The Whizzer

By J. R. Roseberry
Once in awhile–though increasingly less frequently–something brings out the kid in an old curmudgeon like me.
That happened recently when I spotted a motorized bicycle parked beside the post office.

It sparked instant memories of a Whizzer motorbike a fellow student rode when I attended junior high school in Pensacola, Fla. more than a half century ago.

He was a pimply faced, rail thin, nerdy type boy with thick glasses and few redeeming qualities beyond the fact that he rode that Whizzer to school every day.

Boy, did I envy the guy.

The one year I spent in Pensacola at the age of 13 turned out to be pivotal in my life and recalling the “Whizzer” conjured up sweet memories.

That’s when my sister’s best girlfriend, two years my senior and drop dead gorgeous, stayed overnight at our house. After everyone else was asleep she sneaked into my room, knelt beside my bed, and taught me how to French kiss.
It was an experience I savored for years and I still quiver a little with the recollection.

This was also the year I almost got in a fight with Jimmy Ripolo, the toughest and most popular boy in school. He challenged me to step outside when his girlfriend, the junior high queen, asked me to escort her home after we took a single spin around the floor at a school dance.

Fortuitously, for me at least, a teacher broke it up and friends pulled us apart just after I followed him out for what I was sure would be my doomsday.

After that, his girlfriend Jean and I became an item for the rest of the year.

I moved away that summer and Jimmy and I never did duke it out.

Anyway, when I spotted the Whizzer look alike bike at the post office I decided it was time I had one of my own.

Looking up Whizzer motorbike on the Internet I found a couple of classic 50 year old models selling for several thousand dollars, but no current manufacturer.

Serendipitously, I spotted several sites selling bicycle motor kits, some of which looked very much like the Whizzer I remembered and, despite the fact that I’m by no means a mechanic, I ordered one.

While awaiting its arrival, I acquired an old beach bike for free. It was about what you’d expect for that price – a rusted out piece of junk that needed new tires, wheels and pedals, among other things. What attracted me was its foot operated coaster brakes which eliminate the clutter of brake and gear shift controls on the handlebars of modern multi-speed bicycles. I had sanded off most of the rust, repainted the frame and replaced wheels, tires and pedals by the time the conversion kit arrived.

At first glance, the kit box seemed to contain an infinite number of alien space ship parts, but I managed to identify a gas tank, bicycle chain and muffler.

Once all the parts were spread across the floor, I found several barely legible sheets of paper containing what appeared to be–written in badly broken English–a rudimentary description of how the installation should proceed.

After trying to reconcile its constantly conflicting directions–ultimately trying both ways to see which worked–I finally got everything in what appeared to be its proper place.

The hardest part was installing the rear wheel sprocket, a complicated design requiring meticulous alignment and insertion of a dozen bolts through tiny holes in a sequence of metal plates and heavy rubber gaskets. To do this I had to repeatedly squeeze my hand between the spokes to attach every bolt, washer and nut.

After installing the sprocket, I had to remove it, then attach it again, then remove it and attach it once more before finally subduing my suicidal thoughts and getting it to function properly. The bleeding from repeatedly scraping the skin from my knuckles poking them through those narrow spokes resulted in only small stains on the rug. The entire project was completed in a week and was accomplished with nothing more than a pair of pliers, screwdriver, crescent wrench, and a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

Immediately after finishing the job–despite unusually frigid weather and only partially functional hands–I pushed my creation outside and, following instructions, pedaled down the street to get it started.

Gas leaked profusely from the carburetor, but other than that, nothing much happened. I tried it again, and again, and again, but, again, I had only a trail of gas, a heaving chest and trembling legs to show for my efforts.

Then I enlisted the aid of my neighbor Tony, a nice guy half my age, who pedaled a lot longer and faster than I, but got the same result. Tony said the carburetor was faulty and to send it back to the manufacturer. I tried to do that but got no response to either my e-mail queries or phone calls, despite a half dozen attempts to reach the company.

As a last resort, I hauled the bike to Freddie’s Garage where Roger, who’s a helluva mechanic, took one look at it and said the carburetor was installed sideways causing it to spill gas and eliminating any chance of functioning properly.
Loosening a single screw, he turned it to the proper position and started it right up.

Remember, I told you I’m not a mechanic.

The bike is fun to ride and I derive some satisfaction out of knowing I completed the project by myself aside from Roger’s key role. It will go 35 mph–about as fast as I want or the island speed limit allows–and requires no tags or helmet (although wearing one is probably a good idea) because it’s considered a moped with an engine rating of under 49cc. It also gets 150 miles per gallon, prompting a wider smile each time the cost of gas goes up.

But the best thing about the bike is that it has finally assuaged my yearning for that Whizzer. and resurrected the sweet memory of my first French kiss.

Historic Tybee “Raised Cottage” to Get New Lease on Life!

Tybee Island, GA. – On Friday, February 19th, the Tybee “raised cottage” known as the Fogerty-Hosti house was transported from its original home since the turn of the 20th century on Butler Avenue, to property owned by The Tybee Island Historical Society near the Tybee Light Station. The organization purchased the house from owner, Michael Hosti in order to preserve it, after Hosti made plans to clear the lot adjacent his Tybee’s IGA Market on which the house stood to make way for a new parking lot.

The structure, known as the Fogerty/Hosti Cottage is a rare find according to TIHS Executive Director Cullen Chambers whose organization has spent the last two decades funding the completion of the restoration of Tybee’s Light Station, keeper’s cottages and Lighthouse Museum. Chambers emphasizes that within the group’s mission statement has always been the restoration of an authentic Tybee “raised cottage,”  an architectural style unique to the island from the “golden era” of its development between 1910-1939, when Tybee Island was a seasonal “beach retreat” community for middle-class families from Savannah and the region.

The house was moved across the island by Braswell Brothers, Inc. of Swainsboro, GA.

The porches and roof of the white frame structure were carefully dismantled to be reassembled later at the new location next to the light station and keepers’ cottages across from the Fort Screven batteries and the museum.

Click the link to learn more about the history of the island, and the restoration work of the Tybee Island Historical Society.

(More to come…)

Photos by Nancy Heffernan copyright 2010, The Tybee Times.

Check out more photos, and WSAV-TV reporter Randi Hempel’s video coverage of the move on Facebook.

In Celebration of Sylvia

By Editor, Cynthia Kinkel

It’s that time again, and Doc’s Bar is the scene, celebrating 62 years on Tybee, and the arrival of another birthday for Tybee’s own valentine, “Miss Sylvia” Gott!

Percussionist Sylvia Gott turns 101 this month playing the same tambourine at Doc’s Bar that Charlie Sherrill handed her in 1998.   Affectionately known as “Miss Sylvia,” night after night on the weekends, she holds her own at her table by the front door, and has become as much of an institution at Doc’s as the bar itself!  Her birthday party is scheduled at Doc’s the evening of Saturday, February 6th.

Born on her father’s birthday, February 5th, 1909, Sylvia is the daughter of trumpet player and concert bandleader Herchel D. Worth, and has followed in his footsteps. “He was a wonderful man,” says Sylvia, “and always the musician! As a matter of fact, he made sure that everyone in my family played something.”

Sylvia grew up on Long Island, NY. She says they didn’t have television or radio – only a grand piano in the living room. Her family used to invite other local musicians over for “jam sessions.” By age 6, she was learning to play the piano. By age 12 she was playing trumpet with her father’s orchestra in Stuart, Florida. “But I always wanted to play the drums,” she admits. Eventually that longing would become a reality.

Hershel Worth’s fame and talents led him to move the family to Florida in 1918. However, the three-month trip was a harrowing one.

“I was eight years old when we left in a forty foot boat that October,” Sylvia recalls. “There was my father, “Captain” Worth, grandmother and grandfather Worth, my brother Vincent and our cocker spaniel, Prince, plus a friend of the family. Of course, my mother Maude, and her father “Captain John Smith” came, too! All the folks we met along the way used to laugh and call my mother “Pocahontas!”

“On the way to Florida,” Sylvia fondly remembers, “we used to tie off on shore for the night, and my father would take his trumpet out on deck and play out over the water. People used to hear the sound, and come looking to hear him play. It was wonderful – those people used to bring food out to us and tell us how much they enjoyed the music!”

The family had several mishaps along the way as well. “My father got malaria in Savannah and almost died,“ Sylvia continues, “and later our boat sank to the bottom of the Snake River! We spent 10 days with a German couple – lighthouse keepers in Georgetown – while it was being repaired.” Sylvia says they were really nice folks, but she remembers how they served everything, including soup, on the same plate, and how disconcerting it was to her mother, Maude. Sylvia says that Maude Worth actually wrote to her own mother-in-law every day telling her all that happened. “I always thought those letters would have made a great book!” Sylvia says; then she shakes her head with regret. “Would you believe, somehow, they were lost, and never recovered!”

Maude Worth also played in Sylvia’s father’s band. “Women just didn’t play saxophones back in the early days of the concert brass bands,” Sylvia smiles, “But my father said that was nonsense, and he got my mother to learn how to play a baritone sax – and she was quite good!” Hershel Worth was one of the first concert bandleaders to allow women.  A photograph of the Stuart (Florida) Band dated May 29th, 1926 now hangs in the living room on Tybee. It shows her father and mother, Sylvia at age 17, and other members of her musical family standing with nearly twenty fellow band members in uniform holding their instruments.

Her father’s band proved to be the catalyst for many things. At age 14 Sylvia met her second husband, Rodney Gott while he was playing trumpet in her father’s band, and secretly had a crush on him. “But when he left the band,” Sylvia shrugs, “I didn’t see him anymore, so a few years later I married someone else.” Sylvia met her first husband, George Whitney while she was living in Stuart, Florida. They married in 1928, and had two children, daughters Pat and Dale, but divorced sixteen and a half years later.

Not long afterward, in a twist of fate, Sylvia met the trumpet player, Rodney Gott, again. “My father and I had gone to the dog races in Miami. I thought I recognized Rodney at a distance. Then I heard him play the bugle call to start the race. My father recognized him, too, and walked right up to him and asked “didn’t you play in my band?” Sylvia and her teenage crush were married in 1945, and soon had two sons, Rodney Hershel and Gary Worth.

Rodney and Sylvia Gott were devoted to each other, and to their music. They formed their own band and performed together throughout the forties, fifties and sixties, and had a small bar in Miami out of Coral Gables, where area musicians used to come to jam sessions.

But shortly before Christmas 1966, Rodney Gott died of a heart attack in bed, and Sylvia awoke to find him. “I was grief stricken,” says Sylvia. “He and I were so very close, and I could hardly go on.”

But Rodney had signed a contract for the band to play that very night, and also on New Year’s Eve. Knowing he’d have wanted the music to go on, Sylvia called her brother to sit in for her, then mustered enough strength to play the New Year’s Eve job the following week as well, although she says it almost killed her. “There was nothing else to do,” Sylvia sighs, “It was one of the hardest things I ever did, but the music got me through it!”

Music continued to be a source of strength for Sylvia. She hired another band member and kept performing at the same Club until it closed.  Then after a short sabbatical, she was hired by a senior citizen’s Dance Club in Miami, and also briefly worked with a group known as Dixie’s All Girls Band. “That was how I got started playing the drums,” says Sylvia. “Our regular drummer got sick, and Dixie asked me if I’d try it out.”

It wasn’t the first time she played with an all female group, however. Sylvia says, back in the days of her father’s concert band, she played briefly with several girls in Stuart, Florida who unfortunately couldn’t get along. “I still don’t know what was wrong with that bunch,” she laughs, ”They didn’t last too long.”

Eventually Sylvia formed her own group! Simply called “Sylvia’s Trio” the first rendition included Sylvia on drums, a woman who doubled on saxophone and clarinet, and a male piano player. Eventually another woman took the man’s place on the piano, making it an all girl group. “That was the most fun for me!” Sylvia smiles. “We were together for 17 years!”

But on the coat tails of her husband’s untimely death in 1966, another heartbreak was to follow. Sylvia had five children in all – daughters Pat and Dale from her previous marriage to George Whitney, and sons, Rodney and Gary with husband Rodney Gott. There was also a child who died at birth.

The boys were born eighteen months apart, and were very close. Both joined the military after high school – Rodney, the air force and Gary, the army – and ended up in Viet Nam. Sylvia recalls how she hated to see either of them go. “I still think about it. But they were young and wanted to serve their country – what’s a mother to do?” She says she kept thinking, that maybe it was because she’d been a Cub Scout leader, or because they had “those little toy soldiers, or something,” but whatever it was, they both felt they had to go to war.

Sylvia says it on her birthday, February 5th, 1969, while she was alone in her home that all of a sudden she heard her son Rodney’s audible voice crying, “Mamma, mamma!” just as he were right there next to her. “I was beside myself wondering what might be happening,” she says. “It was so real and it upset me to the point of distraction.”

That afternoon, a bouquet of red roses arrived, sent by Rodney for her birthday all the way from Viet Nam, but a week later Sylvia learned that he was missing in action. Authorities had lost contact with a plane carrying her son and nine other enlisted men somewhere over the jungle.

Younger son, Gary was immediately sent home from the army at the time, but it was ten long months before Sylvia got word that the plane had been found. Apparently an engine had caught fire and one of the wings had torn off. There were no survivors. Rodney was barely twenty-one years old. “You never get over something like that!” Sylvia remarks as her sweet smile fades. “I told him not to go, and it was definitely his voice I heard calling that day he died.”

Around the time of her stepbrother’s death in 1969, Sylvia’s oldest daughter Pat Whitney moved to Tybee. Pat had been living in Savannah since 1955, working at sea on cruise ships for eight years as a staff captain’s waitress. Initially she operated a restaurant where McElwee’s now stands, then opened the Tybee Chicken at the present site of Sting Rays. Her present ventures Poor Pat’s Seafood and Pat Rat’s Bicycle Shop on Butler Avenue have been in operation for many years.

Throughout the early 1990’s Sylvia’s threesome had continued to play in the Miami area, and it was only Pat’s concern for her mother’s welfare that finally convinced Sylvia to leave. In September of 1996, Sylvia decided to close down her home in Florida and come to live with Pat. Sylvia’s younger daughter, Dale Davis is a retired school bus driver who has raised five children. She still owns her home in Sebring, Florida, but when she learned that Pat health was going down in 2006, she decided to move to Tybee to be of assistance.

When Sylvia first arrived in 1996, Pat knew her independent minded mother wasn’t going to be happy unless there was music around, so she decided to take Sylvia to the old Desoto to hear Ron Denning first.  Eventually, they visited a number of places so that she could meet the local musicians. “We also went to Fannie’s on the Beach,” Sylvia recalls. She says it took a little while, but eventually they made it over to Doc’s Bar to hear Charlie Sherrill.

“When we walked in,” Sylvia recalls, “there was nobody in the place. Just a couple of people at the bar, but Charlie was playing the saxophone, and you know how much I love my horn players – once I set foot in there, I was hooked! And Charlie was quite good! He came over and talked with me, and we became friends – good friends. When he found out I was a professional he handed me a tambourine, and said, ‘Play, Miss Sylvia!’ You know, he was the first one to call me that, and he was always so gracious to me – such a gentleman. I’ve been playing that tambourine ever since.”

In fact, Sylvia has played on a regular basis at Doc’s Bar since 1996, and won the hearts of all who meet her. She also receives nothing but praise and admiration from other performers who regularly show up to play with Doc’s present maestro, Roy Swindelle, and his jammin’ “Circuit Breakers” house band (“Blues Hog,” Jim Simmons, “Conga Dave” Reese, and Martha Swindelle).

At Doc’s, Sylvia always carries a bag full of percussion instruments. She’s a professional and has always been very particular about her instruments, and who plays them. “Some of them are very special,” she proudly beams, as she holds up her set of beaded maracas, “Conga Dave (Reese) made these for me. I dearly love them!”  Sylvia still plays the drums, too – just last year a video was made of her jamming away at Doc’s to some of her favorite old tunes.

When I first came to Tybee in January of 2002, Sylvia was one of the first people I met. One night while sitting with her by her window, I told her about my grandmother born in 1900, who died on her 97th birthday. Sylvia smiled when I mentioned how she grew up in a log house down in Fleming, Georgia built without iron nails, and rode in a horse-drawn buggy.

In many ways Sylvia reminds me of her, as well as the “lady of six thousand songs,” the late “Miss Emma” Kelly who died in January of 2001 at age 82. Sylvia said she never met Miss Emma personally although she admired her very much, and shakes her head.  “Many time I wished I could have gone upstairs to see her at Hannah’s, but I just couldn’t make it up those steps!”

Miss Sylvia is very stoic about her age and doesn’t flinch when she adds, “Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be here at all. You know, I narrowly escaped death several times long ago.” She briefly mentions how she was saved from a fire as an infant, then cringes as she describes the time when as a young woman she was riding in the back seat of a car that ran through a barrier straight into the water.

“Of course,” says Sylvia, “I don’t remember the fire, but the car accident stayed with me for a long time. I don’t like to talk about it.”  It’s not that she’s afraid, it’s that she’d much rather dwell on the good things,. “Think cheerful thoughts,” she smiles, “and be thankful for the people who’ve been so good to you throughout the years.”

One of Sylvia’s most avid admirers, Victoria Graves wrote a cover story about her in 2002 which contained these words, “After 93 years of good times and bad, (Miss Sylvia) still possesses a child-like enthusiasm for life and optimism for the human condition.” (The Tybee Breeze, October 2003)

But while Sylvia doesn’t like to complain much, she was pretty mad when the Music Union’s life insurance company suddenly canceled her policy in 2007. “All this time paying into it – for 40 years, and now they cancel me!” She shakes her head, “How do they expect me to be able to get life insurance at my age? It costs a lot of to die, you know, with funeral expenses and all.”

Then with a twinkle in her eye she adds, “All my life I’ve loved cruise ships. I’ve been on lots of cruises and had such fun. Just send my ashes out on a cruise ship, and have a trumpet play as they toss me into the ocean! That will be just fine with me!”

These days Sylvia walks with a cane, and due to failing eyesight and sensitivity to the cold night air, no longer rides her little red scooter to her “gig” at Doc’s. “Folks used to tell me that they knew I was at Doc’s when they saw my scooter parked outside,” she laughs. “I dearly loved riding to work, too, especially those evenings when I could see the moon coming up in front of me.” Her daughter Pat says her mother’s a “true Aquarian.” Pat also says, “Doc’s has kept Sylvia going. As long as she’s playing, she’s living!” Sylvia’s own words express it best. “I plan to go out with a tambourine in my hand, on the dance floor!”

As Tybee’s timeless tavern turns 62 this month the hands on the clock over the bar still move counter clockwise, the classic memorabilia, signage, and wooden Indian are all still there – so is Miss Sylvia’s spot by the door! Under the ownership of Rob and Peggy Parker the torch of “local family tradition” burns brightly, and an anniversary party is planned on the 27th.

Concerning her annual birthday celebration on Saturday, February 6th, Sylvia says she hopes no one goes to a lot of trouble, “I’ve made such good friends on Tybee in such a short time and I appreciate every one of them. I want them to all come see me!” But she adds emphatically, “I don’t want any more presents – please, tell them – I just want to see them!”

In these uncertain times, as winds of adversity blow around our little island, tonight, indeed around the world,  I sleep better knowing one of our very dearest is still with us, and still smiling.

Happy Birthday, Miss Sylvia! You’re an inspiration to us all!

(Portions of this article appeared in the January/February 2008 edition’s “Meet the Muse” column of The Tybee News and have been updated and edited by the author.)

The Way We Are

My brother Johnny never lost his sense of humor.  In May of 1985, when AIDS was something most of us had never heard of, he came home.  Our family spent the summer believing he would beat this strange disease by the sheer force of his will.  At the last, as I sat with him in the hospital, he looked over at me and said with a small smile, “You know, I just wanted to be shallow”.  I’ve thought about that comment for the last 25 years, coming to the conclusion that the ability to enjoy the so called shallow moments in life may be an underrated virtue.   Or maybe I’m looking for justification of the absolute joy I felt when I finally saw Robert Redford.  Several trips to Savannah hoping for a glimpse as he directed “The Conspirator” had proved unsuccessful. (I wonder if driving 15 times around a square counts as stalking?)  But my luck picked up when filming began at Ft. Pulaski.  Three trips provided three sightings.

The first day was the best. I spotted him just as he happened to look in my direction. No doubt feeling the intensity of my devotion, he squinted and looked again.  I was frozen in time, barely breathing, and trying for a sophisticated smile.  It was one of the happier moments in my life.

If you’re still with me here, I’ll give details about my new best friend Bob Redford.  He has a noble though craggy face (described by Himself as a map of the Southwest), really good hair, broad shoulders and a trim physique. He pulls up his pants a lot, but then so do I, thanks to the ubiquitous low rise pants now in fashion for women.   Although he’s 73 and not the golden boy he once was, he’ll always be beautiful to me.

The part of my brain that prioritizes life is trying to understand why this was such a transcendental moment.  There must be other reasons beyond the way he looked when Barbara Streisand brushed his hair out of his eyes, or when he sat in a sunlit field wearing a denim shirt whispering to a horse, or when he washed Meryl Streep’s hair in Africa.   It’s common knowledge that he’s an environmentalist who supports Native American rights and the arts.  A good friend of mine referred to him as a “flaming liberal”.  All good enough things in my mind, but would I be as enamored if he wasn’t Robert Redford?  I think not.

Alan Alda (who is probably all of the above except beautiful) is quoted as saying, “What is beauty, anyway? It’s more than something pleasant looking. If it doesn’t stop us in our tracks and make us unable to move for a moment, unable to put into words what’s closing off the breath in our throats, then maybe it’s pretty, but it probably isn’t beauty.”

That day at Ft. Pulaski, I was a euphoric deer in the headlights.  I’m not going to spend any more time trying to make it make sense. I will just shallowly and happily tell people for the rest of my life that I saw Robert Redford, and I swear he looked straight at me.  I wish I could tell Johnny.

Junie
Features writer, Junie Merkle lives on Tybee year-round!

Photos compliments of Savannah photographer (and film extra) Elizabeth Osterberger

“The Conspirator,” starring James McAvoy, Robin Penn Wright, Justin Long, Kevin Kline, Toby Kebbell, Evan Rachel Wood (and a host of local extras) is scheduled for release in the fall of 2010.

The Plumbline

FAT BOY BILLY

“Three months lumpy,” said the doctor. “That’s how long you’ve got to do somethin’ about your LDL cholesterol or you’ll be swallowin’ another expensive pill every mornin’. Your good cholesterol is phenominal. But the bad stuff will kill you.” Today, 18 January 2010 I began my fourth attempt at meaningful weight loss. I know you girls don’t much like to talk about your weight. “Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.” But I don’t care. So I’ll cut to the chase:

Age- 56
Sex- Male
Weight- 213.8
Height- 5’- 8”
LDL cholesterol- 130
HDL cholesterol- 89
Chest- 46
Waist- 48
Hips- 46
Bra size- 46 AAA

Most of the bad things that happened to me over the years were of my own doing. Some folks have medical conditions that cause their weight problems and they need to be given some slack. Not me. I am a fat boy because I chose to be a fat boy. I don’t have a disease, I am not a victim, and I wasn’t born that way. To evoke Invictus, “I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

I was a pudgy kid when I was small. By the time I turned 10 I was skinny and I stayed that way a long time. When I was 13 years old I thought I could impress the girls if I was heavier and maybe had some muscles. So I started lifting weights and ordered a box of “super weight-on wafers” I’d read about in a muscleman magazine. Every morning I’d drink a quart of chocolate milk and eat two packages of chocolate-covered cream-filled cup cakes. Lunch was usually fried chicken or something equally good for me (To see young Fat Boy Billy, Google “Bacon Is Good For Me” and watch the video) and usually followed by half a carton of ice cream. Supper was no different. And then came the late night snack. We had plenty to eat because my grandfather owned Bateman Food Stores in Macon. But nothing worked. The only thing I gained was a pimply face. I was a skinny kid until I was about forty-seven years old and my metabolism slowed appreciably. Then, in the words of my old friend Bill Sutlive, I had “filled out nicely.”

My first attempt at weight loss was in 2003 using the Adkins diet. That worked great until my penchant for pasta overwhelmed me and I decided to have a big plate of lasagna. My second try was 16 February 2004 when I weighed a mere 198. I bought a spiral note book, taped a profile of me and my fat belly on the inside cover, and started a calorie log. I’ve ultimately succeeded at most everything I’ve set my mind to do. Seven years ago I quit my three-pack a day cigarette habit—no pills, no patches, no gum. I just stopped smoking. I did because I decided to. I’d made half-hearted attempts several times before, but until I made up my mind and really decided, it was never going to happen. If I’m ever advised that I have a terminal illness I’ll start smoking again because I like it but that will be my choice. I am not addicted to nicotine. I am not a victim. I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul. But resolving to rein in my unhealthy eating habits has proven to be more difficult than giving up smoking.

That day in February I consumed 1408 calories. I’d decided to keep my daily calorie intake below 1500. I bought “The Complete Book Of Food Counts” by Corinne T. Netzer to help me plan my meals. I liked my diet because I could eat whatever I pleased, in moderation of course. And it worked. On 17 March I weighed 179; in one month I’d lost 19 pounds. I rewarded myself by going to The Sugarshack and having a banana split. Thus began my upward spiral and by April I was back to 184.5. By 6 February 2006 I’d happily eaten my way to the pinnacle of my obesity. I weighed 215.5. Wife Veronica took another profile shot and I compared it to the one taped to the notebook. Not much difference there, I thought, just a little more gray in the beard and a little less hair on the head. I begrudgingly taped the new photo much difference there, I thought, just a little more gray in the beard and a little less hair on the head. I begrudgingly taped the new photo on the page next to the last log entry and so began my third attempt. It didn’t take long before I’d perpetrated another miserable failure.

So today I began my current endeavor by getting out my Fat Boy Log Book and making the beginning entry. Yesterday was Sunday. Gary and Sue Bentley came for lunch and to enjoy with us my last fat-laden meal I plan to eat for the foreseeable future. I have the original recipe for Fettuccine Alfredo and I decided to try it out on the Bentleys. The dish was created in Italy around the turn of the last century by restaurateur Alfredo Di Lelio and involves a pound of fettuccini, a half pound of butter and a half pound of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. We also had chicken with asparagus sauce which includes a pint of heavy cream reduced to a half cup.

As I was taking my last bite of fettuccini a pain hit me in the lower abdomen that was so intense I thought I would faint. The next several hours found me in the bathroom with a cold towel on my forehead. Much of that time was spent writhing around on the floor in a cold sweat praying for mercy. I guess I went into fat overload and my body was trying to tell me something about healthy eating. I was unable to attend the first annual Tybee Times party that night because of my indiscretion. This time around I’m not going on a strict low calorie regimen. I’ll just try to lay off the fat and sugar so much and start a regular exercise program. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe the fourth time is a charm. I’ll keep you posted.

Bill

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