appropriate reply. She then tells me, ad nauseam, all about Vespa and how she tunes into the human soul with her poetry and that she’s also a brilliant painter.

My patience is waning and I’m sensing a slow burn at the bottom of my stomach. Just then, Heath strolls up and introduces me to a woman named Topaz, and that brings me to the boiling point.

“Your name can’t be Topaz,” I say, condescendingly, refusing her handshake and drawing uncomfortable stares from around the room. “Topaz is an aluminum-based mineral, as far as I know. No offense, but what block head gave you that name?”

Turns out it was her father.

“Were you named after the mineral or the car sold by the Mercury Division of the Ford Motor Company?” I continue, burning every bridge in the room and bringing all happiness to a halt.

She cynically explains that her father was a geologist, that the Topaz held supreme significance for him and that the Blue Topaz was her birthstone, from the month of December. I reason to her that before I was born my father drove my mother to the hospital in a Rambler Station Wagon and that perhaps my name should be Rambler.

“Imagine the number of songs I could put onto a custom CD mix for friends with my name as the theme,” I say to Topaz as she prepares to throw a drink in my face. “You could be talking to Rambler right now. Imagine Rambler asking your daughter out to a movie next Friday? Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” was Number One on the Charts the day I was born. Perhaps Babe should be my name.”

The good spirit now sucked from the room, Vespa’s sister, Polaris, swiftly escorts me to the door explaining that the Yellow Topaz is the November birthstone, and that November’s parents gave her the middle name of Topaz, which means there are actually two Topaz’s at the party.

“It’s time to leave, Bob,” she said, sternly.

Copyright 2010

The view from an observation deck at Orlando Wetlands Park in Christmas, FL. Photo by Bob Deakin

If it is a secluded nature preserve in impeccable condition with smooth, hard, sand trails and tantalizing scenery that a runner desires, the Orlando Wetlands Park is the place to go. Located in Christmas, Florida, the park is under the ownership and management of the Wastewater Division of the Orlando Public Works and includes an educational center, pavilions, maps and displays of wildlife to be found.

This could be the perfect place for runners – off-road or not – for the sheer uniqueness and solitude, and options of short or long stretches to run. The overriding feeling upon arrival at the Orlando Wetlands Park is peace. It is a long drive and so seemingly far away from the city streets of Orlando that to enter the parking lot is to enter another world.

The park is 1,650 acres of woods, marshes and lakes including 20 miles of roads and trails. There is one way in and one way out so trails should be selected carefully, especially on foot. Bicycles are allowed on the unpaved, elevated berm roads but boating, fishing, swimming, pets and horses are prohibited.

Once deep in the park, regardless of the trail, it is as quiet as can be imagined. The only sounds are birds or the occasional splashing gator. This is a rural setting, to say the least, and only those in excellent physical condition should run the trails as there are no facilities and no respite from the sun and elements once out on the trails, and it’s a long run in and out.

There are small paths off the main trails throughout the park, but they are overgrown in hot weather months and a scary prospect for travel. One look and it’s a wonder what is crawling, flying and slithering within that brush.

Visitors to the park on Saturdays and Sundays may have the pleasure of a free golf cart tour of the park by a park official. Friends of the Wetlands, a volunteer group, also provides tours, usually on Mondays. Upon entering the park, observe several buildings and shelters on either side, including permanent restroom facilities and water fountains. Staff members are on hand during normal business hours.

The park was created as a wetlands preserve in the late 1980s and the water is divided into an intricate flow of several pathways for maximum environmental benefit. It is a haven for bird watchers and a habitat for an immense variety of wildlife.

Sunscreen and water are a must at the Orlando Wetlands Park as there is absolutely no shade throughout. The elevated berm road is covered with grass and packed sand, smooth enough to make this an easy mountain bike ride with excellent footing for runners. The roads and trails are well-marked, and maps, brochures and a site plan can be downloaded here.

The Orlando Xtreme race series is held at the park each February, organized by renowned triathlon champion, Zahid Buttar. The park is located at 25155 Wheeler Road in Christmas off S.R. 420.

Copyright 2010