Windblown Spirit

I first fell in love with driving unknown roads and discovering unfamiliar landscapes in my home state of Florida, on unassuming State Road 60. It was a trip I had not taken before, and I settled in for what I assumed would be a boring drive, long monotonous asphalt miles past strip malls and car dealerships.

I turned onto SR 60 at Yeehaw Junction, population 240. Almost immediately The Desert Inn announced “MOTEL GOOD FOOD BAR.” An old white wooden building, it looked abandoned but was still open, serving food and overnight guests. Later I discovered it had been there since the days of cowboys and pioneers, since before there were roads.

Further down, I passed a white building that said “HONEY” in big orange letters and decided to stop. With a bit of a trepidation, I walked slowly up to the front door and pushed it open. The store was hot and quiet and still. No customers, no clerks. Bottles of honey were stacked on white shelves. In the middle of the room was a box with handwritten instructions: “Honor System”, “Put money in slot” and “Thank you God Bless.” I put $5 in the slot, took a bottle, and headed out.

I had entered a different Florida, so different from the one I had always known of sprawling suburbs and theme parks. This was old Florida: acres upon acres of undeveloped land, country roads and cattle gates, hints of a forgotten history. Fruit stands, orange groves, and old oak trees that held memories in their shade. This place had soul. And it was a revelation, like discovering a house you’d lived in all your life had a revolving bookcase or a trap door that led to a secret room. There were hardly any other cars, and it was the first time I had felt the joy of being alone on a stretch of highway, just you and the blue sky and the sun and freedom.

Toward the end of my trip, a street name caught my eye: Saint Anne Shrine Road. Curious, I turned onto it. I drove through the orange groves and into a residential neighborhood on Lake Saint Anne. I was almost ready to turn back around when I found it, nearly two miles from the highway: a beautiful, towering stone grotto, tucked back in an oak hammock. There was an altar in the center, the forgotten remnants of an old church, decorated with statues, flowers, and rosaries. I walked up to it and knelt down. I gave thanks for the experience, for this small moment of grace. Apart from the breeze rustling through the old-growth oaks and the palms, there was only a holy silence in response.