Editor's note: Retired News & Observer columnist Dennis Rogers and his wife, HollyAnn, are traveling the nation in a motor home. This is his latest column about their road trip.

YEEHAW JUNCTION, Fla. -- This lonesome crossroads in the middle of Florida is as good a place as any to contemplate this confounding, delightful, irritating, rewarding but essentially uninhabitable appendage dangling from the bottom of America.

It was here that Florida's two major industries, farming and fun, were born. Here, at what was once known as Jackass Crossing in the middle of what is still a vast underpopulated swath of pine trees, open prairie, cattle ranches and citrus trees south of Orlando and north of the Everglades, an entrepreneur opened a combination juke joint, restaurant and hotel in the early years of the 20th century. Called the Desert Inn, it was where cowboys, Indians, loggers, truckers, farmers and other rough-knuckled men came to eat, drink and, to put this delicately, rent some better-smelling companions for an hour or a night.

Today the Desert Inn huddles in the lee of the Florida Turnpike and is proud to be on the National Register of Historic Places and have its own state historical marker to celebrate its bawdy past. Rooms are $33.90 a night, plus a key deposit. But watch out for the pet chicken. He hates people and their yapping little dogs.

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I love Florida. How could anyone with a sense of humor not love a place where on any given morning you can:

a. walk outside your door and pick your own oranges or grapefruit for breakfast;

b. encounter a bird the size of a fifth-grader in your yard; or

c. be eaten by an alligator. And your little dog, too.

Florida, where the fun never stops.

I first came to this Southern paradise on the very day in 1960 that I graduated from dear old Ralph L. Fike Senior High School in Wilson. I was bound and determined to play with rockets, and Cape Canaveral was where I had to be. So with nothing but a few fantasies in my kit, I introduced myself to Florida. It was a great summer, mostly spent working as a janitor in charge of bathrooms. But not just any bathrooms. I cleaned the bathrooms used by the original Mercury 7 astronauts, I'll have you know.

It may not be the trip to Europe the rich kids got for graduation, but I remember it fondly. And I've been coming back ever since. So when me and the missus began searching for our next destination in this grand American ramble, I lobbied for Florida in January. We would join the great Geezer Snowbird Migration down the East Coast, heading south to sunshine and RV parks the size of small towns.

How smart was I? I recently received an e-mail from my daughter in Asheboro. Her day began with deciding whether she should go to work since it was snowing and sleeting. My day began with deciding if I needed a long-sleeve shirt or if the T-shirt was enough. I went with the T-shirt.

Ah, Florida.

Do forgive my gloating over the weather. But among we snowbirds it is a great pastime, like shuffleboard. And no, the image of geezers playing shuffleboard in Florida is not a cliche. The RV park in Lakeland where we're staying has 15 lighted and all-weather shuffleboard courts with roofs. They offer shuffleboard lessons every week.

These people are major shuffleboard enthusiasts. You challenge them at your own risk. They are not fooling around, and there is no monkey business on the shuffleboard courts. Bring your A game or sit with the sissies. The park we stayed at in Kissimmee boasted that it was the home of a former national champion shuffleboard ... shuffler, or whatever they're called.

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