Bok Sanctuary One beastly hot summer day, a few months into a developing relationship with TJ, I suggested we explore the Bok Tower Gardens located near Lake Wales in Florida. The proposal comes about as she completed a tailoring project on slacks she mended for me. TJ glanced up with her winning smile, tousled flaxen hair, and easy laugh that make her seem much younger than her mature years would suggest. “Try these on.” she said, “while I throw a few things together for the trip.” With those words I thought of a John Lennon song. 'Imagine there is no heaven It’s easy if you try No hell below us Above us only sky Imagine all the people living for Today.' We were driving the back roads through Immokalee on our way to the Bok Sanctuary when TJ shouted, “Look! There’s a Popeye.” I had never been inside a Popeye fast food establishment, never even knew there were any in Florida. Maybe, I thought, she once had a romantic meal at a Popeye back in Ohio and she couldn’t resist the possibility of another one. Whatever the reason we stopped, bought an ice tea, and looked the place over. The inside was stark, a minimalist idea; large areas of clean space between a few small tables. TJ kept a smile glaring at me as she took it all in. It was a quixotic moment at an Immokalee Popeye. The west side of SR 29 from Immokalee to La Belle was home to a sod farm called DuDa. It didn’t take much imagination to tie it into the song “All the DuDa day.” Instantly we began singing “DuDa, DuDa, All The DuDa Day.” Every so often the sod farms was interrupted by an orange grove. The drive along this stretch had a calm country feel with trailer homes every so often scattered along the east side of SR 29. While driving I kept glancing at T. J. sitting alongside me wearing her coral knit blouse and matching Capri pants. She glimpse up over her gold frame glasses meeting my eyes with an impish smile. I return her smile and she squeezes my thigh while continuing to read out loud from a brochure about the Bok Tower. A flock of double-wide communities begin to appear all along the road side. Bikes and rusting cars squat about the trailer homes half concealed in high grass. Soon, new car and truck dealers lined both sides of the road as we pass through LaBelle. It seems to be the vehicle supplier to all of south Florida. TJ said, “That’s exactly what it is.” On the north side of town we approach a bridge over the inland waterway and TJ points to a real estate office and says, “That’s the old Antique store. It’s been there forever.” “But, I don’t see it.” “Well,” she says, “That’s where it used to be.” “And look,” she points to the other side of the street, “there’s the Honey Store. It’s owned by Harold. He’s an eclectic to own such a unique shop.” I don’t say anything I just stared at the sign that proclaims Honey Store and kept on driving out of La Belle. The roadside view exposed fields of scrub oak with clumps of Spanish moss hanging off their branches. Off in a farmer’s field rise a low, round building with a pointy short tower on the roof. TJ asks, “What’s that?” “That,” I reply, “is an FAA OMNI station used by pilots as a direction finder. They are built all over the country.” “Oh!, says TJ., I thought they were for telephone service.” I felt smart. For the past eight miles I’ve been looking for an area to park for a lunch break. As I pass a fruit seller’s roadside stand I spot what looks like a picnic area and quickly pull in next to a shaded table. A sign on the roof proclaims this as Frost Proof Grove. I’m not certain if this is a public rest stop but make myself comfortable while keeping an eye open for anyone ready to protest my being there. All during our lunch we watch as two guys and a woman unload a riding lawn mower from a pickup truck. The woman was obese enough to require walking with a lumbering, stiff knee step. She proceeds to slowly mount the mower. I look at TJ. to exchange knowing glances and when I look back the mower and its driver are gone. How could such a large object disappear so fast? I begin to doubt that I even saw her. Once I turn back onto SR 27 the country look has changed from glorious green fields punctuated by small villages to one of fast food and commercial establishments. Traffic becomes heavy with trucks and vans that block driver’s view of the road ahead. I tire easily without the soothing agrarian vista and drive faster towards the Bok Sanctuary. A side road held the long, winding path that led to the sanctuary. The approach cuts through an orange grove where a dozen bee hives nestle in a small clearing. Around a turn TJ cried out, “There’s the top of Bok Tower,” it was poking above the trees as if beckoning us on. As she spoke, she turned a gold bracelet round and round on her wrist.