He looked from side to side, drinking in the sights. Suddenly, he raised up from his seat at the wheel and cried: "Look at that old pelican up there! You see him? He's getting ready to d-i-v-e. Watch him now. There he goes! Down he goes and up he comes. There's a fish in that old pelican's bill. My, the fish that are out here. Bass and red-fish and tarpon and blues and snapper and perch and I don't know what. You know we could keep going from here clear out to the Gulf of Mexico? We could, you win my watch if we couldn't. Look back now at that little old house of ours! It wasn't much of a place when we bought it, more of a fishing lodge owned by this gentleman who used it only occasionally. We've built on, we've made improvements, we've put in air conditioning and hi-fi and wall-to-wall. Mary Lou and I don't always agree on records for the hi-fi. What I favor is music that doesn't tax the mind of a man resting up after a tournament. Like that song my old buddy, Dizzy Dean, was singing on the baseball broadcast here the other day. It was entitled The Great Speckled Bird."
He stood up and turned to face the two passengers who had survived the morning.
This is the kind of country," he said, throwing out his arms, "that I want my boy to grow up in. I don't want him to be a city slicker, to grow up in some fancy suburb where you got to go around wearing a tuxedo all day long. No, pals, this is the country for me. Crystal River, F-l-o-r-i-d-a, garden spot of Citrus County! Where there's no pressure, where a man can truly r-e-l-a-x."
He swung the wheel over and turned home, a man serene, obviously safe from all further vexation. Alas, he was not. Soon after, the vexations in Crystal River multiplied again, until one day Tommy Bolt drove over to Clearwater and filed suit for divorce. Friends of the Bolts hoped that they could iron out their disagreements. Especially since one of Tommy's charges against Mary Lou was that she had—of all things—a t-e-m-p-e-r.