More New Yorker Aggregation

I love me some Alan Gurganus. And this week's New Yorker features this new short story. It's about a roadside attraction in Florida.

It reminded me of the only family vacation I've ever taken that wasn't with my own family. It was spring break 1992, and I accompanied my best friend's family on their trip to Ft. Myers. It was me, my best friend, her little brother (both of whom still feature prominently in my life--I often go upstate to visit their baby and guns, respectively), and her parents. All in a Chevy Caprice. Although it was technically a nonstop drive, we did pay a visit to every single rest stop between Albany and the Florida border. To break up (or prolong) the monotony, I guess. A 24-hour car trip, stuck on the backseat hump, cruise control set on 60, with no pot. Picture it. St. Simon Stylites ain't got nothin' on me.

We stayed with Great Aunt Louise, whose two passions in life were Meister Brau and compaining about the bungee jumping industry that had sprung up on the beach. "They were supposed to be out of here a week ago Thursday! Can you get me another Meister Braaaah?"

She and I hit it off immediately because she liked the way I loaded the dishwasher. To this day, she still compliments me on that.

In between going to the overcrowded beach, we took little daytrips. Because unlike my family, this family liked to spend time together during vacation. So weird. Anyhow, the only place my friend and I wanted to go (and this was perhaps because it was the least appealing of all the local attractions) was Tom Gaskins' Cypress Knee Museum.

The lure was powerful and undefinable. It took a lot of cajoling, but after days of playing minigolf, visiting what could be the only vineyard in Florida, and going bowling after Easter Mass, the folks finally relented.

It was damned spectacular. The property had a decadent, Hills-Have-Eyes feel to it, and in addition to the cinderblock buildings devoted to the cyprus knees that resembled celebrities, there were also rickety wooden bridges that led into the swamp, where you could see both cyprus knees AND various wild animals in situ. And also, you could get attacked by really scary bees.

When we came back out of the woods, we found Tom Gaskins himself, wandering around the buildings barefoot, touching up spots where paint had begun to flake off. He was a cheery gentleman, bless his soul.

Apparently the museum is no more, which is a tragedy. I'm glad I had the opportunity to visit there that spring; as it is, the regret I feel alone in not buying a FT MYERS SPRING BREAK '92: HIV NEGATIVE! muscle tee nearly paralyzes me to this day.