Millers Dog House, oil on canvas 22“x30” collection of Dan Williams
Research in psychology has documented the fact that certain areas of the brain’s prefrontal cortex, specifically the ones that affect good judgment, are not fully developed until around age 25 or later. My escape from the Minneapolis winter of ’74 to the sun and fun of Florida was one of a few things I did in my young life that “seemed like a good idea at the time” but it definitely had two sides.
My artwork is about, among other things, the dual nature of the American experience. The exciting adventure and romance of the open road is a part of it, but the emptiness and creeping melancholy of the lonesome traveler is also in there. If an artist attempts to capture the soul of America there has to be a yin and a yang to it. The second painting from my Florida experience, “Miller’s Dog House,” contains a little of both.
When we arrived in Florida everything was sunshine and warmth. Well, except for the fact that we spent our first few nights sleeping under benches at the beach in a spell of 35 degree rain. After that, things got better. I found a well kept little place to rent in Ormond Beach and, financed by my second semester student loan, we set up house and began to 
Darrell relaxin’ at Ormond Beach houseenjoy life. Beach days of sun and salt water worked wonders on my skin and I was soon feeling great. The guys found some work sweeping out construction sites and we were able to pay the rent and have money left over for beer. It was party time in party-town. We used to hang out in Daytona at a bar called the Function Junction. Life was good. In Darrell’s words:
“I remember us going to a lil’ bar, and when you would walk in they would cut the juke box off so you would play the harmonica. I remember going to the inlets and catching crabs, and getting wild oranges and grapefruits. More than anything we could ever eat. I also remember I was in the best shape I have ever been in because everywhere we went it was by bike.”
Most of Darrell’s and my travel was indeed by bicycle however, Tony had his green Camaro. Tony and I did a fair amount of cruising on the hard-packed sand back roads around the vicinity. Tony liked to drive the back roads, partly because we were often in various states of intoxication and partly because of his AWOL status at the time. I happened to be with Tony one night coming home from the Function Junction via the bayou when we ran out of gas. Things are pretty quiet around 11 PM in the rural part of Ormond Beach. Only the sounds of the swamp creatures accompanied us as we began walking down the dusty road in the moonlight. We had not gone far when we came across a ramshackle shack with all manner of cast off items populating the front yard, including a pickup truck. Tony then had what “seemed like a good idea at the time.” He found an old piece of hose and an empty plastic jug in the yard and began to siphon some fuel from the tank of the pickup truck. We were only a few miles from home. I was all for walking, but Tony was intent on his mission. “Pah…toohie!!” was the sound of Tony spitting out a bit of gas from his efforts to prime the siphon. The next sound I heard was the slam of a wooden screen door and: “Y’all don’t move or I’ll shoot!” .…BLAM! BLAM! …went both 12-gauge barrels as Tony and I immediately bolted in opposite directions.
Running through the swamp in the steamy black night I remember thinking that getting shot at was probably a good indication that hanging with Tony was not always a good idea. I also remember thinking that this was not Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood… “Can you say alligators, Jeffrey?”
After a few months in Florida my money started to run out. Work was hard to come by. Our crabbing and fruit picking became more than just a fun thing to do. It was what we did to eat. Darrell taught me how many different ways you could prepare grits. We ate rice and beans and lots of White Castle burgers, which were 19 cents.
One day on one of our backroads excursions in the Camaro we came across a black and white domestic duck just meandering along the road. After a highly comic chase scene we got it in the trunk of the car and took it home. We had a fenced-in yard and “Donald” was quite happy to stay around. The woman who lived next door and her teenage daughter became quite fond of him and came over to feed him every day for a couple of weeks. One day they were dismayed to find that he was gone. We had to tell them that we had eaten the duck. I’ve had better duck since then.
I found a place where you could get paid for donating blood plasma. I think it was $15 per donation, which I did a few times. Blood for food – probably not the best way to put something in your belly but it worked. Fifteen dollars went a pretty long way in 1974.
Daytona Beach 1974Somehow we still managed to find money for beer, something we considered essential. One day we started shooting pool at a local bar in the afternoon. By nighttime we had migrated to the Function Junction and I was well on my way to living a Johnny Paycheck song: “I drank fifteen beers and that’s a whole lot of brew for one man.” Tony was down the bar from me when suddenly he was escorted out of the place by his ear; courtesy of a couple of big dudes who were either bouncers or just part of the regular biker crowd that hung out there. I heard a ruckus outside and knew that Tony was in a fight. As much as Tony was not quite right, he was my friend and my housemate so; all five-feet-seven of me ran outside to help him out. They had Tony pinned to the ground. Just as I was attempting to pull one of the guys off Tony I felt my arms being put behind me and the cold steel handcuffs clamping around my wrists. The timely arrival of the Daytona Beach Police probably saved me from getting my ass kicked.
During a long sleepless night watching palmetto bugs crawl up the wall of the drunk tank in the Daytona Beach City Jail, I figured out that Florida was not the place for me. The next morning I had a date with the magistrate. Darrell came to spring me with thirty dollars he had borrowed from the lady next door. I had paid my debt to society; they gave me back my belt, my empty wallet, and my harmonica. I was free to go. Thanks to my dear Mom and Dad and Western Union, I was able to get a bus ticket out of paradise. It was a long ride home to Springfield, Massachusetts, stopping at countless small town stations, loading and unloading weary travelers in the sweltering August heat. I didn’t meet Jesus on that Greyhound but I definitely had time for some deep reflection. This was not my favorite road trip but it was a memorable tour of America’s Eastern Seaboard from a humble perspective.
