January 17, 2012
I came close to unraveling the mystery of frog jam yesterday. A conundrum that had stuck in my craw, to use the southern vernacular as is apropos, since March of last year. We were heading to Florida to visit my father who had taken ill and was in dire straights at Flagler Hospital. We started early that morning in Lexington, Kentucky, having driven from East Lansing the day before, and were determined to get to our destination before the day ended. It was early evening and we still had some daylight left. Ignoring the better sense of Andria, I opted to take a shortcut off of I-75 across Georgia to the coast since our destination was St. Augustine in northern Florida, south of Jacksonville. At Macon, I took I-16 east toward Savannah. I had our trusted navigation system so from a mileage perspective I knew my decisions were firm.
When we arrived at the junction of US-1, instead of continuing on to Savannah I steered our Highlander south toward Vidalia. Andria as is routine, seriously questioned this move. I pointed to the map displayed on the navigation system and suggested she not worry since the closest distance between two points was a straight line. She cocked her brow silently telling me not to patronize her. I assured her that the four lane highway that we were now on would be just as fast as the six lane freeway we had recently left. Plus, I told her this way we could identify points of interest to the kids like we did a year ago when we got off I-75 to have a bite of fried green tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café in Juliette. She kindly reminded me that was only twenty minutes out of the way and we were using a meticulously written travel guide which the publisher promised to be foolproof. On this day we had no such guide.
As we arrived at Vidalia I cheerfully told the kids that this was where they grew the onions with which I loved to cook. “Wow, dad,” was their sardonic response.
Shortly after leaving the sweet onion capital, US-1 narrowed to a two lane roadway. As this was a total surprise to me, it didn’t seem so to be to Andria who had been disturbingly quiet since we turned off I-75. Again, I assured her that we would still be able to keep our speed around 60-65 mph as long as we didn’t have many traffic lights to slow us down. After about forty-five minutes of driving and many stop signs, we came upon Baxely, GA. Here things went south, as it were, quickly for driver and passengers. It was past dinner time and once again I had not “planned appropriately,” for the wellbeing of my family. The hunter’s sausages and Flaming Hot Cheetos picked up the last time we stopped for gas had long run out. The kid’s sugar high from the purple bug juice I wasn’t suppose to buy was exhausted and the crash was tremendous. Andria was out of Diet Coke. The kids’ crankiness meter exceeded seventy-five percent. The missis’ “I told you so meter” had already topped one hundred percent miles earlier.
Andria was now emphatic about finding I-75 and returning to our predetermined course. I relented and confessed the errors of my ways seeking the forgiveness I knew would not come until tomorrow and then only if I successfully finished our day in St. Augustine. My finger reached for the button to shrink the map view but was quickly swatted away along with a “keep your eyes on the road, Erich” where “Erich” sounded a lot like “moron” to my ears. As the lines out of Baxely came into view it was evident that there was no good route back to I-75. First we would have to travel northwest and then turn south to head to the freeway which was close to two hours away. Once we were on I-75 and through Georgia, we would still have a two hour trip eastward on I-10 to get to the Atlantic coast.
In an attempt to regain my tenuous authority of the situation, I calmly suggested that it would seem to make a lot of sense if we took US-341 to the east to I-95 at Brunswick. Then, triumphantly I said that it would be a mere two hours and we would be at our hotel on St. Augustine Beach. I emphasized beach in an effort to lighten the mood. “What about food?” was her response, and again I sensed the question dangle with some unsaid expletive. I pointed to the map and said, “I’m sure we can get some at Surrency or Odum.” She eyed me dubiously.
As we made the turn east a trace of doubt crossed my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder why the name US-1 sounded so familiar. A quick look back at the map showed the highway going west and south away from the coast. Surely, it would be shorter to take US 341?
After Vidalia I was hard pressed to identify any points of interest to my children. It was close to dark now and the only thing we seemed to see with some regularity were rebel flags. The “Stars and Bars” seemed to be everywhere. They were on the porches of the modest one story houses on the road side. They were also on the jacked up four by four pickup trucks that rumbled past us regardless of traffic on the northbound lane. Andria now seemed completely uncomfortable. My reminding her that it was still America and that Jim Crow laws had been banished for decades did nothing to soothe her concern for our two African American children sitting in the backseat, eyes glued to Spider-Man on the DVD player. Despite the distraction I could see that they were not happy being immersed in total blackness seemingly miles from civilization.
It was dark and we seemed to be alone on the road. With some consistency my headlights illuminated small white signs. “Gator Jerky,” the two foot by two foot sign hugging the road read. I swore the next one read “Possum Pie” but it was blurred and I wasn’t sure. Then another sign was lighted, “Frog Jam,” it read which sent my imagination flying. “What part of the frog do they make the jam from?” I wondered. Do they puree the entire frog and then add some pectin for firmness or do they only use the brain or liver? As I contemplated the frog jam, Andria upon reading the signs said, “Erich this is not good, get us out of here.” She then reminded me that the kids were not going to eat until 9:00 with a “Harumph,” for exclamation.
“It is creepy out here, Dad,” a voice from the backseat said. Despite having headphones on, it seems Jacob always has an ear cocked to the front seat conversation. “I’m hungry,” he said with finality. “I want chicken nuggets,” responds Antonia, her eyes intently watching the web slinger’s next move.
As it turned out of the tiny towns of Surrency, population – 237 and Odum – population – 414, only Odum had restaurants. While I thought the Blue Jay had potential for some good southern cooking, I knew my family was no longer in an adventurous mood so I bet the house on Jessup and kept heading east.
As we continued on in quiet darkness my mind began to roam. What if some good ole boys decided to have some fun? What if they blocked our way forcing us down a desolate two track leading deep into some unseen swamp? How am I going to protect my family – disarm the rednecks with my Midwestern ranch dressing agreeableness? “I see your point sir,” I’d say. “My car is an import from Japan, but according to a sign in the dealership, apparently, and this was a total surprise to me, Toyota employs more American’s than GM, that is if you take into consideration the dealerships and suppliers.” “What? Get out of the car or you’ll do what?” “Of course, perhaps our discussion would be better if I were standing directly in front of you. You know, man to man.” “Oh I see, I’m not a man, I’m crawdad riding, Yankee gator bait.” “Yes, I understand. How does that work exactly? Do you put a saddle on the crayfish?” “This has been great fun, but, I have to graciously decline your generous offer you see, I have to get some food for the family, they are starving.” “Get out now or you’ll feed them my what?”
If that didn’t work, perhaps I could physically overpower them. But, having been on dialysis now for twelve years I no longer have the strength I once had, as if that would ever have sufficed in such a situation. I damned myself for being a pacifist and having never owned a gun. I wished desperately that my bumper sported an “I heart guns,” or “If you can read this you’re in range,” sticker. It is amazing how one’s mine can wonder when receiving the icy, “you’re an idiot,” cold shoulder. What if she is right? I thought. How could I do this to my family? I always thought Andria’s use of the term idiot was as a goofy term of endearment like when Christopher Robin says, “Silly ole bear,” after Pooh gets stuck in the hole to Rabbit’s house. What if she really means it? What if I truly am an idiot?
Then, there it was, a white sign with green trees bordering a black roadway, “Jessup – A GA City of Excellence.” Hallalujah, I thought. I just knew it couldn’t be true. I was no idiot. Now, please have a restaurant I prayed.
The next thing I saw was a Dominoes Pizza. This had to be a good sign, I thought as we headed two more blocks to what looked like the center of town. Then there it was, a Wendy’s. I hoped now my stock would start to rise, but all that I got from the passenger seat was, “You’re lucky.” God bless the kids, they emerged from their DVD induced travel trance with sheer enthusiasm for hamburgers and chicken nuggets. I thought I may have even heard a “Thanks, Dad,” but then I realized that was me whispering to myself.
As we head out of Jessup the street lights ceased and again the road turned dark. But the air had changed. It was now heavier and slightly salty. We were on our way to the coast and nothing was going to stop me now. The kids were fed. The Diet Coke was replenished. And soon we’d hear the ocean surf. It was a little after nine and if I didn’t take anymore boneheaded shortcuts we’d be in St. Augustine before midnight.
It seems I had forgotten that the coast of Georgia is concave to the ocean, tapering westward as one drives south along the coast to Florida. But, the traffic was light and we made good time. As we took 9A around the eastern edge of Jacksonville I was tempted to take US-90 out to Jacksonville Beach and then follow the famed A1A down through Vilano and into St. Augustine. But, somewhere deep inside my brain the gears whirled and I realized the ocean would not be seen this late at night and the family wouldn’t stand for another delay. So we followed 9A toward Greenland and the I-95 interchange. As we continued on, to my disbelief I saw a “US-1 Interchange in five miles” sign. Could this be the same US-1 we saw in Baxely? I wondered. Andria was checking Facebook on her handheld and I was relieved that she hadn’t seen the sign. Just for a moment I wondered if taking US-1 from Baxely would have been shorter. Then it dawned on me, US-1 followed the entire Atlantic coast of Florida, all the way to Key West. In fact, it followed the entire U.S. eastern seaboard starting in northern Maine. What was it doing so far inland in Georgia I questioned? How could I be such an idiot? I thought, but then quickly dismissed it.
Before Andria took her attention off her Android I swung south onto US-1. She looked up and asked, “Are we on I-95 now?”
“Better,” I responded, “Were on US-1.”
But before she had time to ball up her fist and send it smashing into my shoulder the headlights flashed on a sign, “St. Augustine – 25 miles.” “And, see it is only 11:25 p.m., I told you I’d get us here by the end of the day,” I proudly stated.
So yesterday I was shopping at Horrock’s with Jacob and Antonia and as we perused the preserves I lit up when I saw a label for Old Fashion “Hoppin” F-R-O-G Jam. I picked up a jar and was immediately confused as its contents were red and not green. I read the ingredients and while there was a delightful mix of raspberries, jalapenos, figs, ginger and orange peel, surprisingly there was neither frog nor frog parts. Why then was it named Frog jam? Jacob suggested that perhaps the letters were abbreviations for the ingredients. So I read the label again and said if that were the case it would be called RJFGO. It wasn’t until this day, about thirty seconds ago, through extensive Googling that I determined that the jalapenos were a Horrock original and that southern Frog Jam traditionally has only raspberries, figs, and ginger and orange peel – RFGO. Baffled, I continued my query. After exhausting my options I concluded that no where on the internet would I find the origins of the name. I guess it will just remain a mystery.
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