Technicolor to Fifty Shades

We left Florida for a brief visit to Massachusetts. The first night it snowed three inches and the thermometer registered twenty-nine degrees.  Five days later we escaped a second snowstorm that pelted our region as we winged our way south in a metal tube.

You might think that what we missed most about Florida during the trip was warmth.  It was not.  It was ----- color!

We left a technicolor world and entered a monochromatic world in fifty shades of you-guessed-it, gray.  The heavy, wet snow bowed tree branches into arcs, making the scene spectacular.  But white, like black, is not a color.

People wore navy, olive, dark brown, or black to absorb the heat.  The most colorful sight we saw in the ground was a brazen patch of yellow and purple crocuses daring the cold.  It was beaten into submission with the first snowstorm.

We also saw a team of Little Leaguers practicing in red jerseys against a backdrop of frozen silt.  They'd probably be snowed out of their season opener.

I missed the de rigueur dress code of Florida, where women wore tees emblazoned with eye-popping sunflowers or preening parrots.  Their sandals boasted glass garnets of rubies and topazes.  White tennis outfits gave way to blocks of color like lavender with matching ruffles or white polka dots on aqua backgrounds. 

Men wore loafers without socks, revealing tanned ankles.  Their golf shirts ranged from bubblegum pink to sapphire blue and the more adventurous wore shorts of Kelly Green.  Linen jackets in baby blue or straw fronted dark tees or striped dress shirts.

On our trip north I vowed never again to tell Charley the shirt he loves with palm trees and pineapples had gone out of style ten years ago.

In Front of Me




Stalking Egret

We took a houseguest to experience the three-quarter-mile raised boardwalk through fifty acres of Wakodahatchee Wetlands Preserve in Delray Beach, Florida.  The Preserve is just ten miles from our home, and yet it's something Charley and I do only when visitors come...like walking the beach.

The sky remained cloudless, as we glimpsed 'gators and turtles basking on logs or grassy islands.  Fuzzy white egret babies sat in nests not far from gray heron hatchlings.  We ambled, snapping our amateur digital cameras along the way, as pros with long-snouted lenses angled for the perfect shot. A straw hat floated by on the current.  Life slowed to a rare pace of awe and appreciation.

Stepping back into our human world, geckos scurried away from our crunching footsteps.  Inside, I checked our phone book and found the following resources within a fifty-mile radius:

     a planetarium; three wildlife refuges and five nature centers; Blowing Rocks Preserve; Butterfly
     World; Lion Country Safari; a loggerhead marinelife center; three children's museums; two
     science museums; lighthouses and a maritime museum; a native American museum; an African-
     American museum; a Japanese museum and garden; botannical gardens; an 1838 fort; a zoo;
     homes of settlers (such as Henry Flagler), not to mention the art museums and theaters that abound.

It is a privilege to live amid such a paradise of colorful and diverse flora and fauna in south Florida.  I renewed a vow to rediscover what lay in front of me and under my feet.  I wanted to be part of two worlds...like the hat.

Barefoot Mailmen of Florida

                                                                          

Long, long ago cars did not clog roads on south Florida highways... there were no highways.  Intracoastal bridges did not open every half-hour to access the Atlantic... there was no intracoastal waterway.  Train whistles didn't blow through the night... there was no railroad in south Florida.

Starting in the 1870's, a succession of eleven mailmen WALKED sections of a route from Jupiter (Palm Beach County) to Miami (Dade County) to deliver mail along the east coast.  Each section of the journey took three days.  There was no trail...just beach.  They stayed overnight at Houses of Refuge for ship-wrecked sailors in Delray Beach and Ft. Lauderdale.

The saltwater destroyed their shoes, so they walked barefoot in the packed sand with pants rolled up to their knees.  They battled mosquitos thick as storm clouds, long-snouted razorback hogs, horse flies, and vipers in palmetto roots.

It was a letter's speedier route than the three-to-six-month alternative out of south Florida.  Mail originally went north to Titusville (Kennedy Space Center), where the railroad ended at its southernmost point.  The mail would go all the way to New York by rail, then ride a steamer or schooner to Havana.  Next stop was Key West, then Miami.

Near the lighthouse at Hillsboro (Fla.) Inlet stands a statue of Barefoot Mailman Ed Hamilton.  One story goes that a 'gator caused the mailman's death in 1887, while on duty crossing the mouth of that dangerous Inlet.

Imagine the want ad:  mailman needed with feet like leather, immunity to insect bites, no fear of 'gators or 'canes.

...with thanks to Erika Pesantes for her article, "Runner Takes 'Mailman' Route" in the Sun Sentinel, March 3, 2013; and Reverend Randall Gill, author of Boynton Beach:  Images of America.

Pump It Up

"Pump it up" does not refer to an aerobic routine, body building, implanting anything foreign in the body, or even  balloons.

It is the name of a franchise where children under age ten go berserk.

Last weekend I attended my first "Pump It Up" party for our granddaughter's fifth birthday.  Twenty-six party-goers gathered in the lobby, where they ran from end to end, careening into each other.  A staff member herded them onto a carpeted area to watch a safety video.  No movie, no entrance.  Silence ensued - during the movie.  The attendant crowned our granddaughter "Princess" and asked her to lead the procession into the abyss.  First, though, they had to wait for a previous group to exit.  Parties were scheduled every half-hour.  While waiting, the attendant morphed into a cheerleader.  "Who's the Princess?" she yelled.

In unison:  "Emma!"

"Who??"

"Emma!!!" 

The kids were psyched into a frenzy.  Around their necks they wore glow sticks to identify them inside the black chasm. Strip lights outlined bouncy structures.  Parents and grandparents ran through the expanse to find their darlings, but the darlings had been swallowed.  "They'll be asleep by six tonight," I said to no-one.

There were four bouncy houses in this room (each held ten), an inflatable slide two stories high, riding toys for those under three years, and air hockey.  An attendant monitored each structure.

One of our grandsons came down the slide immediately behind a girl twice his size.  He tumbled into her at the bottom, where they both exploded in ludicrous laughter.  Then he rolled over the inflatable barrier and fell onto the mat below.  His neck tilted at an unnatural 90-degree angle.  I rushed to help him, sure he'd never move again.  He started back up the steps before I even reached the mat.

After thirty minutes, a loud speaker announced that party goers should line up to proceed to the next room.  More inflatable structures, but higher.  I was grateful for a bench near the exit, where I withdrew into my coat, tortoise-like.  It muffled the high-pitched squeals.

An interminable thirty minutes passed before the loudspeaker announced that party goers should line up to proceed to the "food court."  Here Emma took her place on an inflatable throne, her crown still intact.  Staff members served pizza, water bottles, pretzels, cheese doodles, and cake.  Did these kids really need more sugar??

"What do they charge for this?" I said to my daughter-in-law. 

"Four dollars a head for the hour and a half, up to twenty-six kids.  But then you have to select a food package."

"A food package?"

"Yes, and I had to bring our cake."

"What are the food packages?"

"You could select hot dogs and that would cost a lot more.  And you could add more hours for an additional cost per kid."

Why hadn't I thought of this?

Most Thankless Job

Few volunteer jobs are as thankless as the presidency of a condominium, especially if there are five hundred or more units and a staff of fifty.   There are tales of police at condo meetings when the residents threaten to attack each other; or hours deliberating a pillow fabric for the main lobby or shade of green for new plantings (everyone's an expert!); or law suits against developers who took off when the building lost its balconies in a hurricane. The following actually happened at a Florida condo recently.

Mr. Habib was Libyan and Mrs. Habib was Italian.  Mr. Habib was a perfect "Jack Sprat," ramrod straight and a size 32 waist.  Mrs. Habib would have been a perfect "Mrs. Sprat," except she had a hump in her back.  Both were in their eighties.

One day the girl who came to clean Mrs. Habib's apartment ran from the building crying.  Later around the pool, Mrs. Habib explained she'd found her husband and the housekeeper in a closet together.   "She's history!" Mrs. Habib said.  Mr. Habib was not.

After a month, Mrs. Habib approached the condo president.  "I want that guard Molly fired!" she said. 

"What happened?" said Mrs. Kaliff, the president.

"I found Molly in the supply closet with my husband."

"Mrs. Habib, I will certainly investigate your accusation.  However, Molly's the head of our security team and has worked here for over twenty years.  She had a sterling resume and I've found her to be extremely trustworthy."

"I want her fired.  Besides, she sticks her tongue out at me when I go in and out of the building."

Mrs. Kaliff had a meeting with Molly and the building manager.  "Please document everything, Molly, every time Mrs. Habib phones you or speaks to you.  I will document her conversation with me.  And inform your entire staff they are not to enter that apartment unless Tom (the manager) is with them."

Another month went by when Mrs. Habib called security one morning.  "There's been a robbery!  Some of my necklaces and earrings are gone.  I always leave them in a certain drawer and they're gone!  The only one who could get in here is that Molly.  I'll bet she'd love to have some of my things."

The manager called the police.  Mrs. Habib filed a report.  Molly had not been on duty the night of the "robbery."  The missing items were found several days later in a locked box under a guest bed.

After another month, Mrs. Habib called security again.  "Help!  My husband is under our bed and I can't pull him out.  Please come get him."

Tom and the security guard left him there.  They figured the poor guy deserved a break.  A family member drove Mrs. Habib to her doctor for evaluation.

Charley and I live in a small condominium complex in Florida, where the residents like each other and one lady who lost her marbles went to live with her daughter.  It's dull by comparison.

Matches Made in Heaven

Back in the days before enlightenment, a jock would determine whether a date was marriageable material by giving her a sports quiz (a la the movie "Diner").  If the date knew the answers, she graduated to a second degree of difficulty and got a second booking.

Each region tested for local sports folklore. We all know that Beantown is bonkers over anything that ends in "-ball," so the questions went something like this (and these were the easy ones):



     1.  Who was the Red Sox player who gave the World Series to the Mets?
     2.  What is the city where the Sea Dogs play?
     3.  What is Carlton Fisk's nickname?
     4.  What was the original name of the Pats' stadium?
     5.  Who won the most games coaching the Celtics?
     6.  Who was the best Bruins defenseman of the 70's?

Chauvinistic?  Of course.  Women learned a few things about sports and then gave the men their own quiz (and these were the easy ones):
     1.  What was the name of the series starring Peter Falk?
     2.   Who shot JR?
     3.   How old was Captain Kirk in his last appearance?
     4.   Describe the article of clothing that was The Fonz's trademark.
     5.   Who was the star of "Giant?"
     6.   What was the nickname of Archie's son-in-law on "Those Were the Days?"

The fun was in the exchanges.  If a man passed the first round, he might be faced with an advanced degree of difficulty on a future date:
     1.  What is Foie Gras?
     2.  Define a "clutch."
     3.  Name a Russian dancer who defected to the U.S.
     4.  Who were the feuding families in "Romeo and Juliet?"
     5.  What is a CZ?
     6.  What has the longest gestation period of any living creature?

With on-line dating today, e-matches are based on profiles.  Here are some questions a computer might ask to determine possible matches:
     1.  Are you a legal citizen?
     2.  What is your gender?
     3.  What is your gender preference?
     4.  What is the age range you prefer to date?
     5.  Do you have a police record?
     6.  How many hours a day do you spend on electronic devices?
     7.  How many times have you read "Shades of Gray" or any part of the trilogy?

I'll repeat myself.  The fun was in the exchanges - telling about ourselves and listening to a date tell about himself.  One's true measure never appeared in a profile.
    

Memories of '78

     It started around mid-morning with large, wet flakes.  Every New Englander knew what that meant -no sweat. Small, dry flakes meant something prolonged.  Right!
     "Aother winter storm with heavy snow," the forecasters said.  They didn't dignify the storms with names back then.  As soon as I'd heard "heavy snow," I'd gotten canned goods and cold cuts to last a few  days.  The same for milk, water, toilet paper, and pet food.  I'd filled the cars with gas and brought in wood from the garage (seasoned and dry) to keep the fireplace going, in case the power went out.  Oil burners need electricity.  The four of us would hunker in sleeping bags in front of the fire with the dog in the middle, if we had to.
     Schools let out early that day, February 6th.  By 2:30 the flakes were accumulating an inch an hour and seemed to be intensifying.  Our two boys hadn't shown up.  I called Charley in Providence.
     "There's no sign of them," I said.
     "I'm sure they'll be there any minute.  I'm going to get out of here, too."
     "Go now!  It's coming down much harder and the wind's picked up."  Charley was like the captain of a ship -  making sure the multi-national company was secure before he abandoned his office.
     Without the technology of cell phones, all I could do was wait.  At 3:00 a seven-year-old and an eight-year-old tumbled into the garage.  "The bus got stuck at the top of the street," older bro said.  "We all had to get out and push it."
     "It's up to our waists at the end of the driveway," little bro said.
     The electricity didn't waver, thankfully.  We watched hurricane-like swirls on television, except that hurricanes gather strength over water.  We were eighteen miles inland. 
     One of the neighbors pushed his car down the cul-de-sac and abandoned it in our driveway.  By dark, it was completely covered.  At 6:00, still no Charley.
     The phone rang.  "I'm back in the office," he said.  "I got to the car but there's nothing moving.  It took three hours to go two blocks.  I pulled into a parking space on South Main and walked back."
     "I don't know why you stayed so long!  At least the boys made it home."
     "Who knew it would be so heavy?  I have a couch in the office and a bathroom."
     "What will you eat?"
     "I don't know."
      By morning the sun was shining, but the wind chill was near zero.  Drifts rose to the second-story windows.  According to the television, our town had been in the eye of the storm with a snowfall of fifty-four inches.  I called the boys to help me push the door open so I could wedge myself out to dig a path for the dog.  There was no other sign of life.
     Charley had no toothbrush and no underwear, but he'd worn his heavy, lined ski boots to work.   "I found some food," he told me on the phone.
     "What did you eat?"
     "Girl Scout cookies.  Their headquarters are next door."
     For three days, I shovelled and dug while Charley checked in by phone.  Our house still had electricity and heat, but the indicator on the oil tank had moved below one-quarter.  Roads were impassable.  Neighbors pooled food and booze and rotated houses for parties.  Charley slept on his couch and ate Girl Scout cookies.
     On the fourth day, an apparition walked out of the blinding glitter.  An abominable snowman, Charley had walked on tops of cars to get out of the city.  Then he'd sat in the cab of a snowplow across the Massachusetts border and finally on the back a snowmobile into northern Rhode Island.  His hair was matted and his breath smelled, but he looked gorgeous.
     "Please don't ever ask me to eat a Girl Scout cookie," he said.
    On the fifth day, payloaders from upstate New York rumbled down our street.  Their tires rose above the ski ramp kids had created over the abandoned car.  We shovelled the banks the payloaders built at the end of driveways and had a few runs down the manmade ramp.  When Charley went to retrieve his car in Providence, the city collected  $150 in fines.

What are your memories of the '78 blizzard?  Write them in the box below.