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LOCATION
This pleasant health resort sits nestled between Perdido and Mobile bays, in the subtropical district, especially adapting it for a winter home. To the south lies the Gulf of Mexico, the soft breezes from which seem at all times to temper the climate. The near presence of a large body of salt water furnishes an atmosphere charged with ozone, chlorine, and other life-giving constituents. Instead of the barren bleakness of the northern winter, there is the luxurious warmth and color of the Southern Clime, where a gloomy day is the exception and where the azure sky and a wealth of sunshine rule. This section of the country, when in the possession of the Spaniards, was called "The Charmed Belt."
HEALTH-GIVING CONDITIONS
Many a consumptive, rheumatic, nervous, worn-out, and overworked person has found health and a new lease on life by spending a few months in this region; the influence of the saline breezes from the Gulf will bring you a good sharp appetite even if you have not enjoyed a meal for years. It is the ideal spot for complete recreation and rest from the hustle-bustle whirl of society and the noise of the city. It will quiet your nervous system no matter how badly it may be wrecked. As a winter resort, the climate is all that could be desired and the crystal springwater found eveywhere cannot be beat. "I would call the entire region one of the garden spots of America," says Dr. Mark Obecheck of Chicago.
Oswald guessed that must have been his doctor's father. He turned the page and as the bus jerked along he read further.
COMMENTS FROM WINTER VISITORS
Dear Mr. Dunlap,
We so enjoyed the fishing and boating and the pleasant walks in the dense pine woods. The sweet songs of the mockingbird at early morn, the fragrance and balmy air as it drifted into our rooms.
Mr. S. Simms, Chicago, Illinois
Another faded photo captioned: RIVER VIEW FROM THE LARGE VERANDA. He turned the page.
"I fled from the North, from blizzard, frost and snow
To see the Sunny South where sweet and balmy breezes blow."
(A poem by Mrs. Deanne Barkley of Chicago, inspired by a recent winter visit)
Another faded photo: MR. L. J. GRODZIKI AND HIS CATCH OF FINE FISH.
A FISHERMAN'S PARADISE!
Game fish are plentiful here in our southern waters. The following is a partial list of the varieties: redfish, silver and speckled trout, pike, flounder, croakers, mullet, brim, perch, catfish, gar, and tarpon (sometimes called the silver king). Oysters, shrimp, and clams abound.
Another faded photo was captioned A GROUP OF CHICAGO GENTLEMEN ENJOYING A GOOD SMOKE AFTER AN OYSTER BAKE.
Oswald turned the page and there was a photo he could not make out: A ROSEBUSH UNDER WHICH THIRTY PEOPLE CAN STAND COMFORTABLY!
As he approached his bus stop he put the booklet back in his pocket and wondered who in the hell would want to stand under a rosebush with thirty other people, comfortably or not?
When he reached the De Soto Apartment Hotel for Men, where he had lived for the past eight years, a few of the guys were down in the lobby looking at the TV They waved at him. "How did it go?"
"Terrible," he said, blowing his nose. "I may be dead before Christmas."
They all laughed, thinking he was joking, and went back to watching the news.
"No, I'm serious," he said. "The doctor said I'm in terrible shape."
He stood there waiting for some reaction, but they weren't paying any attention and he was too tired to argue the point. He went upstairs to his room, took a bath, put on his pajamas, and sat down in his chair. He lit a cigarette and looked out at the blue neon Pabst Blue Ribbon beer sign in the window of his favorite neighborhood bar across the street. D amn, he thought. At a time like this, a man ought to be able to have a drink. But a year ago another doctor had informed him that his liver was shot and if he took one more drink it would kill him. But so what? Now that he was going to die anyway, drinking himself to death might not be such a bad idea after all. It would be fast anyway, and at least he could have a few laughs before he checked out.
He toyed with the idea of getting dressed and heading across the street, but he didn't. He had promised his ex-wife, Helen, he'd stay sober and he would hate to disappoint her again, so he just sat there and tried his best to feel sorry for himself. He had had bad luck from the get-go. He had contracted his first bout of tuberculosis when he was eight, along with 75 percent of the other boys at St. Joseph's Home for Boys, and had been in and out of hospitals fighting chronic bronchitis and pneumonia all his life. Being an orphan, he had never known who he was or where he had come from. Whoever left him on the church steps that night left no clues, nothing except the basket he came in and a can of Campbell's soup. He had no idea what his real name was. Oswald was the next name on St. Joseph's first-name list and, because of the soup, they gave him Campbell as a last name and the initial T. for Tomato, the kind he was found with. Nor did he know his nationality. But one day, when he was about twelve, a priest took a good look at his rather large nose, red hair, and small squinty blue eyes and remarked, "Campbell, if that's not an Irish mug, I'll eat my hat." So Oswald guessed he was Irish. Just another piece of bad luck as far as having a problem with booze was concerned.
(continued on the next page)
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