Big Sis
• Rick La Claire •

It may interest my readership (Hi, Mom!) to know that I have an older sister. She is six years older, to be precise, and that had a lot of advantages when I was young. As a matter of fact, it still does.

When I was young, we had a built-in babysitter. She being related, we got away with murder. Especially since about age eight, when I was already as tall as she was. We’d tease her and disobey her — nothing serious really (after all, she was my sister) — but we would torment her to our hearts’ content, knowing full well that she would never rat us out to Mom and Dad. She just wasn’t like that. I hope my parents paid her well.

My sister was popular with the boys in high school and usually had a boyfriend. Now I don’t know what made her so popular in that department — in fact just thinking about it gives me the heebie-jeebies — but it afforded me a unique window on the dating process. How? Because we were there! Yep, you guessed it, my Mom and Dad would let my sister go anywhere with her gentleman callers (even the drive-in movies — a.k.a. “The Passion Pit”) just as long as her two little brothers could go too.

Consequently, I saw every Elvis movie ever made by age 11. My little brother has a joke about that: ”Hey, what’s your favorite Elvis movie?” Of course you’re stymied — they all stank. Then he’d interject with “I like the one where he sings a song, gets in a fight, and kisses a girl.” So now, whenever “Elvis Week” hits the idiot box, I insist we watch every movie up to the fulfillment of those three criteria: the song, the fight, and the kiss — not necessarily in that order. In some Elvis movies it only takes five minutes. In others, up to 15 minutes — which is an eternity when watching an Elvis movie.

As a kid, I always thought my sister would be a famous actress. She appeared in such high school classics as “Life With Father” and “The King and I.” In “The King…” she had a major role: Tuptim, the slave girl/concubine. I was in sixth grade at the time, and though I was no big fan of musicals, I was impressed. There should be some kind of an award for a performance like that.

Those were the days… And the coolest thing was the music. Even the Elvis music… My big sis loved her 45s, and I don’t mean guns. I don’t know how collectable those old records are, but she had ‘em all. No “Sun” releases mind you, but we bopped to all of Elvis’ early RCA stuff (the tunes with Scotty Moore and Bill Black) right up through the schmaltzy Jordanaires backup. “All Shook Up,” “Jailhouse Rock,” “Don’t Be Cruel”… My baby brother and I played the grooves off that stuff. Here I was, maybe six or seven, getting exposed to the cutting edge of early rock n’ roll, all because I had the good fortune of having an older sister.

We cut our teeth on Dion and the Belmonts, the Rays, the Halos, the Orlons, Dee Dee Sharp, and Chubby Checker. Chubby Checker! First it was “The Twist” in 1960 (not to be confused with a 1962 spinoff by Joey Dee and the Starliters called “The Peppermint Twist” — “buppa doopa, buppa buppa doopa…”), then the Chubster comes back with “The Hucklebuck.” Not quite as big a seller, maybe because “hucklebuck” is urban slang for… uh… Well, if you don’t know what “hucklebucking” is, you’re probably better off. Ah, but then came “Let’s Twist Again Like We Did Last Summer.” What a concept! How come nobody else followed that idea? Your act would never die. I’d buy “Let’s Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida Again Like We Did Last Summer.” Wouldn’t you?

Of course it wasn’t all Elvis, Dion, and Chubby. My sister was a girl, and there was a lot of wimpy stuff in that collection too. Ricky Nelson (a slice of white bread — bleah); Pat Boone (a whole loaf of white bread — double bleah); the Beach Boys; lots of Paul Anka; the Four Seasons (you know, Frankie Valli may have walked like a man, but he shore didn’t sing like one).

But even among the wimpy stuff were some truly momentous cuts, namely “Dominique” by the Singing Nun. Remember that one? I challenge any man alive to sing more than the opening eight syllables. What the heck was that chick singing about? The tune’s in French, fer chrissakes! How’d that ever make it to the jukebox? And was the Singing Nun any relation to the Flying Nun? They have the same last name. And how come no Hollywood bigshot ever came up with the concept of the Flying Singing Nun? And why didn’t they release “Let’s ‘Dominique’ Again Like We Did Last Summer”? Missed opportunities, all. The poor Singing Nun, destined to be just another one-hit wonder.

And boy, are there a bunch of those in that pile. How about “Johnny Angel” by Shelly Fabares? Or “Bobby’s Girl” by Marcie Blane? Or “Johnny Jingo” by none other than the fabulous Hayley Mills? Ah, but the holy grail of all one-hit wonders just has to be “The Ballad of the Green Berets” by Sgt. Barry Sadler. That song has it all: vibrato vocals, a marching snare beat, trumpets, and a plea for all good men to “jump and die.” The first time I heard that song I rushed out to enlist. Sign me up, Uncle Sam! I want those silver wings on my chest! I didn’t get very far. I was only eight.

My big sis never did go to Hollywood. Nope. But she did go to college. She started at Elmira College and then transferred to Syracuse University, majoring in library science. I never understood the scientific angle, but I figured she was just doing it so she could reap the big bucks of being a librarian until her acting career took off. After all, she’d been Tuptim! No self-respecting Singing Nun fan would let a hefty credential like that go unflashed. But you know what? She actually made hay with that library thing. And last year, after several decades of deciphering Dewey Decimals, she retired.

She spent most of her working life in the D.C. area and I gotta give her credit: she did well. My brothers and I visited as often as we could and became familiar with Northern Virginia. When she announced that she and her husband would be retiring to the mountains of North Carolina, my baby brother and I decided we would make one last visit, for nostalgia’s sake.

This was last November, and when I boarded my flight in Melbourne it was sunny, 83 degrees, and I was in shorts and a t-shirt. In D.C. it was 40, raining, and threatening snow. I was underdressed indeed, and froze my butt waiting for my brother-in-law. But he was punctual, and shortly I was in that familiar house in Centerville. Soon the cocktails were flowing and she fetched that historic rack of vinyl and asked “Are you interested in any of these?”

Was I! My brother and I pounced on those 45s like Rush Limbaugh on a prescription pad. A veritable avalanche of childhood memories poured forth. Here we were again, eight and five years old, spinning the sacred discs on the old Montgomery Ward Monophonic (which we affectionately referred to as “The Chopper”). Remember record players? Remember taping a jackknife to the tone arm so the needle would track? Remember needles? But most of all, remember those great songs?

No, we weren’t playing the records (the Chopper died decades ago). We didn’t need to. One of us would seize a random platter from the rack and hold it up. Immediately we would launch into song: “A-well-a-bless-a mah soul, a-what’s a-wrong with me,” feigning the twist and literally grooving like the Pelvis himself, record after record, boring everyone else I’m sure, but having the time of our lives. (The booze may have helped, too.)

Anyway, two days later I was back in 83 and sunny, vaguely remembering that my sister said she’d “send them on.” Apparently their new mountain digs would not accommodate the old relics, and they could be mine if I desired. I presumed they would wind up in the garbage.

I still own and maintain a turntable. I peruse yard sales and am always game to buy old LPs. They’re cheap — usually a quarter or so — and I’ve found some great deals. Recently I even found Dark Side of the Moon in unplayed condition, replete with the poster and postcards, just a few doors down. I guess most folks don’t put the same stock I do in old vinyl. With the advent of the CD, I suppose most folks just can’t tolerate the hiss, pops, and skips. To me, those imperfections are the sound of my childhood, and I don’t mind a bit.

Then, nearly one month to the day after she said she’d “send them on,” the records arrived on my doorstep. As always, she was true to her word.

My wife and children groan when I break these things out, as do most of my friends. I like to brag that I can clear a room in two songs from this collection — that comes in handy when party guests linger too late — but I don’t play these things for them, I play them for me.

Everybody needs a big sister. Especially one with such a big heart. Thank you, Big Sis. Thank you very much!

First Fish
• Rick LaClaire •

My father was not a fisherman. He wasn’t much for the outdoors, period. To him, being outside meant work, or chores, more exactly. He never shirked mowing, shoveling snow or patching the roof, but Dad preferred indoor pastimes like watching TV. He and my brothers were TV sports fans. Be it football, baseball, basketball or hockey, they had the yen. I never caught the habit for some reason. My wife thanks me. That does not mean my father and I never fished together.

As a child, like now, we had fantastic neighbors. Next door was Mr. Martin. He was older than Dad and an avid outdoorsman. He hiked the Adirondacks, mowed with a push mower (so’s not to scare the birds) and grew huge begonias. He knew every plant, bug, bird and critter by name in the North Woods, and I became his student very early on. Mr. Martin was always up to something interesting. Be it scouring the heavens with his massive telescope or feeding chickadees in the palm of his hand, the guy, to me, was a living field guide. The biggest favor Mr. Martin ever did though, was instilling in me a lifelong love of fishing.

By 1961, Pleasant Lake, by local standards, had been “fished-out years ago.” Despite being fronted by a sign claiming it was “The Home Of the Black Bass” (along with forty-one other lakes in New York) that “fished-out” prophecy rang true if it were trophies you were after. But there were many overlooked species in that pond, species willing to spend their existence putting a smile on the face of a kid. And it was in Pleasant Lake, guided by Mr.Martin, that I caught my first fish at the tender age of seven.

Whoever invented sunfish must have been a kid. Sunfish were made for kids. They require no skill to catch (they’ll hit a gob of baloney on a safety pin), put a bend in your rod, and treat you again in the frying pan. No one bothered much with sunnies in the Home Of the Black Bass and they were plentiful and fat.

The bluegill is the most abundant sunfish, and if not a bullhead catfish, the bluegill was nearly every Upstate kid’s first catch. My first catch was more special. Mine was a pumpkinseed sunfish, and a big one at that. I caught two more that day and one whopping yellow perch. My older brother and Dad were there too, and by day’s end we had a bucketful. I was hooked for life.

So what’s so special about catching your first fish? Let me put it this way: though it was almost fifty years ago and I have no photographs, I have captured that moment for life. I can see the color of the rowboat we rented, hear the squeak of the oars, and hear my father as he cautioned: “Don’t horse him.” Even more vivid are the feelings; the thrill and the pride. I relive that every time I catch a fish. That first fish stays with you long after the bones have hit the garbage can.

There were no bones that night, though. A 10-quart galvanized bucket may not be a luxury aquarium, but those fish made it home alive. I released them in a fishless creek back in the woods, in black water barely deep enough to cover their backs. I was going to create my very own fishing hole. At first light the next day, I returned to check on my stock. They all lay on the bank, pale and lifeless. I watched as a local dog picked up a dead sunny and ran off into the bushes. I was only seven and knew nothing of pH, dissolved oxygen or species-specific water temperatures. My solution? I’d just have to go fishing again.

As big an impact as my first fish had on me, I don’t believe everyone takes it the same way. My daughter caught her first fish at age four. At four, I believe you are bombarded with so much new information on a daily basis that the impact of a first fish might just get lost in the shuffle. To prevent that, we took pictures. One hung for two years on the fridge. Now it is safely ensconced in an album of other fishing pictures, which unfortunately was full by the time my son caught his first.

My daughter’s first fish was a whiting, caught in the surf at Spessard North. The sun was going down, everything had that late-day golden glow, and she was smiling ear to ear with a deeply bent rod dragging the foot-long beast across the sand. A moment in time…

In the late ’90s, we had a fantastic seagrass bed at the river-end of my street in Melbourne Beach. It’s gone now, but back then it was a hotspot for redfish, trout, jacks, ladyfish, snook — just about anything you wanted. My son’s first fish was a small trout or a ladyfish (I’m not sure), caught right there. The reason I’m not sure is because I have two pictures, both taken when he was three. In both pictures he is in my canoe, in the same shirt, wearing the same “Rugrats” life preserver. Most likely, it was the same trip. But by the look on his face, I think it was the ladyfish. A couple of years later he drew a picture of the occasion, entitled “Caching My First Fish.” Arrows point to “Me” and “Dad.” But alas, I cannot tell the species from the drawing. Obviously it was a pretty important occasion if he drew a picture of it.

Neither my son nor my daughter fish much on their own. But they’ll join Dad on the beach when he goes, and neither will pass up a plate of the fried winnings. It doesn’t bother me they were not bitten as badly by the fishing bug. I have the pictures. Those moments were just as much fun for me as them. Never deny you live vicariously through your children.

I was present when most of my nephews caught their first fish. Thank you, Mr. Bluegill. I’ve hooked tarpon that were five feet long, landed mahi dolphin that tipped the scales at forty pounds, lost a sailfish or two and even won the snapper pool on the Miss Canaveral, but for some reason I’ll still fish for sunnies. Throw a couple kids in the mix and it’s all the better. There’s nothing like seeing a young face light up when the bobber dances. The same goes for old faces, by the way.

It had been a long time since I had the pleasure of turning a youngster on to the joy of catching that first fish. My children and nephews are all past their wonder years by now and I simply have no more subjects to initiate. Or so I thought. Then we had visitors from Buffalo for Easter.

I met Keith in 1974 when I was a junior in college. He lived below me and I remember the moment vividly. As usual, my roomies and I were drinking, the night was warm and we crowded our tiny student-complex balcony singing and banging away on whatever instruments were at hand. “Instruments” in those days could be anything from a baritone sax to an empty whiskey bottle; I was on guitar. Suddenly this red-haired kid bounded upstairs with a banjo: “What kind of music do you play?”

“Music” was hardly the word. I meant to say “Jug Band” but blurted “Bluegrass”.

“May I join you?”

Well, Keith joined me for the next twelve years. Not only did he introduce me to Bluegrass, he also introduced me to things like stage presence, dynamics, tight vocals, and how to duck a beer bottle without missing a note. He was an usher at my wedding, and I an usher at his. He got me my first good-paying job, at a workbench right next to him. And even after decades of having not worked together, we’ve remained friends; brothers, as it were.

Keith and his wife Marilyn have visited several times over the years, and this April it was with their college-age daughter, Amy. While packing fishing gear for the beach I casually asked Amy if she’d ever caught a fish. I was more than surprised to hear “No”.

“Why, that’s child abuse,” I said half-seriously. Alright! I whispered internally. Another First Fish! I’d thought those days were behind me.

Spring came late this year. And to top it off, at the height of our holy Tourist Season, the Powers That Be decided to “re-nourish” our beach, rendering our access unfit for any piscatorial recreation. We chose Coconut Point, a few miles south, for Amy’s initiation.

Conditions were far from perfect. Heavy shore break, onshore winds and a ripping southbound current required a quarter pound of lead, and even that wouldn’t hold. But I was determined. I sectioned a clam and baited two hooks. Then “The Surfer” appeared.

This kid — obviously a tourist — was apparently trying to learn to bodyboard. He knew nothing of shore current, or bodyboarding for that matter, and kept drifting into my line of cast. Seasoned surfers have always been courteous to fishermen in my experience, and are usually aware of their surroundings. This kid… After a brush with my monofilament (“What was that?!”) he got the idea and cleared out.

Then came the calico crabs. Those bastards can strip a clam from your line without a tremor, and they were thick. But we finally caught a fish, and Amy scored her First. Just look at that smile.

Thank you, Mr. Bluegill.

Thank you, Mr. Bullhead.

And for Easter Sunday, thank you Mr. Whiting.

One more First Fish…

Spanner in the Works
• Rick LaClaire •

I like to do things, especially when those things involve the outdoors. Fishing, hunting, hiking, canoeing — anything that brings me in contact Florida wildlife has always held an attraction for me. But wildlife is not my only attraction, I like “wild life” also. Dining, drinking, dancing… A good pub crawl has always been high on my list, and my wife and I still enjoy each other’s company on a night out, and have made it a weekly institution.

Things like that are good for a marriage, I think. Years ago, when attending a wedding reception, we were seated with a group of young couples we had never met. When during the course of conversation we revealed that we had been married for 30-some-odd years, the couple across from us inquired about our “secret.” In essence, “How do you keep things from getting boring?” Our response was simple and immediate: keep dating. They seemed puzzled at first: “You mean date other people?” “Of course not,” I replied. “Keep dating each other. Like you did when you first met.”

Melbourne Beach is no Key West. While I love my hometown dearly, I wouldn’t recommend it for a “night on the town.” We have the beach (which is all I need, really) and there are a of couple bars, even a four-star restaurant down by the pier, but after 16 years of Friday nights out, we’ve pretty much done it all several times over. Yeah, we filter up to Indialantic occasionally and sometimes cross the bridge for tapas and martinis, but after a while you begin to take the local nightlife for ho-hum granted.

You get used to things. I know how the ‘ritas taste at the Cantina and the O, and could name them blindfolded. Give me a plate of wings from Long Dogger’s and Meg’s and I’ll tell them apart. I know what song my favorite local band is going to open with and I know I’m not leaving the Red Shoe without hearing “Something” (by the Beatles, not James Taylor) on the piano. You know what to expect. You should be reveling in that — that luxury of experience — but no, you let yourself become bored.

The same with your job; each day’s like the day before. And your home; mow on Saturday, water on Wednesday, clean the bathrooms on Thursday, keep the pool topped off, feed the ‘maters… On and on… The same routine.

You begin to crave  change. You crave anything that might shake the starch out of your humdrum existence. A new job? A new car? A tattoo? A bellybutton ring? Anything! Anything to mix it up. And then… You get it.

A spanner in the works. Your legs knocked out from beneath you. A freight train through your living room. It comes out of nowhere, totally unexpected. And I got mine. It came at 3:30 on a Saturday morning. In the middle of a restless night’s sleep, after a night out on the town, I felt as if someone had driven a bayonet through my guts.

I couldn’t even stand. I was puking, running a fever, soaked in sweat, and in excruciating pain. I knew immediately that this was something serious. My poor date (my wife)… Just hours ago we were wining and dining contentedly at a place we’d been a hundred times, and now she was doing something totally new: calling an ambulance.

I am not going to get medical here. The details of my sudden illness have no bearing on the point of this article. Suffice it to read that I spent nine days in a hospital bed. That was also something totally new, a real starch-shaker.

The first days of my hospital stay are a blur. I was sick, and on very heavy pain medication. My wife came twice a day, sometimes with my son. I apologize for nodding off in the middle of things, looking so bad and complaining so much. I was drugged and sick. By Wednesday I was skipping pain shots and starting to respond to the treatment. That’s when things started to hit home.

Once the fog of dilaudid lifted, I realized I had a life, a job, and a family. What had just happened? A hole had been punched in that continuum. That’s exactly what it felt like. One minute you’re dining in an all-too-familiar restaurant by candlelight. Then, four days later, you’re coming out of an opioid haze in a hospital bed. Where did those days go? Into the hole…

I’m not a regular in hospitals. I generally try to avoid them. I eat right. I exercise.  I have drinks, but don’t drink to oblivion. I watch my blood pressure. I even take a fiber supplement! And I do it all because I don’t want to wind up in a hospital bed. Ah, but there’s one health factor that steps on all the rest: age. I described my malady to one of my customers and his response was “Been there, welcome to growing old.”

I used to like being older. I felt every line on my face, every scar was a story to be told. Once you’re in your 50s you’ve done a few things, been a few places. Your wealth of experience permeates every aspect of your purpose. You become expert at what you do, be it your job, being a parent, or fixing the toilet. Then you wake up in a hospital bed with four days missing from your life. Age is now my enemy.

Those last few days in the hospital I was little more than a grouch. The healthier I became, the more I began to worry. Customers weren’t paying to terms. Bills were due. Orders had been lost due to my lay up — and in times like these, I need all the work I can get. It’s hard doing collections from a hospital bed. Quotes, too. Suddenly I missed my old humdrum life. I couldn’t wait to get back to my boring work routine.

I was released on a Sunday. The first thing I wanted to do when I got home was work. Well, that wasn’t the first thing I wanted to do, but the kids were home, so I settled on work. I was told to take it easy. I was on oral meds now and had a restricted diet. I lasted about a half-hour in the workshop. I was still weak.

I did way too much my first week home. A doctor’s examination affirmed it that Thursday. I was not progressing and needed updated tests. I was also not to move forward on my diet. That killed any thought of “date night” that Friday. Our local ho-hum nightlife suddenly seemed very special.

Forty years ago, Joni Mitchell sang a song called “Big Yellow Taxi,”the upshot of which was “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” Yeah, it’s corny now, but it wasn’t back in 1970. The song lamented the proliferation of parking lots, and in the end, either the cops or a taxi take her boyfriend away. Everything changes, and it can happen in a heartbeat. One day you’re looking at trees, the next day it’s corralled Sonatas and Sentras. One day you’re in love, the next day she’s gone. One minute you’re eating stromboli and drinking merlot and four days later you wake up in a hospital bed. You really don’t know how good you have it till it’s taken away, and don’t blink, it can be quick and savage. Like having your legs kicked out from beneath you. A freight train through your living room. A spanner in the works…

Is It Just Me?
By Rick LaClaire

“Some folks never smile
Some folks do, some folks do
Others laugh through guile
That’s what some folks do”
– “Some Folks” by Stephen Foster (1826-1864)

It’s been said that I am opinionated. In my opinion, I am not.

But if I am, what’s wrong with that? I just like a good argument. There’s nothing as heady as a constant counterpoint embellished with a few unsubstantiated statistics. It sure keeps the conversation going (and if you add alcohol, it can get downright lively). Don’t we all, in our heart of hearts, just love to hear ourselves talk? Or is it just me?

Picture yourself married to a beautiful woman — your soulmate, the mother of your children — and you wish to show your appreciation by taking her to a four-star restaurant on your anniversary. Valet parking, cocktails on the terrace, a couple of bucks in the piano player’s snifter, and soon you are being seated. Others are being seated too, and at the table next to you is a young couple. She’s cute and young, and he — he — is wearing a ball cap. Indoors. At the table. Backwards. The hat, that is… Is it just me, or is that wrong? And would it be wrong if I asked him to remove it (“Out of respect for the ladies, sir”)? Ah, the quandaries of being opinionated. But of course, in my opinion, I am not opinionated. I’m just concerned for the young man. By wearing his hat backwards he is not taking advantage of its UV protection. And man, that candlelight… Just loaded with deadly UV rays…

Now everybody’s seen this: it’s election time. The roads are littered with “Vote For Me” signs (they’ve been out since August). It’s down to the wire now, and as you pull onto the causeway, heading back beachside after a hard day’s labor on the mainland, there he is. You recognize the face immediately — it’s at every street corner in the county. And he’s not alone. His wife, six kids (right down to the baby), and even the family dog are there to greet you, waving and smiling like you’re an old friend. It’s ninety degrees out, all you want to do is get home and fall into a cold bourbon, and this nitwit thinks he can grab your vote at the last minute just by being there. Waving. With a phony smile. For some reason he’s not even breaking a sweat. My reaction to this is always the same: I’m not voting for anyone who puts his family at risk during rush hour on a buzzing causeway. Does this tactic work? I’d like to see the statistics.

Is it just me, or do talking blobs of mucus make you want to put a pitchfork through your flat screen? You know what I’m talking about. See, it isn’t just me. I will never buy that particular brand of cough syrup because of those commercials.

Same with the gecko people. First it was the lizard, then cavemen, then stacks of money with eyes, and now a panoramic view of Charlie Daniels’ dentures as he savages a violin. Over and over and over… I don’t care how much they can save me on my car insurance, I hate those commercials so much I’m stickin’ with the rat bastard company that cancelled my homeowner’s policy just out of spite. I wonder if my health insurance covers reattaching my nose?

Is it just me, or was the world a better place before “The Colon Lady”? Yup, you guessed it, another product I shall never sample. My bowels could be jammed with half a metric ton of quick-set concrete and I would not grace that company with a single cent of my hard-earned pay. You think the Colon Lady has any friends? “Hey honey, let’s call up the Colon Lady and get bloated and constipated tonight!” Not likely… And what about her professional life? Think she might be typecast? I’ve got a feeling… once the Colon Lady, always the Colon Lady.

Now, I can hear you saying, “LaClaire, you watch way too much TV.” You know, actually, I don’t. I don’t need to. Commercial television is so ad-saturated these days that it only takes a half-hour to get the whole plan. I’ve counted over twelve commercials in a row sometimes. I don’t remember strings like that in years past. Is it just me? And what about those little pop-ups that keep appearing while you’re watching your show? It’s as if twelve commercials in a row every five minutes just isn’t enough. No, we have to ad-saturate you even during the program. Too bad if you’re closed-captioned or reading subtitles. I wonder who came up with that idea. I want to meet that person and engage him in conversation. And every time he opens his mouth, I’d like to loudly interrupt with “‘Mad Men’ on at ten!”

There. I did it. I went on for four paragraphs complaining about television. You know, things must be pretty good if you’ve got time to sit around and whine about something you can just turn off. Is it just me, or are we way too overloaded with information technology?

Remember pay phones? Try and find one now. I still use them, when I can. Why? Because I am The Last Person On the Planet Without A Cellphone. It probably won’t last long, because formerly, I was The Last Person On the Planet Without A Computer. And previously, I was The Last Person On the Planet To Buy A Leisure Suit.

So, there is a pattern. I guess I catch on late. Ask my wife and daughter, I was never a slave to fashion.

Remember fax machines? I was late with that, too. I paid a lot for that plain-paper dinosaur, and I thought I was the king of the information age. Imagine, being able to fax quotes instead of delivering them, right from your office! Receiving drawings and contracts the same day! The same hour! Yep, I was the king. That was 1994. Then came 1995. Suddenly every customer’s desk was decorated with a new purveyor of information: the PC. Took me three more years to catch up with that. I remember Al Gore — the guy who invented the computer — saying that one day every household in America would have a computer. I laughed at that, then. Then I laughed again as I bought one. Then another. Then one for the kid. Then another for the kid…

So I have a fax, several TVs, several radios, a computer, and two separate land lines. Is it just me, or isn’t that enough? Civilization can reach me in any corner of my personal space. So why do I need to be bothered further while I’m driving, fishing, boating, gardening, or mowing the lawn? My kids are addicted to their cellphones. And now they’re not content to even talk to one another. They have to “text.” It’s constant with them. In the car, at the bus stop, in the Mall, on the beach… Enough! Too much information! Is it just me?

Beach renourishment is ugly, wasteful and deadly to the beach biome. Is it just me? Is it just me, or does living in a neighborhood where all the houses have to be the same color defeat the purpose of home ownership altogether? Are low-rider pants the funniest trend since the forementioned leisure suit, or is it just me?

Opinionated? Me? Not in my opinion. It’s just me.

It is January as I write this. Presently, Florida is suffering the longest cold snap ever. Usually, a cold snap is just that: a quick chill. Not so, this winter of 2010. I have counted six mornings now with readings in the 20s and 30s, with more on the way. We’re actually having a winter in central Florida, something most of us came here to escape.

I’m not equipped for this. My old mackinaw has long ago been given to the moths. I used my winter gloves to hold live blue crabs while I halved them — they were no good after that. My wool watch cap sat on the dashboard of my truck for a week last winter and the sun disintegrated it. And long pants? I have one pair, not counting dress slacks, and they’re presently stained from a certain hunting experience I shall soon relate. Let’s face it, my wardrobe is Florida, not Maine.

Not so in my snowbound youth. Deep snow, freezing temperatures, and school and business closures were part of life in Upstate New York. We planned on it. But occasionally we received more than we planned. Occasionally, even for the most seasoned, you needed a little help. That was when we relied on the kindness of others; the loyalty of good friends and neighbors.

Like that winter in ‘62 when it snowed so deep the plows couldn’t get out. The milkman too, apparently. Three neighbors with a toboggan took grocery orders and trudged miles through deep snow, “so the babies could get their milk.” My mother says it’s just what neighbors did back then. I call it “The splendor of action.”

I’ve been helped by a lot of people over the years, many times by strangers. But after all the fear we’ve had pumped into us over the last ten years, it’s easy to become mistrustful. We figure everyone is working some kind of “angle” to steal our money, our job, our seat on a plane, or even our identity. Every once in a while we have to be reminded that there are a lot of good-hearted people out there. And so it happened to us…

We heard shots in the distance. Other hunters were up this road. We’d seen tire tracks on the way in. My truck was mired so completely that nothing could drive around us. We were blocking them. I left a sign on the windshield.

No shovel, no crowbar, not even a rope — but, lo and behold, I had a Sharpie, and a map on which to write. The Sharpie was a mite fine, so I doubled the lettering:

STUCK went for help

I pinned it beneath a windshield wiper. Thinking back, I suppose the note was a bit tautological.

Other than ammo, the only items of any value in the truck were the rifles, so we decided to carry them. It was a few miles to the ranger station and we had no idea how long it would take. I remembered seeing blasted-out cars and trucks in the forests and fields of my youth and wondered if that wasn’t how they got there: some pissed-off hunter. My heart was in my bowels when we took those first steps out. If and when we returned, would my vehicle be intact?

Any notion that this would be easy was dashed at the first bend in the road. This was a previous bog, one we’d had problems negotiating on the way in.

“Well, it looks like we broke in our boots,” I said as the black water lapped at our knees. “I’m no longer afraid to get these guys wet.” My son agreed.

Conditions worsened as we continued. How did we get back here? How stupid of me… We soon approached a pool that appeared too deep to wade. I remembered water on the hood. A wide circumvention of the hole was undertaken. This was through tussock-type vegetation in a foot or so of standing water. Beneath were rotten logs, unseen and slippery under the black sheen. This was the perfect environment in which to break an ankle. At one point my son said he saw something slither away. I told him it was his imagination and to keep going, but my eyes were all for cottonmouths after that. Eventually, we were back on the track and new pools appeared; forgotten pools I had laughed and splashed my way through previously. They were fun no more. What had I been thinking?

“At least it’s a nice day,” I said aloud. It was true. It was mid-afternoon. The sun was shining. No breeze and about 60 degrees — a great day to go hunting. But instead, we were slip-sliding on submerged timber with numb feet, sweating the fate of my abandoned vehicle.

After a half-hour of slogging we looked back. “I can still see the truck,” the boy said. Yes, there it was, a disappointing white speck in the mud. Even though our pace was brisk, we were literally treading water.

By the time the guns were becoming heavy, the terrain dried out. Soon we spotted swirling buzzards. Ordinarily that’s an ominous sign. We knew what it meant.

“There’s the gut pile,” I commented. We were getting close. Rutted sand gave way to a hard washboard road and finally, after a little more than an hour’s trudge, we approached the ranger’s station. We were thirsty, beat, and our feet were cold and wet.

The ranger took one look at us and said: “Looks like you got stuck.” He said it so nonchalantly that the next line didn’t sink in right away: “I can’t help you.” I suppose I expected to hear that, then he went on: “But somebody will. Give it a few minutes.”

We needed a few minutes. We sat on the edge of the porch and I opened a water bottle I brought. My son took off his boots. I guess I thought the ranger would make a phone call or something. Maybe he knew of some secret towing service out here. We sure couldn’t find one. A few minutes went by. Still no action on his part. He was shooting the breeze with some campers. I stood and milled a bit, hoping to get his attention. No response. Maybe I needed to say something.

Then, through the gate appeared a hulking red SUV. Dogs barked from within. The driver greeted the ranger like a old friend. The ranger nodded to me, then asked the driver: “Think you can help these boys out?” It was just that simple.

Their names were Tom and Tom, a father and son, and they were out for an afternoon of wingshooting with their dogs. As we four glided effortlessly over the sodden roads, I apologized profusely for intruding on their hunt. I offered money for their trouble and I think that slightly offended them. “This won’t take long,” the elder Tom said. Tom the younger added, “We’ve all been there.”

Then, far ahead, there it was, a little white speck in the mud. “That your truck?”

“Yes,” I replied. We were slipping and splashing; the road was worsening. “How’d you ever get that thing in here?” young Tom asked. I wanted to say something like “Good sense is finite; idiocy has unlimited mileage,” but only managed “I don’t know.”

The tow strap was applied three times that day. Once in the initial mire, twice more in pockets we had roiled up with our traffic. Their vehicle was made for this element, ours wasn’t. The dogs were silent and patient, as was my son. We emerged on the main loop road covered in mud. My thanks were profuse. It had only taken a half hour. I asked Tom and Tom their last name and they declined — perhaps they sensed I wanted to send them a gift of some kind. They wanted neither publicity nor remuneration. “Pay it forward,” was the elder’s wage, and when I see the chance, I shall.

Hunters are not fishermen. Yes, you can be both, but they are different mindsets. In fishing, you can release your catch and then knock back a beer. Hunting is serious; there’s no such thing as kill and release, and alcohol is strictly verboten. Fishermen gab and joke while they cast. Hunters observe strict silence and pride themselves on their lack of presence. Fishermen brag and lie. Hunters don’t bother; theirs is a sad satisfaction, the knowledge that death begets life, and that “This ain’t no party/This ain’t no disco/This ain’t no foolin’ around.”

The ranger summed it up on our mud-streaked way out: “Hunters do things like this for people. They’re always willing to help.” So do many fishermen, I might add, but then there’s the guy that sees you catch a fish and plows right up next to you. Or the guy who leaves his catfish to die on the beach (ouch!). Or the fish hog who catches twice as many blues as he wants or needs and leaves them to rot in the public garbage can at the end of your street. To this day, I have never met an inconsiderate hunter.

So I thank you, Tom and Tom, for proliferating my faith in good people. And thanks to another Tom, my son, for being so mature and uncomplaining, for helping with all his strength and sharing his technology.

Three Toms, demonstrating the splendor of action.

(To read Part One – click here: http://thebeachsideresident.com/2010/02/this-happened-to-us-part-i/)

At age eleven I was given a gift which lasted ten years, a subscription to Outdoor Life magazine. Within were a wealth of stellar outdoor writers:  Ray Bergman, Byron Dalrymple, Joe Brooks, Jack O’Conner, Stu Apte… I only wish I could be among their number. Their stories were more than entertainment, they were inspiration.

Wintertime was a house-bound time in Northern New York, but that monthly arrival of global bloodsport transported me to lands warm and unknown: Florida for tarpon on a fly, Africa for Cape Buffalo, and Mexico for bass. And in the heat of summer, just the opposite. Alaska for caribou… Grizzly in the high mountains…

Even the ads were enjoyable. In the back were page after page of hunting and fishing lodges, listed by state and province. Replete with photos of the bag, these little thumbnails of exotica were the stuff of outdoor dreams. Ah, but the coolest thing about Outdoor Life was a full-page comic strip called “This Happened To Me!”

I love comics. Always have, still do. I started with Popeye and Donald Duck. Then came serious DC stuff like Superman and Batman. It finally culminated with the Marvel brand; super-sophisticated art starring Captain America, Sergeant Fury (and his Howling Commandos), The Fantastic Four and Daredevil. Anything drawn, anything with word balloons and visual onomatopoeia like BAM and BUDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA and KA-BLOOEY — that stuff just drew me in. And so it was with “This Happened To Me!”

Trampled by hippos! Elephants amok! Snakebit! Quicksand! You name it, it happened to somebody, and there were the cartoons to prove it. Hey, if they made a comic about it, it must be true. They solicited entries and I tried many times. In my long and not-so-illustrious career as an outdoorsman I’ve certainly had a few scrapes. But somehow, squashing a toad barefoot or digging redworms out of day-old cow pies didn’t rate. Comparatively, my outdoor life was tamer than the outdoor lives of others. That was, until last week…

It is December as I write this; hunting season. As my readership (hi, Mom!) may recall, my teenage son and I began hunting together last year. On six glorious occasions we invaded select local Wildlife Management Areas, finally returning victorious. In other words, we shot one squirrel. Three times. And we ate it. And it was good.

We had a lot of rain this fall. Not like Tropical Storm Fay last year, but it came late and stayed long. The ranger at the gate put it aptly: “It’s wet back there. But you’ll find that out.” So we were warned, but figured the savvy we’d earned the previous season gave us license to ford any quagmire these boonies could pitch. Boy, were we wrong. We were not twenty minutes into this season’s first foray and found ourselves hopelessly ensnared in a veritable tar pit, deep in the boondocks, miles from any form of salvation.

How could this happen? I drive a truck and I know these backroads. We drove them weekly last season. Always got through. And what about all those years in Buffalo, Rochester, and Watertown when I drove in slush and slop and never got stuck — and that was in those dinosaur V-8 Lead Sleds with bald tires and three inches of clearance! I drive a truck fer chrissakes! Well, I soon learned my “truck” was little more than a glorified golf cart when “it’s wet back there.”

It was my fault. We’d had a couple of “wows” in some big puddles and I was feeling pretty invincible. A bit of a sideslip, some black water over the hood, mud on the mirror… We’re hunters, kid, nothing can keep us from the killing fields. Then, whump. We bottomed out. Hard.

Reverse, that’s what you do. It always worked in snow. Rock it out. Reverse, drive, reverse, drive… Rock it out.

Or dig it in.

I dug it in. Ba-a-a-ad…

We pushed for awhile, entirely in vain. I crammed sticks under the tires to gain traction. That didn’t work. My son, brave soul, even began to dig with his bare hands. No gain. The vehicle’s frame was resting on the mound between the tracks, wheels spinning. Well, one wheel anyway… It was then I realized “rear wheel drive” means “one wheel drive.” While the passenger side spun madly, the driver’s side was still. I also noticed water swirling around a stick I had planted. This water was moving; we were mired in a creek or spring of sorts. Meanwhile, the black goo was seeping into the cab and truck bed.

The boy produced his cell phone and attempted to reach the ranger station. Surely, ours was not a unique situation. Hunters must get stuck back here every season, right? The ranger would know whom to contact. After dialing the numbers on the map and on my license, enduring several long holds and line switches, it was not to be. Those numbers are unlisted.

“The Yellow Pages,” my boy said. “I’ve got the the Yellow Pages on my phone, I think.”

I’ve never been a fan of cellphones. I find them a nuisance. But standing in that cold black water, looking around and seeing no sign of humanity except for a sinking Ford Ranger, I was beginning to appreciate them. “Look up towing services,” I said.

He stabbed the device with his fingers a few times, tilted it, stabbed again, sighed and said “Not enough bars.”

“But you just made a call.”

“I can call,” he qualified, “but I can’t seem to get the Yellow Pages.”

My mind swirled. Why did Superman only exist in the comics? Boy, could we use him now. Even Batman would be a blessing, and he didn’t have any superpowers. Okay, no Superman, no Batman, no ranger, no Yellow Pages… Who ya gonna call?

“Hi, honey. Guess where we are?” I tried to sound cheerful.

“Guess where I am?” She replied.

“I asked you first… Okay, we’re stuck. We’re stuck way out in the boonies and we need some phone numbers from the Yellow Pages. I mean, like, we’re REALLY stuck. We need a tow.”

“Well I’m at the mall. There are no telephone books here.”

“Oh yes there are! There has to be a phone booth.”

“Phone booths went out with Superman,” she stated. Then I heard a phrase we would hear several times that day: “I can’t help you.”

I can’t help you. The four loneliest words in the English language.

The cab floor was now covered with mud and it was creeping farther into the bed. Ammo, cooler, jackets and guns were now at risk. I was worried about the guns most; mud is definitely a no-no with them. I opened the hatch and pulled them out. They were still in their cases, and I laid them on a patch of high ground. The ammo would be okay; it was in a waterproof box. The cooler, likewise. Our jackets, well, they would need laundering. As a last whim I also rescued a roll of toilet paper — you never knew when that might come in handy. I could feel something boiling within my guts already.

“Dad! I found the Yellow Pages!” Yes! Thank you, Alexander Graham Cell… “Dad! What city?”

I then remembered that many years ago I made a set of signs for a towing company. Why not them? “Hey, try Acme Towing.” Of course Acme Towing is not the real name, but you’ll soon realize no towing company needs the endorsement I’m about to give.

“Dad! Here they are. Talk to ‘em.” A sweet Southern voice greeted me. I felt relieved. “Do you guys work out in the boondocks?” I began.

“Lordy, I didn’t know there were any boondocks left! We work anywhere, sugar.”

“Well, uh, we need a tow. Bad. We’re out at the wildlife management area. Road Two. When you pull in, the ranger will give you a map.”

The upshot was $75 and mileage. I had a credit card, and as I watched my truck slowly sinking in the mire, money was no object. “Forty minutes,” she said at last. What a relief. It was all that easy.

“We’ve got forty minutes,” I told my son. “Let’s load up and see if we can find some squirrels.”

Guns and ammo were uncased. “Don’t go far. We don’t want to miss our tow.” Not to worry. Scarcely were we loaded when the cellphone rang. “It’s them, Dad.” I took the phone.

“Ah’m so sorry. I can’t help you. Our boys don’t go out there. We sold our four-wheeler years ago.”

“What? You said — ”

“And we tried Joe’s — he’s got one. But he don’t go out there neither, sugar. He just don’t want to. I can’t help you. Sorry…” Click. Suddenly that toilet paper was looking mighty important.

“We have to walk, Dad.”

My boy was right. But even if we did make it to the ranger station (which could take who knows how long) could he help us? Would we be taking a long, wet walk for nothing? Did I just lose my truck? Oh Superman, where are you?

Learn the answers to these and many other of life’s questions in “This Happened To Us!” Part II.

I was told you can’t grow them from seed. Oh, sure, they’ll sprout, but they won’t make it. And forget about fruit. These plants are inbred, crossbred and grafted; the trees are sterile if grown from their own seed. No sex organs… No breath of life… No grapefruit.

Well, it sure is ugly.

Three of the best years of my life were spent living next to a grapefruit grove. It was my first beachside residence and it was 20 years ago. Things were mighty different then. For one thing, the era of “house-flippers” and sub-prime mortgages had yet to emerge; property was actually affordable. What that meant was that your neighbor was probably on the same economic level as you. Maybe even a little lower… And that made them easier to communicate with. And a lot more friendly…

Another curious thing about those days was that a working citrus grove existed at all, beachside. As a matter of fact, that very piece of land today is now a community park, replete with ball fields. Yeah, soccer may be fun (I never thought so), but I miss the old grove.

The people who worked there, lived there. They didn’t drive Mercedes-Benzes or Beemers. They worked the land. I came to know them, their children and their dogs, and found them a pleasant diversion from the suit-and-tie types I dealt with in my workday. My friendships with the citrus folk had many perks, and one of the best was free fruit.

The grove was under contract with a Japanese concern. The fruit was of such high quality that I was told they sold for two or three dollars apiece in Japan. When that pink juice was dripping off your chin, you couldn’t help but agree. And as long as I didn’t complain about things — the noises, their pets, the smell of diesel and pesticide — I was welcome to the excess fruit. There was plenty of excess.

It seemed we had grapefruit year round. About the time the winter crop would run out, another crop, “June-blooms” they called them, would arrive. They were homely things, bell-shaped, crusty and thick-skinned; less desirable commercially, but with all the flavor and juice of the prize-winning “pancakes” the Japanese preferred. June-blooms were yours for the taking. We took many.

There were also specimen plants in the grove. One of the workers had a short row of white grapefruit. I prefer whites to pinks, probably because that’s all there was when I was a kid. If there were any pinks in Watertown, New York in those winters of the ‘50s and ‘60s, they must have been a nickel more a pound, because my Mom didn’t buy ‘em. White was all we ever had then. And I’ll tell you, that tart, squirt’n’yer-eye freshness was mighty welcome that time of year. It was a taste of Florida when all around seemed Alaska.

As we settled into beachside residency, my friend Ken bought a house on the mainland. The lot was small and the backyard was home to the largest grapefruit tree I have ever seen. It shaded nearly the whole property. It dropped fruit like rain, and — by golly — they were whites, the best I’d tasted. Aah, the memories they evoked. Dark winter mornings with icicles outside the windows… A schmaltzy mother-of-toilet-seat breakfast table with chrome pipes for legs… Captain Kangaroo on the Zenith… And an avocado plastic bowl with a hemisphere of subtropical heaven staring business-end up at you.

So I saved the seeds from one of Ken’s grapefruit and put them in a 35mm film can. Remember those? Anyway, I forgot about it. The seeds, that is.

Some weeks later we left the grove and moved into the only house I will ever own. While unpacking, I found a 35mm film can buried in a box of kitchen knick-knacks. Wondering what was inside, I picked up the can and shook it. No sound. I popped the lid and was greeted by the sight of what appeared to be spaghetti, solidly nestled in white fuzz. I dumped the contents on a paper plate. There, assuming the shape of the can from which they came, was a collection of sprouts, slightly mold-blown, but still viable.

One of the reasons I bought actual property was for the opportunity to grow things. I was raised by like-minded parents, and to me, “the miracle of the seed” is the closest link I have to any belief in a Higher Power. If you seek proof of a god, go plant some seeds. I crammed the sprouts in a small soil-filled earthen pot and again forgot them.

The dang things took. I was reminded the following New Year’s Day. We were throwing a party, and I made it an opportunity to show off my first homegrown batch of Florida tomatoes.

“What’s this?” a guest asked, pointing to the tiny potted plants.

“Oh, wow,” I answered. “Grapefruit, I think.”

“From seed? That never works.”

But there they were, two baby trees, side by side. I started keeping track of them then. Other than cabbage palms, these were the first trees I had ever grown from seed. My yard’s loaded with cabbage palms, by the way.

So my ugly grapefruit tree isn’t really a tree — it’s two trees. I never had the heart to separate them. I was advised to, just as I was advised to graft them to something called “sour orange” stock. They’re just too good together. The trunk of one fairly engulfs the trunk of the other, gnarling it somewhat and certainly not enhancing the appearance, but jeez, the two are one. No, I couldn’t separate them.

After twelve years, it pushed forth its first blooms. By now it was part of the yard, shielding my back porch from the searing western sun. We were surprised and didn’t believe it at first. We were told this “just wouldn’t happen.” But soon, we were the proud parents of a dozen baby grapefruits, all on only one of the two trees.

One by one, I watched each fruit shrivel and fall. By December that year, there was only one grapefruit left on the tree. It seemed firmly attached though, and of supermarket size. After a cold snap, I figured it was ripe for picking. I called my wife at work.

“Do you mind if I eat it for lunch?” Although the fridge was full of store-bought grapefruit, this one was special, and I wanted her permission.

“You grew it, you eat it.” Either she was being extremely generous, or extremely cautious. Funny, it was very similar to the reaction I get whenever I bring home wild game.

Anyway, I did eat that grapefruit. And, unexpectedly, it was pink. And juicy. And sweet. I ate it “Florida-style.” That is, I cut it into latitudinal slices — grapefruit “cookies,” as it were — snipped the rind, spread the flesh and gobbled the triangles off the bone. That’s the best way to eat the stuff in my opinion; fast and wasteless. Then I licked the plate. Boy, was it good.

From seeds that would sprout but never grow, a tree that was never to be, blooms that would never appear, came a fruit that was delicious. Yeah, only one; and no, it was not white, but against all odds nonetheless.

Last year the tree did not flower, but this spring it bloomed spectacularly. It is December as I write this, and I can truthfully say both trunks are loaded with fruit, some in my yard and some in my neighbor’s. Why is the fruit on my neighbor’s side so much bigger? Ah well, that’s the way it always is, isn’t it? We just had a cold snap and this morning I sampled a baseball-sized specimen from my side of the fence. The rind was bright yellow, the flesh frighteningly pink. Very juicy when I cut it, but alas, I shall not lie. Edible, but a mite bitter.

But there are many more green ones on the tree, and much larger ones, too. I’ll have to keep sampling. You know, I’ve never trimmed this thing. Never fertilized it either. Never even watered it, for that matter. Maybe a little TLC would put forth a tastier crop. We’ll see.

For now, it’s something for nothing.

I’m sure very few of us are sad to see the end of 2009. The bad certainly outweighed the good this year.

I usually rate my annual experience with two indicators: weddings and funerals. 2008 was a busy year, with two funerals and three weddings. 2007 was an even count: one wedding and one funeral. 2009? No weddings and no funerals — a blasé year if ever there was one.

I can’t say I enjoy funerals, but I certainly love weddings. I love everything about them. Getting dressed up, witnessing a milestone then throwing away your inhibitions by getting sloshing drunk and doing the Chicken Dance… It’s like a show, dinner, drinks and dancing — all on someone else’s tab! Now that’s a night out.

Funerals are similar, but certainly more somber. You get dressed up, witness a milestone, then go somewhere and cry in your beer. I’ve actually been to weddings that were less fun than funerals, and I’ve been to funerals where I knew more people than at weddings, but generally, funerals are pretty much a downer. It’s a nice contrast, weddings and funerals, like dill pickles and maple sugar. You need the sour to balance the sweet.

It reminds me of a game we played as kids called “Cows and Graveyards.” When traveling anywhere in upstate New York, one was very likely to encounter dairy farms. The deal was to pick one side of the car and count all the cows you saw. When you came to a graveyard, the slate was erased and you started over. At the end of the trip, the remainder of the cows was your score. Silly? Yes, and slightly stupid, but the trip went faster. Weddings and funerals do the same. With each one, I’m reminded of how fast life is flying by.

Well, 2009 didn’t fly by. Witness, once again: no weddings and no funerals. But man, a whole bunch of people sure did die this year. Some were a real surprise, but many were slow and inevitable. Farrah Fawcett and Pat Swayze come to mind on the slow scale. Michael Jackson in the surprise category. But there were others, no less important though certainly less glamorous, that we may have overlooked.

The first person I’d like to eulogize was not a person at all. It was our cat, Crystal, at age 16, of congestive heart failure. Crystal led a colorful career, in cat terms, and was at times both loved and reviled. A highly talented napper, she ran free and wild in our yard (between naps) and not a single lizard on my property had a complete tail in her 15 years of residence. Birds too were on her menu, and that attests to her hunting prowess. It is also believed she had many lovers, to a point where some referred to her (in veterinary terms) as a “loose pussy.” She had many nicknames, most of which are unprintable, though some are inscribed upon her grave marker, located by the back fence.

I’m sure very few of you remember Vic Mizzy. Well, you should. He wrote the two greatest TV theme songs ever: “Green Acres” and “The Addams Family.” I haven’t seen either show in decades but I can still belt out the themes note for note. As TV songwriters go, Mizzy was amazing. His combination of melodic hooks and clever, catchy lyrics has never been surpassed. Do they give awards for stuff like that? If they don’t, they ought to. He was 93 when he died this fall.

Does anybody out there remember a guy named Robert S. McNamara? Well, he died in July. When I think back to those dark days of Vietnam, for some reason that name evokes a slow nagging nausea. “McNamara’s War,” it was dubbed, and he spent a lot of time living it down, eventually inspiring a book and documentary called “The Fog Of War.” My generation hated the man, and now I can’t remember why. As far as I know, he didn’t start the war, he was chosen to manage it. Sometimes we heap too much on a man. Also 93, he died in his sleep.

Anybody remember Captain Lou Albano? His claim to fame was his wacko showmanship. In fact, I think he invented some of the very popular body-piercing fashions we’re being subjected to today. He was a pro-wrestler, a garish self-promoter and managed the career of one Cyndi Lauper. For those of you who don’t know, Cyndi Lauper was Madonna’s twin sister. Or, one did the voice-overs for the other… Or, one was the other one’s mother… Or something. Anyway, Captain Lou died in October. If you’re a fan of pro wrestling — and there are many of you — it’s probably because of Mr. Albano. He elevated professional wrestling from cult status to the mainstream.

Who has never heard of Les Paul? He invented two things of grave importance to anyone who enjoys popular music: the solid body electric guitar and multi-track recording. Actually, he can’t take sole credit for the electric guitar, nor can he take sole credit for the guitar he lent his name to, the Gibson Les Paul. But without that gizmo, rock n’ roll would have no teeth. Every guitarist at one time or another yearns for a Les Paul. Personally, I don’t like them. I find them too heavy. And you know what? I don’t really care for Mr. Paul’s recordings either; they’re tedious and overcomplicated, in my opinion. But without the Les Paul guitar, Led Zeppelin would not have had its Led, Peter Frampton would have never “come alive,” and Jethro Tull would have been just another artsy flute band. Les Paul died in August.

Speaking of August, was this the longest, hottest summer ever? Nothing makes a year drag more slowly than uncomfortable, monotonous weather. Usually, by October, we’ve had at least a whiff of relief. That “whiff” this past fall lasted about a day. It is November as I write this, and it’s still hot out. Gaggin’ hot… And it started early — we had 100-degree days in June. But the fishing was good. Long, hot summer/good fishing… Why am I complaining?

No one needs to be reminded how bad a business year it’s been. Is this a surprise? For over a year we’ve had the major media beating us over the head with how bad things are. Even if you had a good year, you wouldn’t want to admit it for fear you’d be shouted down like some kind of braggart or liar. There are glaring causes for this so-called recession — economic “bubbles,” the exportation of all our manufacturing, fast and loose credit — but our buddies giving us the news sure haven’t helped anything. It’s like they wanted this to happen for lack of any other news. If you call a dog “bad” long enough, it’ll be a bad dog. If you tell someone they’re ugly enough times, they’ll become ugly. No wonder nobody wants to spend any money. No wonder no one wants to hire. They don’t dare; things are too uncertain. Why? Because the media keeps telling us they are.

Sure, there are signs that things are not right. I’ve seen several of my customers fold. The 32-hour workweek has become the norm, locally. Some have had wage cuts. But it’s happened before. And the last time (the late ’70s-early ’80s) you actually had to appear, stand in line, and sign to pick up your benefits. Now it’s all done online. And in the old days, the bennies ran out after six months. Now, well, they haven’t run out yet. The Feds keep extending them. To paraphrase Will Rogers: we’re the first generation to go to the poorhouse in a Hummer with a laptop, an iPod, and a cell phone.

I certainly didn’t have a great year with my business. After 22 years though, I’m used to it. These things happen; economies rise and fall. I thank God I’m self-employed. I have no one to blame but myself. I always have work to do. I may not always get paid for my work, but at least I’ve got work. Work = Purpose. To have a purpose: that’s the best wages on the planet.

We certainly had our share of household disasters this year. Boy, can that put a drag on things. Two weeks without water in April… (You can read all about that in the summer issues of The Resident.) Did I mention the smoking dishwasher? Not steam, mind you, but smoke. I got to teach my son how to wash dishes the old-fashioned way. That’s like teaching a cat to swim. At the tune of a mere $100, we finally had it serviced. I was quite unbusy that day, and chatted with the repairman as he worked. I learned a couple of things. First, appliance repairmen charge by the hour. Second, that includes time spent chatting. Third, I’m in the wrong business.

Wet spots on the ceiling.. A smoking icemaker… Intermittent A/C in a very hot summer… A failed tomato crop… Okay, okay, let’s quit dwelling on the negative. Surely some good things happened this year. Like… Um… Uh… The fishing! Yeah! The fishing was good this year.

I picked up this addiction when we lived in Buffalo, New York. There was a fine Italian market on Hertel Avenue called Passanisi’s. Man, did they have olives. I started out “chipping” with the milder ones but soon went mainline. Salty, oil-cured Italians, kalamatas both green and red, those little Lebanese ones… I even eat them for breakfast. And I have a connection right here in Melbourne Beach.

I probably walk into the Melbourne Beach Supermarket once a day. Not always for olives (they have a cigar I like, too) but often enough to feel familiar with the personnel. My last olive-quest involved a conversation with a new face. Before she ladled my treats into a container she asked the rhetorical mother of all questions: “How are you today?”

Anyone who knows me knows I have several responses to that, and anyone who knows me knows never to ask that. But the girl was new, so I thought I’d just be honest. “Sweaty,” I said. It was hot, for sure.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I’m under air all day. This is my first full year in Florida.”

“Well, don’t count on the calendar to tell if it’s hot,” I added. “It can be hot anytime.”

Then she asked the most ubiquitous question known to the beachside: “Where are you from?” And she qualified it with: “In Florida, it seems everybody’s from somewhere else.” So true…

Think about it. Just about all that Florida has become is from somewhere else. People aside, Florida has become a veritable settling basin for things from somewhere else. One need look no farther than their yard.

When I bought my property fifteen years ago, there were three trees: a queen sago, an areca palm, and a Canary Island date palm. They’re still here, and prized specimens, but they’ve been joined by other non-native species. Carrotwood, Brazilian pepper, grapefruit, bougainvillea, periwinkle… All are, or at one time were, part of my landscape.

Now let’s bump up the evolutionary ladder a tad and look at your bugs. If bugs are a blessing, Florida is sacred ground. I can’t think of any other place that so badly doesn’t need an imported boost in the bug population. But we got ‘em, none more onerous and prolific than the fire ant. Yep, they came from South America. Supposedly in a ship’s ballast.

And all those cute brown lizards scurrying along my fence? Cuban anoles. Their favorite food is each other — and our native anole. When’s the last time you saw a green one? They are rare. Anoles also eat bugs, though. I wonder if they eat fire ants. They’re probably too spicy for the Florida anole, but maybe the Cuban ones could handle them. Now that would be a blessing.

Every now and again we’ll hear a cackling racket in the sky and it’s a flock of thirty or more Amazonian parrots. Melbourne Beach has a resident population, bred from escaped pets. In some of the canals south of town you can find tilapia, Nile perch, peacock bass… The woods are full of armadillos and feral hogs. I could go on. Everything’s from somewhere else. And with the exception of fire ants and Brazilian pepper, I don’t mind a bit. I like to think we got the best of elsewhere.

But there are a few items from elsewhere I still wish we’d get. Thirty years ago, when my wife and I first made contact with the Sunshine State, our wish list would have been headed by two things: New York pizza and  Buffalo chicken wings. In 1979, we could find acceptable versions of neither. Locally, both have come a long way though, and that’s an admission from a former Buffalonian. Buffalo’s the place where pizza and wings are eaten by every family at least once or twice a week. Florida’s versions have improved so much that we have re-established that tradition.

While we’re on the subject of food, I have yet to find a Florida-grown tomato to rival the ones my mother grew. I’ve grown an annual crop for 14 years. I’ve tried several varieties and methods. I still can’t get that thin-skinned, right-off-the-vine, drooling, dripping sweetness my mom could conjure in a climate that might see snow in August. Regardless of their inferiority though, it is hard to find a fresh-picked tomato in New York in January, which is when mine peak. Yeah, my skins may be thicker and the fruit a little less juicy, but you won’t find anything near as good in a northern winter supermarket.

Something else I wish we could get here is smallmouth bass. Yes, I do enjoy tearing up the Stick Marsh with Florida-strain bigmouths — and I’ve boated my share- — but there’s something about that smallmouth “bite.” The nearest sensation I have found involves our local bluefish. They, like the smallmouth, have a tendency to just be “there” when they strike. No tap, no jiggle, just bam. No need to set the hook, they’ve done it for you. And pound for pound, smallmouths put our local bigmouths to shame in a fight. They put bigmouths to shame on the table, too. Taken from cold, clear northern waters, the smallmouth’s flesh is white and firm; some of the best freshwater eating there is.

Besides olives, I have another addiction. Water. Okay, okay, you can start with the jokes like “Honest, Doc, at first it was just a glass or two with lunch and the next thing you know I’m swimming in it!”… Yeah, everyone’s addicted to water, but it’s not the H2O per se, it’s the proximity to it. For some reason I’m not happy unless I’m living somewhere near water. It can be salt or fresh, black or clear, still or rushing, but I crave it. Florida satisfies, but there is one aspect missing: waterfalls.

Let’s face it, Florida lacks terrain. For waterfalls you need terrain. A chasm. A cliff. Mountains. Something other than a sinkhole… I suppose you could say the surf could substitute for a waterfall.  There is some resemblance, and living by the sea far outweighs the joy I get from waterfalls. But I do miss ‘em. Does anyone know where the nearest waterfall is? Maybe we should import one. I’m sure Disney’s already done it. But that doesn’t count. I want to know where the nearest natural waterfall is. And it’s gotta be at least five feet.

Of course it’s the things that Florida makes for herself that really keeps us here. A swimmable ocean. The drama of our skies. The intensity of our sun. The sweet flesh of mangrove snapper and stone crab. Our unending beach. The ability to eat Thanksgiving dinner in the pool…

Naked…

Walter
By Rick LaClaire

It’s been said that my generation is the first to spend their entire lives under the influence of television.

Whoopie-twang…

We’re also the first to spend their entire lives with the threat of nuclear devastation, the existence of jet propulsion, LSD and Kentucky Fried Chicken. My generation has experienced a lot of firsts, mostly at the hands and minds of the previous generation, not the least of which was the fatherly visage and comforting nuance of one Walter Leland Cronkite, Jr.

Television sure has changed since I was a kid. From black and white to color; from balky dial to remote control; from one in the living room to all over the house. The very appliance itself has mutated. Who, in 1957, would have believed the coming of cable, satellite, DVD, and high-definition flat-screen? But it was in that year my family was introduced to an utterly spellbinding documentary hosted by Mr. Cronkite himself; a nine-year television dynasty known as “The Twentieth Century.”

I didn’t watch the news much when I was a grade schooler. I don’t think any grade schooler did or does. But for one half-hour every Sunday evening my family and I sat in rapture when that V-2 lifted off and the earth shrank below as Walter ’splained it all. In retrospect, the show was crude — archival film clips with a voice-over — lots of war footage and pathos. But what was the Twentieth Century, really? War and pathos! And ol’ Wally knew how to bring it into focus. It was my introduction to the Marne, Prohibition and the Battle Of the Bulge. Sure, we learned about this stuff in school, but here it was through the black-and-white lens. No dry lecture. You were there! In fact, a prototype hosted by the same king of media was entitled “You Are There,” which ran four years earlier. I was a little young for that, though.

By my teen years I became a rabid follower of television news. Other than football, the CBS Evening News was the only show we were allowed to watch during dinner. I would mindlessly fork meatloaf and macaroni into my gaping maw while the media master related the day’s events. After all, by this time the news actually involved my future. A daily dose of Vietnam… A glimpse of the hippie lifestyle… Protests… Assassinations… The fade and topple of politicos… Outer space! And only on CBS. Why? Because we only received two channels (and one was Canadian). The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite was “the best show on TV,” I told my parents and friends. What could be better? It was reality TV. Unpredictable. Spontaneous. Never the same show twice. Turn it up! And pass the salt, please…

Cronkite made that show and it certainly wasn’t his looks. Myopic, balding, with a couple of chins — he could have been anybody’s dad at the time. Maybe that’s what did it: you felt comfortable with him at the helm. No matter how bad the news (and there was lots of bad news then), he was that spoonful of sugar that made it digestible, solid as the Prudential Rock that sponsored him.

I was nine when John Kennedy was assassinated. I know it sounds cliché, but I remember the moment vividly. I was in Miss Westcott’s fourth-grade class at Black River Elementary School. We were making paper longhouses as part of our understanding the Iroquois. I loved this sort of thing. Suddenly our janitor, Mr. Thompson, entered the room and whispered something to Miss Westcott. She told us to put down our scissors, and through tears informed us the president had been shot. We, along with all the other students, were herded into the school auditorium. School was cancelled for the day, and as the busses lined up outside, there was Walter Cronkite from that pathetic black and white TV on the school stage, informing us the president was dead.

Would I have remembered those brown paper longhouses? Would I have remembered Miss Westcott or Mr. Thompson if it hadn’t been for that sad historical milestone? Simply, no. The event was so huge it captured the moment. How many other events can claim that magnitude? And how many events that big can claim the honor of having been relayed to the nation by “the rock” himself, Mr. Cronkite?

Man’s first steps on the moon… I was fifteen. We had a little “camp” back in the woods where we used to hide our cigarettes. My brand was Viceroy. To reach the spot, we had to cross a creek on a rickety two-by-four with a rusty nail protruding in the center. I was barefoot, as I spent most of that summer of ‘69. I must have been in the throes of a mighty nicotine fit when I bounded across that plank, because even though I knew that nail was there, I impaled my heel, so deeply that the plank lifted up behind me. I limped to a friend’s house and crammed my bleeding foot into a plastic bucket. As blood gathered around my toes, there was Walter Cronkite announcing the “Eagle” had landed. This time in color, mind you, but with no less effect. I can still see the chevron on the Viceroy pack. I can still feel that rusty nail as it struck bone. And I can still see Walter bubbling with glee at mankind’s greatest achievement, so struck he didn’t seem to know what to say.

I voted for the first time in 1972. My choice was so soundly trounced by the incumbent that I temporarily lost any taste for politics. I claimed to feel so marginalized that I neglected to register for the next election. Shame on me. “Marginalization,” indeed… I was too lazy to register. I was so self-involved with my budding career as a rock star that I let it slip. When Jimmy Carter was elected that November night in ‘76, I, my soon-to-be wife and an apparently pleased Walter Cronkite celebrated as the nation took a “breath of fresh air” (a phrase I liberally borrow from a previous contest). It was obvious Walter was a Carter fan. Biased reporting? Nah. Human reporting. He was happy and he showed it.

He came to be known as everybody’s uncle, “The Most Trusted Man In America.” As the Carter breath of fresh air soured, many thought Uncle Walter should enter politics. I thought so, too. After all, our next president was a B-movie actor; a man who had pretended he was somebody else for a living. Walter had always been himself, and who could be better informed? Characteristically, he laughed it off. Retiring in 1981, he ended his career with a humble “Good night.” He was far from through with work, though.

In retirement he became an activist and columnist. I’ve read some of his articles and still can’t peg his politics. He was like we all want to be: informed, intelligent and respected, but not boorish. He liked fast cars, even aspiring to race at one time. He loved sailing and a good cocktail. Toward the end of his life he took up drumming, coached at times by one of the finest percussionists ever, Mickey Hart of The Grateful Dead. I saw an interview with Mr. Hart in which he claimed Walter was a “Deadhead.” Hey, I went to college in the early ’70s. I knew lots of Deadheads. I think Mr. Cronkite took life a little more seriously than that. Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Hart. Better you should be a “Walterhead.”

He died as he lived. Respectfully. No cheesy O.D. or flaming launch over the high side on Dead Man’s Curve. Quietly, naturally at 92. The way we all would like to go. The way you’d like your Dad or your uncle to go. And like your Dad, he’ll never be eclipsed.

Good night, Walter.

– The Harry Pitts Band, “Cuz I’m A Boinger”

“It’s good to be the king,” said Mel Brooks in “History Of The World Part 1.” His role was a coke-addicted Louis XVI; an absurd scene in a silly movie, and slightly accurate. For what is more absurd than pop stardom? And what could be more silly than to be crowned the “King” of pop stardom?

The moment a person is crowned the king of anything, a certain physical reaction begins: suction. The downward whorl of ego and excess seems inevitable. For example, take Czar Nicholas II of Russia, one of the last real kings to topple. Born into greatness and exclusion, his kingdom collapsed in a black tide of world war, fervent idealism, corruption and starvation. The once wealthy son of monarchs was reduced to penury and met his destiny in a hail of bullets in a shabby back room. His fall was far. So it goes with kings, it seems.

What constitutes a pop star king? You’re certainly not born into it. Elvis Presley, “The King Of Rock and Roll,” was born in a two-room shotgun shack. Michael Jackson, “The King of Pop,” was the son of a Detroit auto worker. Perhaps that’s precisely what made them stars: their meteoric ascent. So what made them “Kings”? Their fall?

I was 23 when Elvis died. I was rehearsing with a funk band. “Funk,” for those who don’t know, is a watered-down, bass-heavy version of soul music, frequently performed by white people. The Average White Band were funk (and white). KC and the Sunshine Band were funk (KC was white). The BeeGees were funk (and, um… I’m not sure what they were physically). Funk made money. So, in 1977, I was in a funk band. Strictly for the money. The music was mindless and I didn’t last long,  but on August 16th, on the way to funk-band practice in Rochester, New York, I heard that Elvis, “The King Of Rock and Roll,” was dead at 42.

The news floored me. Not that I was a big fan; I was more of a Jim Morrison guy (“The Lizard King”), but Elvis was the foundation, the base as it were, of the genre. He’d been there since the beginning. He set the bar for the rest of us wannabes. After all, if a sharecropper’s son could rise that far in the pop world, why couldn’t we?

I arrived at funk-band practice in a funk. The other guys had already heard the news and expressed their opinions, none of which I shared.

“I didn’t know he was so old,” the bass player said.

“What a has-been,” said the lead guitarist. “Who cares?”

“He never wrote any of his stuff,” said the drummer. “Just a no-talent crooner…”

“‘My Way,’” I lied in defense. “He wrote ‘My Way.’” I was sure my funk-mates didn’t know it was penned by Sinatra. I just couldn’t stand them running down rock ‘n’ roll royalty, the guy who invented the business we were conducting. In fact, that was my last rehearsal with those guys. I wanted to do it “my way,” and hence, have never succeeded in music… That band broke up in six months anyway, all at each other’s throats. So much for white boys playing funk.

No, I was no big fan of The King Of Rock and Roll, but I appreciated his impact. Nor was I ever a fan of The King Of Pop. The Lizard King? Hell, yeah! But he was self-crowned, and his flare so short it seems a shame now.

These so-called kings have a lot in common. First, they ignited at a young age. Elvis was 19 when he recorded “That’s All Right.” Michael Jackson was what… Three? Well, something like that with The Jackson Five. I classified the Jackson Five with other fluffy family acts like The Osmonds, The Cowsills and The Partridge Family. So it’s amazing that he broke from the early mold and had even greater success. (Hey, you got that latest CD from Tracy Partridge? Love the video. Are those fake hips?)

Pop kings also seem to have sexual quirks. Elvis was infatuated with a 14-year-old. I just can’t understand why her parents would condone it. A twenty-something rock star and a teenybopper? Didn’t they have any convents in the ’60s? And Michael Jackson! Well, we all know what went on there. It was in the news every six months. And again, what was up with the parents of these young boys? If MJ is guilty of anything, the parents are, too. There seems to be a price for a young boy’s innocence. It’s somewhere around 20 million. And I guess, to be fair, we have to include the Lizard King. For Mr. Morrison I have just two words: Miami and zipper.

Of course the drug thing is omnipresent with the kings. It’s so common in those circles it’s barely worth mentioning. It’s abuse of prescription stuff mostly — well, maybe the Lizard King scored on the street — but it always figures in the cause of death. Surprise, surprise…

Then there’s the shared issue of physical grotesquerie. Elvis and Jimmy got fat. Jacko had an affinity for plastic surgery. Different approaches to the same problem: they were getting old. Let’s face it, when you age, you put on pounds. But what was with Jackson? Still slim.  Physically active. Friends who’d seen him perform claimed he had the agility of an acrobat. I found it very sad to watch this guy’s face literally melt before our eyes. It’s as if he was searching for a way to be ugly.

Obviously, the main thing our cultural kings shared was dying young. Morrison at 27, Elvis at 42, and MJ at 50. “Oh!” you say, “fifty’s not that young!” Yes it is, to me. Hey, the older I get, the older “young” becomes.

Of the three, Jim Morrison’s death in 1971 had the most immediate effect. I was a big fan of The Doors. I read it in the newspaper and didn’t believe it. Then it sank in and I realized it was the end for my favorite band. That was confirmed in ‘72 when I heard their post-Morrison release Other Voices. I truly grieved for him and the band.

I’ve already described my reaction to Elvis’ demise. The big surprise though, was my response to the news about Michael Jackson. We were on vacation in Upstate New York. I was recovering from a rather extensive cocktail hour (waking up from a nap) and the first thing I heard on TV was the twin passings of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. I was in a bit of a fog, and wasn’t sure I’d heard right. Flip the station. Yup, I heard right.

Farrah, to me, meant little more than a vaguely erotic poster my freshman roommate thumbtacked to the wall of our dorm room at Brockport State. Every room had that poster. Every girl (and even some guys) got that haircut. I don’t think I ever watched a “Charlie’s Angels” episode, but that poster? Ubiquitous in ‘72. Yes, death by cancer is gruesome. I’ve seen it many times, and I was sorry to hear she had succumbed. I was also sorry to hear that it happened on the same day as Michael Jackson’s death. I knew it would lose impact in the shadow of The Gloved One.

Oddly, Michael’s demise has actually affected me. I can’t seem to shake it. I was no fan of his, though I admit to liking “Billy Jean” (it’s the bass line, very much like “Riders On the Storm”). I’ve certainly poked a lot of fun at the guy, in and out of print. Cheap shots in retrospect, and I’m sorry now. Yes, he was rich. Way famous. Helluva dancer… Maybe I did it because I was jealous. We both started with the same breaks (none) and he made it. But there are also things I have that he never did. A successful marriage (so far). The ability to come and go as I please. No lawyers on retainer. Children who will never have to crawl out from under the weighty shadow of their father.

I see Michael as a pathetic figure now. Just like Elvis and Jim Morrison. The “Three Kings,” as it were — fast to fame, slowly consumed by their own suction.

No, it’s not good to be the king. It’s sad.

May you never be crowned.

I am not exceptionally lucky. I have never won a square in a football pool (ask anyone who has ever fished with me; my nickname used to be “Jonah”) and I don’t buy lottery tickets because I figure it’s useless. I wouldn’t win. Or worse, maybe I would. No, blind luck and I are not close companions, at least not with trivial doings. But there have been a couple things I’ve lucked out on.

Now I could get sappy here and say that I have wonderful kids, a lasting marriage and good health, but none of that’s luck, really. They’re the results of confrontation, patience, relentless compromise and mind-numbing five-mile walks. Luck isn’t that calculated. It is more stumbled upon than intended. You can’t plan luck, and definitely shouldn’t count on it.

Somehow I managed to marry into a great family. Now that’s luck. It just so happened that this hot babe I’d been loving and fighting with during my college days was from pretty good stock. I didn’t know it at the time, and it wasn’t a factor concerning the nuptials, but soon after, I learned that I liked these people. I’m still not sure how they feel about me, but they’re polite (to my face). What more can you ask?

For decades my father-in-law ran a heating and plumbing business. He became established during a true boom-time in America, the years following World War II. Hard-working, honest, fun-loving… These are the adjectives I conjure when I think of him. Tolerant, too; he knew me when my hair was long and my wallet was thin. And now, with my hair and wallet both thin, I’ve found I need him more than ever.

My second brush with luck concerns this pile of rocks I call home. It truly is a pile of rocks; solid masonry, built during the same era my father-in-law began plumbing new construction. It was also purchased just before the market went kablooey, for a price unheard of even in today’s post-bubble crash. Two strokes of luck there: a bona fide real estate bargain and a piece of period construction in tune with the most knowledgeable plumber I know: my father-in-law.

There are times, however, when I find this place to be no bargain at all. A faulty roof, clogged irrigation, A/C failure… Sometimes fate makes me feel like this place was my biggest mistake. The worst though, befell us this April: Do you hear water running? After fifty some-odd years, our plumbing gave out.

Re-piping an entire house is a daunting task. Where do you begin? “Du-uh! With pipe!” you answer. Easy to say, hard to choose. It came down to three choices: copper, Pex, or CPVC. All my consultants had their preferences and at the cost of one thousand gallons a day, I needed to decide. What better source for this final verdict than the man who’d waltzed me through a half dozen other fluid emergencies, my original stroke of luck: my father-in-law.

“Nobody uses copper anymore,” he stated.

Bingo. One down, two to go.

“Plastic is the way to go. That’s what everyone’s using. Pex or CPVC… CPVC is what I would go with, but I’m sure one’s as good as the other. Go with what fits the budget.”

Budget? There was none. But at least I had educated advice. Thanks, Dad. Now I could begin. Big Box Depot, here I come!

Pex was cheaper, which made it fit my “budget” to a tee. I estimated one hundred feet of three-quarter and one hundred each of hot and cold half-inch. Whoa! This stuff was nifty! Red Pex for hot, blue Pex for cold. Sold in nice, tight rolls, I could probably thread it anywhere.  Connections were cheap, too. Only problem was this special doohickey you had to use to apply the connections. Two hundred bucks! For a tool! Wait a minute, here… That was more than the cost of my three hundred feet of piping.

“Ah,” said the sales clerk in the red vest. “We’ll loan you the tool.”

Sale! The stuff was loaded in the truck and I was ready to pipe. Sort of…

Eleven days had now passed since we first suspected a leak. We had been rationing water for seven. It was a Saturday morning, all other chores done, and I was ready to commence. The Pex came out of the truck and I had measurements of the lengths I would need. First, the three-quarter. I expected the roll of tubing to uncoil when I cut the plastic binding. It didn’t do anything. It just laid there, tight as a watch spring. I tried stretching it out. Nothing. It just snapped back to its coil. I couldn’t even measure this stuff, much less cut it and thread it. A quick phone call to my local plumber/friend…

“I can’t straighten it out,” I complained.

“Yeah, it has a lot of memory,” he agreed. “We use the straight stuff. You’ll have to go to a plumbers’ supply. They’re not open till Monday.”

Monday? I’d hoped to be done by then.

“And oh yeah,” he added. “You’ll have to buy a special doohickey to fit the connectors. I’d probably go with CPVC.”

I took it all back: the three-quarter, the red and blue stuff, the connectors and the special doohickey. I exchanged it for CPVC. “That’s what I would go with,” said the man in the red vest.

The first incision was an access hole through the soffit in front. I needed room to work, so I removed a whole section of it. From the road, the house looked like it was missing a tooth. This was for my access line; my cold water “in.” It was also an excursion in hell. The attic was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I was bigger. It was dirty, extremely hot, and itchy from old glass insulation. I had laid boards across the rafters to crawl on during my roof days. Some were rotten. Nail points protruded through the plywood above. Every time I lifted my head I was reminded of them.

A half-hour at a time was all I could take. I would crawl backwards to the opening, bleeding, sweat-drenched and cursing, then dangle my legs till I could feel the stepladder. That was the worst part: getting out. It strained every piece of connective tissue in my upper body.  Then, on the last day of “attic duty” came the worst of the worst: I kicked over the ladder. And no one was home… Ah, but that’s my luck.

I sat at the edge of the opening and grasped a rafter tightly. My elbows and shoulders had been blown out for two days with all this pipe-wrestling, and now they had to lower two-hundred-plus pounds eight feet down to the floor in my hallway. Halfway through the procedure I gave out and dropped the last four feet, scraping both elbows and landing on my butt. I still ache.

After the attic was negotiated, the ensuing hook-ups were easier, but not easy. Holes were cut in walls and cabinet-backs, and it seemed everywhere I needed space for a pipe, there was something in the way. We even encountered plumbing we didn’t know we had. This house had been reconfigured before. Once that was realized, nothing was a surprise.

Finally the bathrooms and kitchen were tuned in. The last leg of the hookup took place in the garage, encompassing hot water, washing machine and a new hose bib in the garden. Everything was visible in the garage. There were no secrets. I actually enjoyed this part.  Working with plastic pipe is a lot like playing with Tinker Toys. I got real creative with obstructions. There are sections which resemble modern sculpture. Then, on a Thursday, seventeen days after hearing “Do you hear water running?”, I turned it on. First lightly, then after a quick inspection, full bore. Water! At last! …For about five hundred bucks in parts, and six full days of labor. And no leaks! Well, almost…

What happened next was real disappointing. Every tap, every toilet intake and every shower feed began to leak. For the first time in years, this house was feeling real water pressure. I took each location a day at a time, swearing a lot, tired of plumbing. The fixes were simple, but my patience was at an end. I’m sure my family got an earful.

This house has taught me a lot of things. It’s taught me about luck and failure. It’s taught me to do things I never thought I would do. It’s given me confidence and despair. And it most certainly has given me things to do when I have nothing else to do. Because, in owning a house, there’s always something…

This, definitely, has been the biggest project yet and it left me with some pretty nifty tools — an assortment of pipe cutters, saws, a meter key, and the biggest masonry drill bit you’ve ever seen (weighs a full pound). I’m ready for anything now.

It also left me with inflamed elbows and shoulders, cuts on every finger, cuts all over my scalp and forearms, and a sore butt. But I’ll heal. And patiently await my next stroke of luck.

I hope it’s the good kind.

Florida’s not for everyone.

I like that.

I once saw a statistic that said two people leave Florida for every one that stays. It’s as if our state is a kind of fad-food; once you’ve eaten your fill, you don’t ever want to see it again — and some get their fill a lot sooner than others. I guess I’ve never gotten my fill, though I did leave once. For six long years… But that’s another story.

People normally visit in winter or spring. They love the weather, the fishing and the beach and immediately talk about buying property. My advice has always been “spend the summer and see if you really like it.” But they never come in summer. They know it’s too hot — and, by golly, it is.

I like that, too.

It can get so hot, even the snakes sweat. It can get so hot, you can fry an egg on your car hood — but don’t ever do that. It’ll take your paint off. I once blistered my feet very badly by walking a few yards barefoot, on pavement, to the beach. Boy was that dumb; I was two days with my feet in ice water. But I love hot Florida summers. The fishing’s great. The ocean warms to 82 or better (nice!) and best of all, the tourists are gone. We get our town back.

I love the heat so much that I’ve invented my own index. It may not be very scientific, but it scares away the Yankees. Here it goes:

First, we have just plain Hot. That’s anything above 88. ‘Course anything below 88 is winter to a real Floridian. That’s about the hottest temperature a pasty-faced Yank can take before he scurries back to Buffalo.

Next on the scale is Drippin’ Hot. That’s when it’s above 90, feels like 100 (with the humidity), and any outdoor exertion opens your pores like faucets. Drippin’ Hot, to me, is just about perfect.

Then we have Stinko Hot. This is a term I stole from my buddy Jim who’s from Texas. Seems it’s always hotter in Texas. And colder… And bigger… Anyway, this is when it’s 93, feels like 105, and you can catch fish without a rod. You just set a bucket of cold water on the bank and they jump right in. You wouldn’t want to cast a line anyway. You’d be drippin’.

The fourth degree is Gaggin’ Hot. That’s 96 to 99, feeling like 115. It only gets this hot when it’s time to mow my lawn. The air’s so thick you have to chew it before you breathe it. If you don’t, you’ll gag.

Finally, there’s TV Hot. If it’s over 100 in Florida, just stay inside and watch TV. I recommend renting “March of the Penguins” or that Sylvester Stallone movie, “Cliffhanger.” There are a lot of scenes in “Doctor Zhivago” that work too, particularly that “ice palace” one.

If that doesn’t work, of course you could always go North, visit a Yankee and watch his TV.

Several years ago I needed a new roof. Actually, this place needed a new roof the minute we moved in. This we discovered during our first real downpour as new homeowners, a nagging inundation known as Tropical Storm Gordon in 1994. A stain spread across our living room ceiling that still exists, somewhat resembling the outline of Iceland. Or is it Afghanistan? Anyway, after five months of living here, I had never inspected the attic. This was cause for a stepladder and flashlight, the tearing of cobwebs, and the realization that our roof was rotten.

Of course we didn’t have any money, so for years I tarred and patched — even replaced the ridge vent — merely stalling the inevitable. Finally, after ten years, the need had to be addressed. We were leaking with every rain. Iceland had expanded to Mongolia. I still didn’t have any money, still don’t for that matter, and the thought occurred that I would roof this place myself. How hard could it be? I knew the basic mechanics. I’d fixed it a dozen times. I’d also helped others fix theirs. I’d seen roofs laid all over my neighborhood, witnessed new construction, and even took out a library book: “Roofing For Complete Dummies.” All I needed was a crew. What better source than friends?

Half of them were dismissed because of their size, which I limited to 250 pounds. Okay, so my friends like to eat. So do I. Another third had back, hip, elbow or carpal tunnel issues. Okay, so my friends are getting old. So am I. Six others had a fear of (pick one) heights, bees, sun, ladders, nails with big heads or work in general. That left me with one assistant. My son. He was only 9 at the time, and though willing, had issues with his mother. You know what? So do I.

Obviously, a crew was not to be had. I would have to do it myself. But then I got to thinking. What if I encounter a clown up there? You never know where those bastards’ll show up. It’s likely I would launch into a vomiting spree, slip in the goo and fall off. I could not take that chance. A roofer would have to be found.

I called five. Four showed up. The prices were astoundingly varied. So were their approaches. One insisted my soffit and fascia be included in the deal or he wouldn’t do it. That estimate pushed 10 grand. Definitely a nix. Another was more interested in my pineapple crop than my roof. For half an hour we discussed their propagation, cultivation and preservation. Then he glanced at my roof and spouted a figure. The other two were all business. Tape measures came out, along with lectures on shingle types, and an actual walk-around on the roof itself. Their results were similar: a square-foot shingle price with a price per sheet of plywood. Both agreed there was plenty of “roof-rot”. The first guy estimated six sheets, the second, ten.

We went with higher priced of the two (they were recommended by a friend) and three days and thirteen sheets of plywood later, we had our roof. Could I have done it? Even if I had been guaranteed there would be no clowns aloft, simply, no. They had all kinds of complications, things I would never have known how to solve, even with the “Dummies” book in my lap. They were pros, had seen it all before, and later that year mine was the only roof in the neighborhood undamaged in that mean season of mean seasons, 2004.

Fast forward five years… “Do you hear water running?” There are certain phrases guaranteed to lob the icy medicine ball of dread into any man’s gut: “I’m late” (and stupidly you ask, “For what?”)… “I’m pretty sure I’m not contagious this week”… “There’s a puddle of red stuff under your truck”… And the worst: “Do you hear water running?”

We heard water running. No one was showering. No one was doing laundry. The icemaker broke three months ago, it had been removed. I checked the outside hoses. All off. Toilet cisterns were full. There was not a drop of water under the sinks or anywhere else. Only one conclusion could be drawn: a burst pipe.

Did you know there’s a leak indicator on your water meter? It’s described on the back of your bill. It’s a tiny triangle in its own little niche, and ours was spinning wildly. The next step was to find out how much we were leaking. I timed the meter for an hour. Five gallons.  “That’s not too bad,” I thought. Then I showed a neighbor. “Fifty gallons,” he said. “There’s another zero to the right.” I brushed aside a chunk of dirt. Yep, another zero. The medicine ball of dread sank to my bowels. By next day, fifty was seventy. We had to act.

My first trip to the hardware store involved the purchase of a “meter key.” This is not something which dangles handily on a chain and fits in your pocket. It’s a ten-dollar assemblage of rebar designed to manipulate the balky valve which shuts the water off between the street and the house. It’s about three feet long, has a “U” on the business end, and is the envy of every citizen on the street. It also does a dandy job of blackening a toenail when dropped just so.

Anyone who’s ever been camping knows the drill I’m about to describe. Going without air conditioning, electricity or a sound roof is certainly a pain. But going without running water is downright uncivilized. Water is civilization. Every city, every home for that matter, is dependant on the coming and going of H20 to make it habitable. Without it, we are no more than those Namibian dung beetles which stick their butts in the air every morning to glean precious drops of dew. We were suddenly made aware of every frivolous use of water.  Knowing that leaving the meter switched on carried the expense of a thousand gallons a day. We had to conserve. We only turned it on at intervals; predetermined times of day for dishes, showers and laundry. We filled buckets to flush the toilets. With this process, we probably cut our use by nine-tenths. But you could still hear it gushing when it was on. What a waste.

There had to be an easy fix. Faucets and toilets were inspected and every suspicion repaired. That took a day. No dice. Still gushing. Two more days were lost attempting to trace the supply line from the meter. The lines (we were told) were old galvanized pipe and probably rotten. Simple fix, if so. Simple if you could find it… I soon discovered the line was new copper, replaced when a berm was installed by the previous owner. That thing twisted all over the yard, coming into the house many feet from where the original was. And though crooked, it was sound. We came to realize the worst: a leak under the slab. Adding salt to the wound, an officer with the city water department suddenly showed up.

“You’re being cited for overuse,” he stated, clipboard in hand. “Thirty-two thousand gallons last month alone.” He looked around the yard. It resembled the Western Front in the Great War. “Oh,” he qualified. “You already know. Have you found the leak?”

“It’s not above ground, and it’s not out here,” I groaned.

“Oh,” he repeated. “Sorry… These old houses… It’s always under the slab. Good luck.”

Good luck… The experts were called. Just like the roof, estimates varied wildly. From a 600-dollar “locate-and-patch” — which would not preclude further leaks — to 3,000 for re-piping the house; the most sound approach. Then I called the real experts: friends and family. It seemed everyone I knew had faced this same problem, and the solution was ubiquitous: re-pipe the whole house via the attic. “Uh… What?” was my response, remembering  the condition of that space during my roof-repair days. It was made clear that someone (me) would have to negotiate that slice of hell from stem to stern, threading pipe and sinking access holes. And though they all agreed on method, material was up for debate. My craftsmen-friends opted for copper, the traditional pipe, sweated with flame and solder, a method I had used for small repairs but was no expert at. Also, the spaces where flame would be required were close, dry wood all around, and I had no desire to set this place afire. “No problem,” they insisted, “if you know what you’re doing.” I did not possess that qualification.

A local plumber pushed for a material known as Pex. “You can thread it anywhere. They use it in boats and mobile homes. I’ve never known it to fail.” I was intrigued, but still not sure. Two other ex-plumbers, now working at local big-box stores, were adamant about CPVC.  Cheaper than copper, easy to work with, tooling was cheap, and all new construction was using it (which I affirmed). Now I was confused. Each material had its pros and cons and I didn’t have any time to waste. This Bedouin lifestyle was getting old. There was only one source I could trust implicitly. His daughter was involved.

I would consult the plumbing guru’s guru; the Prince Of Pipe; the Sultan Of Solder: my father-in-law.

Josh wasn’t like the rest of us. While we played army, Josh played with dolls. Not “action figures” like G.I. Joe, mind you, but real dolls. Girls’ dolls, like Barbie and Ken… When we played street hockey, Josh played “school.” He’d set up a chalk board and chairs, and pretend he was a teacher. Little kids were his pupils. Most of us “big kids” had enough of the educational system by the end of a school day, but he would point and pass out papers to the tykes, asserting his leadership the only way he could. We would build snow forts and throw snowballs. Josh would build snow tables and chairs and throw tea parties. He was obviously in touch with his feminine side, but there were two traits Josh had that made him tolerable to the scamp crowd.

For one, he had high blood pressure. Yep, even as a little kid. Why was this cool? Nosebleeds. All you had to do was get Josh just a little riled up, and whoa: Gusher. Blood all over.  That was even cooler than my buddy Dougie who could vomit on command. Bored in class? Nice day outside? “Hey, Dougie. Blow chunks.” Class dismissed, see you on the playground. Yeah, Dougie was a valuable ally, but blood beats barf anytime (it doesn’t stink).

So we’d pick on Josh, get his nose to spew and everybody would go home happy. Everybody but Josh. But we didn’t think about that. We were kids. The other cool thing about Josh was his penchant for playing “store.” Picture a hot summer day, nothing to do, twenty kids hangin’ out, Dougie’s away at Lactose-Intolerance Camp and Josh yells “Store’s open!” Bingo. Every lint-encrusted nickel in the neighborhood is dug for and the throng descends like soccer moms after Tickle-Me Elmos.

A Radio Flyer for a counter, a Maxwell House can for a till, stock from the bottom of a fourth-generation toybox, and get this: free Kool-Aid. (“Okay guys. Nobody get Josh riled up. At least not till the Kool-Aid is gone.”)

As lame as his wares were, there wouldn’t be a penny between us after 15 minutes. Dog-chewed toy soldiers, a plastic palomino with three legs, a 43-card deck, pull toys with no strings, cracked plastic Silly Putty eggs, an Etch-A-Sketch with the silver stuff leaking out…  Everything for a dime or less, every price negotiable, and every item consumed like proverbial hotcakes. Yeah, it was all worthless crap, but we couldn’t get enough of it. Why? Service. “Here, have another Kool-Aid… Want a cube of ice in that? Your Dixie Cup is wrinkled, here’s a new one.” Dice with the dots missing… Monopoly tokens… Those cruddy wax miniature Coke bottles with the juice already sucked out… Stock flew out of the Radio Flyer, coins clinked in the can, and for a few minutes on a sultry afternoon, Josh was the coolest kid on the block.

Josh moved away after eighth grade. His dad was transferred and he went to a big city in the East where he became an English teacher, so I heard. Married, kids, awards… What a wasted life. Huh?

Yes. Wasted. Why? Because Nosebleed Josh missed his true calling: Postmaster General.

Our present Postmaster General is a guy named John Potter. I have nothing against this man. I like the United States Postal Service. I use them every day. I even have a Post Office box. I find their rates competitive, their staff polite. So why is Nosebleed Josh perfect for John Potter’s job? One simple word: Service.

It is late March as I write this. Presently, Mr. Potter is pleading his case to the United States Congress, saying the USPS is in dire need of permission to close its budget gap. The USPS, by present definition, is “a self-funded government entity” and “an independent government agency.” Now I don’t know about you, but “self-funded” and “independent” mean “I don’t need no steenking Congress” to me. But, being the nice guy John Potter probably is, he’s gonna run it through the goose anyway.

Supposedly the USPS is losing business at an alarming rate. Mr. Potter says it’s the “economy,” an excuse way overused right now. Now c’mon, John, wake up and smell the budget gap, don’t play “victim” with Congress. Not now. Not when you don’t have to. The Postmaster General’s not asking for money (surprise!). He wants permission to downsize. Five delivery days instead of six, layoffs, retirement concessions, and an increase in rates. In other words, he wants us to pay more money for less service. You know what Nosebleed Josh would do?  He’d make another gallon of Kool-Aid.

Everybody knows what the problem is. It’s not just the “economy” (bleaah). Most of it’s because of e-mail. Why slap a 40-some-odd cent stamp on something that can be had for free? E-mail’s the best deal we’ve got today. UPS, Fed Ex, DHL, Pack-N-Ship… Let’s face it, the Post Office has a lot of competition these days. How do you face competition? Offer more in service! Free Kool-Aid!

As I said, I like the USPS. I don’t want to see it disappear. I’d pay a buck to mail a letter, just treat me like you want my business. The post office here in Melbourne Beach used to open at 8:30 a.m., close at 5 p.m. and add half a day Saturdays. There was also a convenient stamp machine in the lobby. Now it’s 9 to 4, Monday through Friday, with no stamp machine. This completely cuts out any business from the working person. It’s closed when you go to work, closed when you get out, no Saturday hours… Hello, Pack-N-Ship!

And I don’t know about you, but I haven’t bought a ballpoint pen since 1987. Banks, checkout counters, your bail bondsman’s office, and yes, the post office — all were great sources for free writing implements. Not so, now. Just the other day I was waiting to post a package when I noticed the pen on the counter had a plastic spoon taped to it. Seizing an old idea of my own (the combination staple gun/coffee mug) I supposed it to be a clever soup spoon/crossword puzzle solver. Or better yet, modern art. Oh no.

“It keeps people from stealing them,” the clerk said.

So John, come on. Take a tip from Nosebleed Josh. Stay open Saturdays. Deliver six days a week. Take the spoons off the pens. Go ahead, raise your prices but don’t cut your service. Give a little more. Kool-Aid’s a nice start, but beer’s better. That might take a little licensing, but heck, you’ve got your foot in the door with Congress anyway, right?

I was late for class. Late because I didn’t know the building. It was a huge place, nothing like my small-town grade school. I burst in just as she was taking to the chalkboard. It was the last class that day. I was sweating, confused and out of breath.

“Well,” she sneered. “Nice of you to join us.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was, uh, lost.”

The classroom exploded with laughter, she the loudest. “All these pupils managed to find the place,” she continued. “Are you sure you’re in the right class?”

“Uh, yeah,” I stammered, fumbling for my schedule. “Room 27. Last period.”

“I still think you’re lost,” she countered. “My pupils are never late.” The class howled.

“I’m sorry, I–” Tears began to well. It had been a long, stressful day.

“Maybe you should go to the office and sort this out. I’ll be along shortly.”

First day of school, seventh grade.

I spent the last period sitting in the principal’s office. I was never late again for social studies, that’s for sure. Her worst performance was upon a meek soul named Mary, who made the mistake of admitting she’d never been to the county seat. The girl was told to stand.

“You’ve never been to Watertown?” the teacher gasped. Once again the class roared. The poor girl began to shake. “Have you ever been to Syracuse?” Mary shook her head. “Does your house have an indoor toilet?” The girl nodded, eliciting even louder laughter. Oddly, some homes in my school district didn’t have indoor plumbing, and at that point, I’d never been to Syracuse either.

The teacher kept it up till the girl cried. The old bag had her audience and she milked it dry. I knew the feeling. I’d been in Mary’s shoes. And I felt that same feeling again not long ago.

It was at a Christmas party, and the subject of conversation was Hawaii. The host’s house was awash with yuppies, everyone picking their favorite island and why. Finally the question was turned on me: “What’s your favorite island?” Without hesitation, I spouted “Gilligan’s!  ‘Cuz that’s where Ginger is.” But instead of laughs I drew frowns, and the muted response “he’s never been.” Yep, I’ve never been. But I’ll bet not a single soul in that room had flushed a forkhorn buck, seen a whole family of wild hogs, or driven amid a sea of free-range cracker cows. And those things are all within an hour’s drive. Maybe they’d seen Hawaii, but they’d never seen the real Florida we have at our back door.

Whether you hunt or not, you owe it to yourself to learn about where you live. Bull Creek, Triple N Ranch, Three Lakes… These just aren’t places, they’re wonderlands, and they’re accessible to everyone. The advantage in approaching these wild lands as a hunter helps reveal the minor beauty — the plant and tree species conducive to game, the animals and their sign — things you wouldn’t look for as a sightseer. But even as a sightseer, whether by bicycle or car, the loop roads within these Wildlife Management Areas are well worth your attention.

“Stranger In A Strange Land”: Robert Heinlein’s best book, in my opinion. It was a popular piece, not too long, embraced by both hippie and sci-file. A Martian is fetched to earth and, well… Read the book.  he point though, was how weird this guy seemed to us, and how weirder we seemed to him. It was much like my first introduction to the wilds of Florida, though unlike Mars, there’s plenty of water.

My son and I did six hunts this season, and came back empty-handed on all but one, our last. This trip was unique not only because we actually killed something, but because we hunted new ground. The Wildlife Management Area we had scoured in previous hunts was closed for hog season, and we chose a larger adjacent WMA.

“Larger” is an understatement. This place was three times the size. We noticed differences immediately. For one, the camping area looked like it had year-round residents. To me, it represented a rural slum. The ranger at the gate was very relaxed, informal actually. No “What are you hunting” or “Try this spot,”  just a “Howdy” and “Have fun.”

Another difference was the litter. This area being closer to Orlando, I suppose it has more traffic. But there’s no excuse for littering. The countryside was similar to what we had experienced: savanna dotted with pines, interrupted by hammocks of cypress and hardwoods; myriad creeks, mostly dry now, so late in the winter. Hog wallows… Then, at a sharp turn in the trail, a monument of sorts.

It was a small tree, ringed by stones, festooned with a youth’s sunglasses, a hunting cap and toys. A homemade sign held the boy’s name and dates, indicating death at age 9. An odd sight, poignant and slightly alarming. What had happened? Hopefully not a hunting accident. Strange omen…In A Strange Land.

The next surprise was a cow. Yep, out here in the middle of nowhere, not a farm to be seen, a big red steer ambled roadside. My first thought was: “Can we shoot that?” Beef’s better’n squirrel any day. We pulled beside it and snapped a picture with the cell phone. It was unfazed. We looked at it, as if to say “What’n hell are you doin’ here?” It looked at us as if to say “Get lost.”

At this point we were approaching the Florida Turnpike. That’s right, it ran smack-dab through the middle of this WMA. Problem? Nope. We took a tunnel beneath.  When we emerged a whole new world appeared. For one thing, the road was nearly impassable: pure sand, the white, light stuff locals term “sugar sand.” The truck bucked and shifted like a tiny boat in a sea of ball bearings. “Go!” was the order of the day, for if we stopped we would be stuck for sure. Soon, we had to. We suddenly found ourselves among cattle, dozens of cracker cows with wide horns and bony rumps. It was stop or make hamburger. At first they were unwilling to let us pass, like they were waiting for a handout. It was unnerving; I’d never been in a situation like this. They were wild-looking beasts. I tried to scare them with the horn.  Slowly, they parted. All except for a cute solitary calf. This little guy wanted to go home with us. But Mama groaned and he followed the crowd.

Once past the cows, the road became worse, then ended at a gate. Carefully, we turned around and eventually re-parted the Bovine Sea. Once again the calf sidled up to the truck. What a cutie, white with flecks of red. Mother entered the situation immediately, snorted at the calf, then snorted at us. The truck bounced, slipped and slid. I did not want to get stuck among the herd, and we slowly ground away.

There were several loop roads, all in better condition. I figured this to be a scouting mission more than anything else, and didn’t think we would do much hunting. We were still within earshot of the Turnpike when I saw a stand of huge oaks that was just begging to be explored. Time to do some walking. We loaded our .22s and followed a well-worn trail. It led us deep within a swampside jungle. A half-dozen ancient live oaks towered among cabbage palms. Deer tracks punctured the dirt. All was dark, bejungled and cool.

“What’s this?”my boy asked. A homemade ladder led to a small platform in an oak about 10 feet up. It had several coats of paint, someone was maintaining it. A few yards away was another stand, this an aluminum ladder bungie-corded against a palm. Obviously, this was a popular spot, and several paths led off in different directions. We followed one that led to a nearby opening. Suddenly, a branch rattled above me. “Squirrel!” my boy yelled, and snapped off a shot.

The animal scurried across branches and instinctively I fired. It was so automatic, I don’t remember taking aim. It was like this skill, this gift I once had, suddenly returned after years of laying dormant. “You got him, Dad!”

The shadows were long, the air was taking on a chill and we were far from home. We took a picture of our first bag, then headed for the truck. I remember my son saying “Gee, it doesn’t feel so bad. It doesn’t bother me like I thought it would.” My thoughts were different. I had actually killed it. It did bother me. And I remembered the feeling I had when I was fourteen, after killing my first rabbit. A sad pride, the knowledge of how small we people are, and how death is what life is all about. This poor animal, one one-hundredth my size, merely minding his own business and whack. Yes, I felt bad.

I felt worse at the skinning table. It had been a long time. Squirrels don’t like to part with their hide. I made my boy watch; he would do this someday. The entrails looked so human. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a hunter. Maybe there was a reason I gave this up for so long.  Just stick with fish. They’re farther removed from us.

A few days later we got the frying pan out. The animal had been quartered, soaked overnight in brine, then fried to a crisp after a flour and egg dredge. It was delicious. All guilt evaporated.

Maybe I was meant to hunt.

What greater gift than a son?

Yes, daughters are nice too, and I have one of each. That’s what’s known as a “Millionaire’s Family.” I was 30 when my daughter was born. I was there for the delivery (thank you, Dr. Lamaze!) and was so overwhelmed that I had an actual “Out Of Body Experience.” Or so I thought. The nurse called it “Passing Out,” but I didn’t, and for a moment my existence made perfect sense.

She was everything to me. I couldn’t wait to get home from work and see my beautiful child. Changing diapers, bathing, feeding, getting barfed on — these weren’t chores, but wonders. There’s nothing like a baby to change your life.

I was still making music then, working a day job and performing nights. I had hooked up with an indie label and was cutting records. Recording sessions, radio interviews, TV lip synchs and gigs — the life of a minor rock star. And I let it drop. It was not important anymore. All I wanted was my little girl. All my little girl wanted was her mother.

You can’t fight “gender identification.” I loved her (still do) and had to accept my place as #2. It was easier as I got older. Blocks gave way to Barbies, “onesies” became dresses, and “Sesame Street” was replaced by “New Kids On the Block.” It became easier because we had less in common as the years rolled by. And she had more in common with her mother.

I was 40 when our son was born. Forty is the limit for fatherhood, in my opinion; you know a little bit about life and you know what to expect. When the magic moment arrived I did not leave my body. No, I hopped around the birthing center in joyous rapture shouting “It’s a boy! It’s a boy!” At last, a mini me.

And he is just that. We certainly look alike, and now, at age 14, he is my height and wears the same shoe size. More importantly, we share interests. He likes fishing and plays guitar. I do not share his affinity for computer games or death metal, and he does not share mine for written words. But there is one interest we see eye-to-eye on: our love of firearms.

I’m sure there are many in my readership (Hi, Mom!) who disapprove. To them, guns are vile, dangerous agents of crime. These people weren’t brought up with guns, don’t hunt, and don’t think a perfect day includes Hoppe’s #9. But that’s okay. They can go to the mall with their daughters. My son and I will shoot.

There are three things a father should teach a son: Respect For Women, Putting the Seat Down When You‘re Done (see thing #1), and How To Shoot. I’ve been pretty good with two of those things, and one is How To Shoot.

I began shooting at 12. My son, at age 10. Four years ago we joined a shooting range. As I’ve said, you meet the nicest people at a shooting range. Besides our own small collection, he’s fired scads of different arms at the behest of other shooters. When the range is “hot,” some people don’t mind sharing their shooting irons with a kid. I sometimes wish they’d share it with Dad. Four years of paper targets and closely-supervised shooting — it was fun, but then came time to graduate. The boy wanted to hunt.

Hunting, for me at 14, was walking out the back door with a .22. In season, it was every day. Squirrels, mostly. Partridge, rabbits, and woodchucks, too. The biggest animal I bagged was a snowshoe hare. The longest, anyway…  That thing stretched a full yard, mostly feet. There it was, feeling smug with snow-white fur, sitting quietly. He knew I couldn’t see him. They blend in with the snow. Too bad there wasn’t any snow. Bam! He was so long I had to throw him over my shoulder. I was so proud. Snowshoe hares have fleas, by the way.

I hadn’t hunted since 1973. That was in northern mixed-deciduous forest, usually in snow. Quiet walking, easy tracking. My son and I were coming back from a guitar show in Orlando on a sunny day last January when we spied something called a Wildlife Management Area. There were all kinds of icons on the sign: biking, camping, birdwatching, hiking, fishing and…what?! Hunting! “Hey Dad, let’s check it out!” That’s how it began.

Florida has a “Mentor Program” for young hunters. He can hunt on my license, with me, till he’s 16. Then he has to get his own license if he’s still interested. That involves a Hunter Safety Course. For me, getting a license was as easy as going online. I also had to purchase a Resident Management Area permit for an extra $26.50. Small change in comparison to what we’d seen on that January day last year.

The place was beautiful. It took an hour to drive through. We checked out some of the creeks and woods. Deer tracks, turkey feathers, hog sign all around. This place was loaded with game. And rattlesnakes too, we were told. The ranger at the gate was extremely helpful. I told him we were going to start with small game and he circled several places on the map. It was the last weekend for small game that season. In December, we went back.

We did five trips this season. In the first four we bagged nothing. This is definitely not a northern mixed-deciduous forest. It’s the real Florida, wild and wet. Our first trip was in early December. The ranger remembered us and again marked several places to hunt. Our first stop was at a feeding station near the junction of a creek and a canal. No, we weren’t hunting baited animals, my license was for small game, and there weren’t any animals to be seen anyway. But they had left their sign. “Smells like a petting zoo,” my boy said. A “petting zoo”? What a reference. I then realized he had never been out in the boonies. Heck, I grew up in them, but these were no boonies like I knew. I was a stranger in a strange land.

The water was running too high for us to continue. That’s another thing: it’s wet in Florida. The whole woods was wet, with a carpet of dead leaves that crunched like potato chips with every step. So much for stealth. The map showed a side road leading to the headwaters of another creek. Though the road was marked “improved,” we were blocked again by high water. Someone had been stuck here. The roadside was rutted deeply. We turned around very carefully.

We tried a spot where a small creek ran into a stand of tall butternut, cypress and palms. We followed that creek for an hour through thick foliage, staying close to it to keep from getting lost. We heard squirrel chatters but saw no game. Not even a songbird.  The leaf litter was alerting everything within earshot. We were soaked with sweat when we arrived back at the truck. After Cokes and pork rinds we went elsewhere. Namely, across the road toward a stand of distant cypress. We crossed prairie that was loaded with saw palmetto and huge spiders. Slow going, and when we reached the stand it was too wet: standing water.

Our next stop was drier. We had to cross more prairie and saw rabbit tracks on the trail. We arrived at a grove of huge live oaks hung with moss. Hog sign was all around. You couldn’t help but step in it, and by the looks of their leavings there were some mighty big hogs. Then it was down to another creek through some of the roughest walking I have ever done. Negotiating among cypress knees is tricky stuff. We took stands along the creek and waited. Dark was falling, though the canopy was so thick it was always twilight in these woods. Not a leaf stirred. They knew we were there, and nothing would show itself. So ended our first hunt.

A week later we were back, a little wiser and later in the day. It was cool, windless and cloudy. Another side road, barely two ruts in the sand, wound through awesome savanna and loose pines. We drove as far as the road allowed (wet again) and continued on foot. Brush was thick on the sides and after barely a hundred yards a roadside-napping beast erupted and bounded off into a cypress stand. We never saw it, but it scared the crap out of us. So much for the brave hunters. Shaking, we continued till we found a marked trail leading to another stand of nuts and palms. This was beautiful open forest, and within stood two does. They didn’t stand long. My son was wide-eyed. He had never seen deer in the wild.

The trail looped back to the truck, and crossing a thin line of trees we again flushed an animal, this one a forkhorn, the biggest I’ve ever seen. He loped across the savanna casually, an easy shot if in season. We could only say “Wow.”

The sun broke low in the sky, and we made one more stop that day. A mower had been through this area, bordering pines and oaks. We were more curious than cautious and talked as we walked. That didn’t bother the pigs. A whole family of them, about ten, suddenly walked out into the open. Little baby ones, some black, some brown, some spotted. Behind, in the brush, was a big black sow. She snorted and the youngsters retreated, as did we.

Our second hunt had been quite a day. We didn’t kill a thing, but it had been a great hunt. If nothing else, we were getting a crash course in nature. Florida nature.

…To Be Continued

I snore so loud it wakes me up. I’ve tried every over-the-counter remedy. They don’t work. Yeah, I’ve been to a doctor. The cure he suggests is too drastic (surgery), and not certain. I don’t have apnea, so breathing apparatus isn’t necessary. I’ll just live with it.

The problem is that when I wake up I have trouble getting back to sleep. So what do I do? I read. Fifteen, twenty minutes, and bingo: back to snoring. What do I read? Whatever’s handy. Non-fiction usually: history, war stories, and my favorite, The National Geographic.

I’ve been a “Society Member” since college. I have every issue since 1972 and some from the ’50s and ’60s. I love the mag. My most prized specimen is a 1938 issue a co-worker gave me. It’s so prized I can’t find it. Obviously, it’s been put someplace where it won’t get lost. I have lots of things in that place, wherever it is.

During last night’s snore-induced insomnia I happened across the Millennium Issue, January 2000. As usual, stunning and erudite, a masterpiece of journalism, and within, one very interesting photograph.

The article was on Tibet — to me, not the most inviting place on the planet. It’s cold, stark, and everyone looks like they need a bath. I don’t mean to offend the Tibetan members of my readership (yeah, right — Hi Mom!), but no matter how you slice that place I still prefer Florida. The photograph which intrigued me was of a group of Buddhist pilgrims crawling beneath shelves of religious scripture, intent on absorbing their knowledge without actually reading them.

What if that worked? That to absorb knowledge, all one had to do was get in the proximity of books. Effortless, convenient, free… If you wanted food, all you had to do was walk through the supermarket. If you wanted money, just stand next to Warren Buffet. Everybody would know everything. Everyone’s sustenance and material goods would be handed them, free. Everyone would be rich to boot. Free health care. Free gas. Everybody happy. Everybody healthy. Everybody…bored…to…death…

You’ve heard the old saw “Half the trip is getting there,” right? And in my opinion, the slower the better. The ideal way to travel is to walk. You don’t miss a thing. Too slow? That’s why we have cars. Remember traveling somewhere as a kid? Say, to Aunt Elmo’s in West Virginia, the whole family in the Falcon wagon? Art Godfrey on the Philco. Dad’s window vent slightly open to suck the smoke out of the cabin. Mom chatting constantly. Little brother barfing in a paper shopping bag. Now that’s a slice of life: all senses assaulted, watching America slip by at ground level. Not your thing? Well, that’s why they invented flying.

Is there a duller way to travel than flying? Stand in line. Sit in a waiting room. Stand in line. Sit on a plane. Stand in line. Arrive. If it’s so boring, why do it? Because we’re too busy and it saves time, and also because you don’t have to process the countryside at a car’s pace at a car’s level. Even bus travel, with all its sitting and waiting, is a step up in my opinion. At least you see countryside. But I’m as guilty as everyone else. I fly. I don’t like to, but I’m busy also. And every time I look out and see the meander of a river, the folds of mountains and spatter of habitation, I sigh. We miss so much in the name of convenience. Surely, half the trip (or more) is getting there.

It seems our Tibetan brethren are busy too, and they also accept convenience whenever available, namely the scripture crawl. I’m sure their idea of “busy” and ours are different though. Herding yaks, gleaning sustenance from a harsh environment, battling elements, observing their faith while avoiding oppression… Kinda puts our existence into perspective. And travel by yak-back is probably way more than half the trip; I have a feeling you experience every inch of it.

Convenience. Succor. Is that what we need? Knowledge by proximity? Being someplace without getting there? Getting something without earning it? It seems so. Look what’s happening.

The founders of our country wanted basic guarantees: freedom, equality, swift justice, free enterprise. These conditions looked simple on paper, but their evolution has been another story.

There was compromise from the start. Freedom had to be wrested from England. Then, who was free? Certainly not slaves. Only landholding white males could vote. So much for equality. Swift justice has evolved into a labyrinth of appeals. Free enterprise? It’s going the way of the dinosaur.

Free enterprise is the right to start and control your own business for profit (or loss). It’s the right to succeed on your own, or fall on your own face. Statistics are disappointing. Most businesses fail in the first year, the same percentage in the second. Essentially, success at self-employment is about 1 in 20 — success being defined as positive cash flow after five years.

“Positive cash flow” — is that all there is? Yep. Anything else is what I call a “perk.” Retirement, health insurance, paid vacation, company car, job security — even an office party — all are perks. All free enterprise guarantees is your right to own your own business. Success, failure and perks are not in the terms.

That’s where the problem lies today: guarantees. It seems that’s what everyone wants. Perks have become rights. Failure is not an option, even if you bring it on yourself. We want to arrive without taking the trip. And when we get there, we want more. We feel entitled.  Why? Because we didn’t take the car, we flew. We didn’t read the scripture, we just crawled under it. We don’t know how we got to where we are.

You know what I’m driving at. Why is our government (a fiscal fiasco in itself) willing to throw obscene amounts of our money at failures? It amounts to this: the worst money managers in the world rewarding the worst money managers in the world; screw up big-time and we’ll pay you. Our forefathers would vomit.

The big bugaboo about this process isn’t where the money is coming from. We really don’t know. No, the big bugaboo is whether failed CEOs should get their contracted perks: bonuses, “golden parachutes” and the like. I always thought a bonus was a reward for doing a good job. Now, it’s an entitlement.

The justification for this madness? “Too many jobs are linked to these industries to let them go down.” We let the American steel industry go down in the ’80s. Practically every job is dependent on steel. No one built an ark of money to keep steel afloat. How about paper?  American paper mills closed in droves in the ’70s. What business or job is not dependent on paper? Next time you’re sitting on the commode, chances are that fistful of fluff is from Canada. I wonder where the government buys the stuff we print our money on.

Enterprises flourish and enterprises fail. Sometimes they do both. How? By flying rather than driving; by crawling under, rather than reading. There were no CEOs around when these companies were founded. It wasn’t possible. None have witnessed the baby steps an enterprise must take to establish itself. They signed on after the company had peaked. Then, through their bad management, lack of insight and hindsight, they drove it into the ground. What would happen if we just let them fail, like we did with steel and paper?

Do you remember the Apollo Program? Thousands of jobs were cut at the Cape when that went down. A lot of people left Brevard County. A lot stayed and founded new businesses, some related to high technology and some not, but they took the risk and baby steps and many are still here today. Out of collapse, rebirth. I believe the same would happen if we let the auto beggars swing. A dozen new car companies would emerge. Small, efficiently run companies with a better product. New jobs. New chances. Some will fail, but that’s the risk of business. Take away the risk and what do you have? What we’re becoming today: Flyers. Crawlers.

Now tell me again Grandpa, how did we get here?

Inside the front page of every issue is your typical gossip column: Hollywood Stars birthing bastards, getting busted for coke, punching paparazzi and telling the rest of us how to live our lives. Always good for a chuckle, and The Cage Liner delivers plenty, but the other day it actually furnished a revelation: I didn‘t know a single name in the column.

Below, was the daily celebrity birthday list. Again, I recognized no one. Was I becoming “out of touch”?

It was Friday, and my next step was to scan the pop music standings in the weekend tabloid. Of all the Top Five, I had heard none. How could this be? I listen to the radio: AM, FM, Metal, Country, College… and yet, who were these people? Had I finally become (shudder) an “Old Fart”?

It’s said misery loves company. I am a baby boomer. If I’m an old fart, I have plenty of company. I can’t wait for the day when I can sit around the Old Farts Home and reminisce with my fellow boomers. “Hey, remember Hendrix?” “Remember trippin’ on acid and doin’ it in the park?” “Remember love beads?” “Remember swillin’ Bali Hai and listening to Firesign Theater?”

Okay, I never saw Hendrix, he died when I was sixteen. I also never “did it” in the park, much less on “acid.” I thought love beads were stupid, and I prefer Wild Turkey to Bali Hai.  But I sure did listen to Firesign Theater!

Yep, if you remember Firesign Theater, you either didn’t do enough drugs or you had a keen appreciation for sophisticated cult-status humor. Great albums like “I Think We’re All Bozos On This Bus” and “Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers” don‘t happen every day.  Firesign were no Cheech and Chong. They were thinking man’s humor, subtle and re-listenable.

There were problems associated with being a Firesign freak. For one, they were addictive.  You could listen to an album over and over and always find something new. Second, if the uninitiated listened with you, they didn’t get it. You had to be “tuned-in” to their style of humor, and that was achieved by multiple listenings, usually under the influence of various inebriants. Thirdly, and most obviously, once you were tuned-in, it seemed every other sentence from your lips was a Firesign quote, whether you or any one else liked it or not. A lot of people found that very annoying. Phrases like: “He’s no fun, he fell right over”, “Stop singing and finish your homework,” and “Look at the prow on that steamer” were soon part of one’s everyday lexicon. The initiated would titter and the tuned-out majority would give you weird looks. Soon, you couldn’t help it anymore. You even began to annoy yourself.  When that happened to me I found there was only one logical step: Stop listening to Firesign and flush my cerebrum with country and western.

I no longer have my Firesign Theater collection. That disappeared 35 years ago. But there’s one Firesign concept that refuses to die. No, it’s not Nick Danger nor Porgie Tirebiter. Not even “Hot buttered groat clusters.” It’s — “THE DEPARTMENT OF REDUNDANCY DEPARTMENT”.

My poor readership (Hi, Mom!)… It’s taken me 700 words to get to the point. What does the Department Of Redundancy Department have to do with Beachside Residency? Simply this:  a repetitive, useless, and annoying program known as “Beach Renourishment”.

A lot of people like Beach Renourishment. Some are ambivalent. Me? I hate it. It’s expensive, temporary at best, smelly, noisy, obtrusive, invasive and unending. We have it now, we’ll have it next year, we’ll have it ten years from now, and they’ll still be doing it 40 years from now, because that’s how long the contract lasts. In these days and times — times of collapse, bailouts, belt-tightening, cutbacks, outsourcing, inflation and unaccountable government spending — the Powers That Be have decided to invest in sand.

“Nourishment,” according to Funk & Wagnalls, is “that which nourishes; nutriment” which implies support for living things, plant or animal. Beach Renourishment is exactly the opposite. It smothers all living matter. The next time you’re at the ocean’s edge, reach down and grab a heaping handful of wet beach sand. It is hardly the dead stuff you’d expect. In that wet blob you’ll see tiny coquina clams and sand fleas. The area the ocean laps is crawling with life. It’s a delicate chain of eat-and-be-eaten; a perilous balance of health and fertility. All shore life depends on it, as do the residents of the waves themselves, the fish.

If you’ve never witnessed the process of Beach Renourishment, I shall illustrate. In the past six years, I’ve seen it done twice on my beach. And they’re going to do it again this year.  Why? Because it doesn’t work. Hence, its association with The Department Of Redundancy Department.

The first thing you’ll notice when your beach is about to be renourished is little red flags in the sand. Red flags. How fitting. Then, huge segments of 4-foot diameter pipe are delivered by heavy machinery. Imagine, a place where not even an automobile is legally allowed, suddenly invaded by front-end loaders and bulldozers. Supposedly, cars are excluded because they damage our delicate dune. But here they are, ten times the weight of my Ranger, belching diesel and oozing oil. The killing begins.

The pipes are soon assembled and pontoon barges appear offshore. On the horizon, a structure not unlike an offshore oil rig arrives. That is the “business end” of this gravel pipeline. From miles offshore, the ocean bottom is sucked up and vomited onto our once-natural beach. What isn’t crushed to death by the D-10s is buried alive: Every crab, worm, bug and clam. And just to make the killing complete, the bulldozers stick around for another crushing day or two to spread it.

What do environmentalists think of this? I don’t know. They don’t seem to say anything. If you get within 20 feet of a mangrove with a machete, you’ll be lynched at sunup. Mangle and strangle miles of beach biome and you’re applauded for enhancing tourism. I don’t get it.

But then there’s the turtle advocacy. I have issues with people who “speak” for animals and claim they have rights, but this time I’m on their side. Finally, someone is speaking up. Too bad they’re too late. They should have spoken before these contracts were signed. But who would have known? I never saw a referendum on Beach Renourishment. It just happened.  It was never put to a vote, as far as I know. No one called a meeting on it. Maybe I wasn’t invited. And if I had been, would I have gone?

Leave it to the turtles. They know what’s happened. Their breeding grounds have been altered. The place where not even a flashlight is allowed has been drastically set askew.  Where once our reptilian brethren could handily chin up to an effective laying ground and merely slide back to the safety of the sea, the Powers That Be have installed a barrier. I see the results every day during turtle season. For every track that makes it to the dune line, three are turnarounds. The hatchlings? Their “slide” has increased twenty fold, making them easy targets for predators and disorientation.

And is this Renourishment stuff really “sand”? It’s gray. It’s coarse. It stinks. “It’ll sift out,” the Powers say. “The sun will bleach it. The smell will go away. And look at all those nifty shells.” Sifting and bleaching takes months. Yeah, the smell goes away, but all the “nifty” shells I’m seeing are broken, old and worm-eaten — they’re displaced future reef material.  And look at the shore break. It’s black and the fishing suffers for it. After two years, it’s finally clearing up in Melbourne Beach. And here they come again, the Department Of Redundancy Department.

“The beach is important to tourism,” the Powers say. “Bigger means more revenue.” I’m sure the Rocky Mountains are important to tourism too. Are they making them bigger?  Tourists came here long before the beach got bigger. The fishing was better too.

“Improvements” to nature are folly. You can’t stop the sea. Don’t even try. A recent letter writer to The Coastal Cage Liner suggested we dump dimes, nickels and quarters on the beach — it makes as much sense. Bravo, writer, I agree.

All this having been said, I want to end on a positive note. There has been an upside to Beach Renourishment. I didn’t notice it after the first round in ‘02, but since the second in ‘06, there’s been an intense proliferation of native foliage against the high dune. It looks… well, like it ought to. Like it used to. Beach foliage is the best inhibitor to erosion there is.  It’s back! Now let’s leave it alone.

Author’s note: It is January first as I submit this article.  On the front page of the Cage Liner is an article lamenting a sudden lack of funds due to our declining real estate market which may adversely affect this year’s beach renourishment.  Hallelujah!  2009 is only hours old and already things are looking up.

Okay, I was always more of a George guy when it came to the Beatles. On that cold February night in ‘64, who could resist “Ol’ Stoneface” on the big Gretsch driving that band on the Ed Sullivan Show? The next day in Black River Elementary School every boy was singing “Yeah, yeah, yeah” and playing air guitar. Trumpets and trombones soon gathered dust as everybody gravitated to the six-string…myself included.

But George died, the victim of one too many Pall Malls, and of course John had been dead for decades, the victim of one too many copies of “Catcher In the Rye,” leaving only Paul and Ringo to carry the torch.

I was never a Paul guy. He was the “girlie” Beatle, and all his solo stuff was dreadful in my opinion. So Ringo it was; our first and only chance to see a living Beatle, right here at the King Center.

The concert, as Sting would say, “burned from the first bar.” I came away with a newfound respect for the aging trouper only to catch him again one Sunday morning being interviewed on A&E. Ringo was relaxed and funny, at total ease with his celebrity, and he made an interesting statement. When asked about his immense fame, his only regret was that fans, having followed the act through their formative years into adulthood, seem to think they actually know you like an old friend. And in return, the same fans think they should be treated like one by the star. The situation of course is ludicrous. Ringo doesn’t know me, my wife, or my grade school companions from Adam. He shouldn’t have to. But such is the burden of stardom.

Who can help it? There never will be another act of adoration so huge as my generation’s love and empathy with the Beatles. Unless of course it’s the act of adoration I have personally felt for Paul Newman.

Personal cultural icons can’t be helped. As George Harrison directed me to the guitar, Paul Newman touched a chord, too. Is there a greater movie than “Cool Hand Luke”? Okay, it’s arguable, but there was something about Lucas the War Hero that grabbed me.

The first time I saw that movie was in the Carthage Central Jr./Sr. High School auditorium. A lot of personal changes occurred in that auditorium. It was where I was punched in the mouth for the first time. I smoked my first in-school cigarette in the catwalk above the stage. I participated in my first rock ‘n’ roll jam session on that same stage. And for three glorious days in 1970, we were excused from fourth-period English to view “Cool Hand Luke.”

To most male adolescents in 10th grade, a dark auditorium, lax supervision, and a break from “Silas Marner” was cause for hijinks. As soon as the lights went down, a veritable blizzard of paper airplanes assailed the screen. Someone in the far corner would yell “Eat!” and someone in the near corner would yell “Me!” Somebody lit a cigarette. The hall howled. Lights went on. The smoke was extinguished, lights re-dimmed, and the movie commenced.

After five minutes, everyone realized this was no “Silas Marner.” The room slowly hushed, and Paul Newman slowly became my hero.

What 16-year-old American boy could not like this guy? In some ways he was just like me. A distaste for authority; a thirst for freedom; a wisecracker… And he was also the way I wished I was: Fearless, even in the face of overwhelming odds. When thoroughly beaten by George “Dragline” Kennedy, he kept coming back, even when he had nothing to give. His motto? “Sometimes nothing is a real cool hand.”

Nothing. Been there. At the time it certainly wasn’t “cool.” Fast forward to October 1979, Crane Creek Marina in Melbourne. We were broke, but that didn’t mean we were down to nothing. We were down to nothing when we finally finished that last dab of peanut butter.  It’s a bleak feeling, the only time I ever had it. And there was Paul Newman whispering in my ear, “Sometimes nothing is a real cool hand.” I think we spent that day at the beach, wondering who we could call for money.

The late ‘70s were hard times, much worse than times are now, believe it or not. No one could help us. We had dug our own hole, just like Cool Hand Luke had dug Boss Keane’s ditch. And just like Luke, we were at the breaking point.

Maybe nothing isn’t a cool hand, but it’s certainly a motivator. I’d like to remember that situation as life or death. It wasn’t. We had friends. More importantly, we had family. I suppose my idea of “nothing” was not quite the same as Luke’s. He lost his Mom. Didn’t know his Dad. His brother disowned him. We had none of those problems.

We spent a week waiting out the rain sleeping on the floor of a place we affectionately remember as the “Mildew Mansion.” We’d made friends with a handful of FIT students and they took us in. The seasons were changing and so were my wife and I. Her parents wired us a hard-earned 100 bucks, and with tails between our legs, we went north to home and hearth.

It was a sad trip. One hundred bucks was just enough to get there. We spent our first night on the road in a campground in South Carolina. It might have been rainy and warm in Florida, but it was rainy and freezing in South Carolina. All our gear was soaked. We were so disheartened we didn’t even bother to wash the breakfast dishes. We broke camp and threw everything in the back seat. The tent was wet, the sleeping bags were soggy and the dishes smelled like old eggs. It didn’t matter. We were beaten; one too many “nights in the box”.

Then began an episode that defined us. In the hands of friends in Buffalo we found a new floor to camp on. I discovered you could make money selling blood plasma. If you could bear two hours of needles in each arm you’d make twelve bucks and get free soup and a cookie. I found a copy of “Watership Down” and endured.

I reunited with old band mates and we played like crazy. My wife and I soon had our own apartment and squirreled away funds to return to Florida. We lived on Ramen and black-eyed peas. In six months we were living in a beachside bungalow, once beaten, now back. No, nothing wasn’t cool, but it was a logical place to start over.

I have seen “Cool Hand Luke” dozens of times. I can’t pass on it. Newman’s performance is so perfect. He put his heart into every role, even the nasty ones like the self-serving “Hud” and Fast Eddie Felsen in “The Hustler.” I’d never seen him in a bad performance. Some bad movies maybe, but never a bad performance. He was modest about success; said he was “Just lucky, in the right place at the right time.” I don’t believe that. He was just plain good.

Here’s a guy who could have had any starlet in Hollywood, but instead lived in Connecticut.  He stayed married to the first one. When asked if he ever wanted to play around, he replied “Why go out for hamburger when there’s steak at home?” Or Ramen and black-eyed peas…

The last role I saw him in was “The Road to Perdition” playing opposite my wife’s favorite actor, Tom Hanks. He played an Irish mobster, once again a nasty guy. Perfection as always, but he looked old. His voice was weak. His star was fading, but still bright. His last years were spent in Connecticut, tending his charitable foundations and making the best spaghetti sauce you can get in a jar.

Yeah he drove race cars. They say he was a great pool player. He once said he was surprised he lived so long; I guess he partied a lot in his early days. But that wasn’t the Paul Newman I was close friends with. The guy I knew taught me to come back swinging, go big or don’t go at all, stick it to the Man With No Eyes, and challenge all authority — even God if you must. Luke found that last one wasn’t such a good idea.

It is October as I write this. TCM has back-to-back Newman, and the commentator just mentioned that Paul would be laid to rest today. He died a natural death, if that’s what you consider cancer, nothing cheesy or blatantly indulgent.

He was the closest friend who never knew me.

“We’ll see…” An ambiguous statement with a meaning ranging from a flat “No” to “Without a doubt.” Definitely not the response I wanted.

I explained that all my friends had electric guitars and I could pick better than any of them.  My then-current axe was a severely used Silvertone my baby brother picked up for $7 from the kid across the street. The action was so high you couldn’t get a note with a C-clamp and the fretboard was wide enough to taxi a 707.

Within a day my sibling discovered he couldn’t play. For some reason he thought the guitar was so simple that mere possession would bestow virtuosity, an idea gleaned from watching too many “Monkees” episodes. And as the Monkees were artistically wanting (except for the carefully hidden talent of Mike Nesmith) so was my brother, and the artifact was shrugged and shelved until I stole it.

My first notes were the opening riff to my favorite TV show, “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.”  Then it was on to the “Peter Gunn” theme, followed by a trifle of silliness bestowed by my big sister called “The Bee Hit the Barn.” This was all at age 11, mind you, and by 12 I had mastered my first real song, “The House Of the Rising Sun.” I still play it.

Progress was slow at this point, mainly due (so I thought) to the painful limitations of the $7 Silvertone. So it was time to move on. I needed an electric.

Chucky got one. Tommy got one. Dale got one. Sparky’s cousin was in a band, for heaven’s sake, making money with a big-time axe: a Fender Telecaster. Yeah! That’s what I wanted.  A Fender Telecaster. Telecasters went for $200 in ‘66, which back then was a lot of money.    Mom and Dad were rich, right? After all, we had two cars, a nice house, meat on the table and clean clothes. There was a piano in the living room; wouldn’t a Fender Telecaster look great propped against it?

Simply, no. My folks weren’t rich. We had nice things because they worked hard and paid their bills. I had three siblings. Two hundred dollars would represent Christmas for the whole family. But I didn’t know nor care. I just had to have an electric guitar.

Christmas Day came and there it was, or so I thought, a huge package from Mom and Dad marked “Ricky” hidden behind our heavily-tinseled Scotch pine. Yeah, the box was a bit skinny to hold a Telecaster, but maybe it was packed kitty-corner or something. I just knew they had bought it, my hints had been so strong.

I wanted to savor the event. I began with the small packages. A book from my sister. Socks and underpants from my baby brother. A car model from my big brother. Estes rocket engines. A flashlight. Batteries. A Commando glow-in-the-dark wristwatch. Then, the coup de grace.  The biggie. Dad laid the huge present across my lap. It sure was heavy enough to be a Telecaster.

Like an enticing striptease I peeled off the bow. I slowly released the tape binding the paper.  “C’mon!” my little brother whined. “We don’t have all day!” The wrap slid off. There were no markings to give away the contents. The lid was popped. Huh?

It was long, lean, and wrapped in a sheet. Whatever it was, it was no guitar. Dad said “Here” and unrolled the sheet. “What?” was all I could muster. It was a rifle. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Surprise, glee and disappointment ran as one. I’d never asked for this. It certainly wasn’t new. I’d seen it long ago — in an old chest, among my Dad’s dress blues and a yellowed wedding gown. “That’s my old .22,” Dad said. “I bought her right after I got out of the service.” He handed it to me. It was cold, heavy and reeked of gun grease.  “I took it to a gunsmith on State Street,” he went on. “Cost me a pretty penny, but he got the action working. That’s a fresh re-blue there. She used to be a real tack-driver.”

She… Like it was alive or something. Dad was smiling. Mom was smiling. My brothers were jealous. I began to shake. “We’ll take her out this afternoon,” Dad said. “I’ve got an old box of bullets somewhere. I hope they’re still good.”

She? Males don’t name their belongings. Women do that. Well, maybe some men do — those with a touch of feminine warmth. Daniel Boone named his favorite flintlock “Ol’ Betsy.”  He was  certainly no sissy. My folks never did buy me the Fender Telecaster. I would wait ten more years for that, and had to buy it myself. What a disappointment it was, too. This was at a time when Fender had “sold out,” and were more interested in volume of sales than quality. The tone was tinny, the neck wimpy and the dang thing wouldn’t tune right. I sold it after two years and never missed it. Not so, Ol’ Betsy. I’ll never sell her.

It’s an oddball .22. A Stevens Model 49 pump action. In all my years of shooting and collecting I’ve only heard of one other. Unlike the Telecaster, she was made in a time when quality was everything. And Dad was right, she was a tack-driver.

I would like to say that my father and I took her afield every sunny Sunday. That we plinked and hunted together till ripe old age. But that’s not true. I had three siblings. His affection had to be shared. His priorities were family and home. Most of his sunny Sundays were spent painting, sealing sheetrock, laying linoleum or mowing the lawn. Yes, we did go afield a few times, and yes, I would have liked to have done it more often, but I don’t hold it against him. Those few times we shared were golden. He was a Marine sharpshooter and an excellent instructor. I learned very quickly how to handle a firearm safely and gained his respect. “Take a breath,” he’d say in that quiet way he had. “Hold it. Now squeeze, don’t pull.” By 14, I was a licensed hunter and allowed to hunt solo.

I would like to say I bagged game like Daniel Boone and helped feed the family. Truth is, I’ve killed maybe half a dozen rabbits in my lifetime, an equal amount of partridge, and yeah, quite a few woodchucks and squirrels, but my family wouldn’t eat anything that didn’t come from the supermarket. Most of my wild meals were eaten by myself. Which is a shame because my mother grew up in the wilds of West Virginia and actually knew how to cook the stuff.

My interest in hunting began to wane in college and all but disappeared when I took to urban living. The old .22 accompanied every move though, from apartment to apartment, condo and campsite, finally resting here in my humble beachside residence. She’s a little worse for wear and could probably use another re-blue, but I can’t bring myself to do it.  The finish is now a mellow plum and every time I uncase her I hear my Dad say, “That’s a fresh re-blue there.”

Florida’s a great place for shooters. There are four ranges within an hour’s drive of my house and I’ll tell you, you meet the nicest people on a shooting range. Well, everyone’s polite, anyway. My son turned 12 last year and for his birthday I bought him his first .22.  No, I didn’t give him Ol’ Betsy. Way too much sentiment there. Besides, if I had done that, what would I shoot at the range? He’s having fun sighting in his own Betsy anyway. It’s a smart little bolt-action that’ll be tons of fun afield when we hunt together. Which will be soon because he’s pressuring me.

When I think of hunting I think of crisp days, shell-ice on the creek and fat bushytails — none of which we have in Florida. The days are still hot during hunting season here, the leaves are still green and you need a cooler to stash these scrawny tree rats that pass for game. But this will be my son’s initiation to the sport and it will be a learning experience for both of us, I’m sure.

Meanwhile, it’s still Shoot-N’-Cee paper targets at the range and a brick of sub-sonic long rifles. And every time I let him put Ol’ Betsy to his shoulder I can hear his late Grandfather whisper “Take a breath. Hold it. Now squeeze, don’t pull.”

And yeah, she’s still a tack driver.

Note a certain “hanging chad” presidential election. Our pollsters claimed our tardiness in tallying was due to confused ballots. But we all know the truth: the surf was up. Now what would you rather do? Flick chads off your lap or carve some righteous curl after a long flat fall? We weren’t late. We were having fun. Which, in my opinion, is what Florida’s for. So in a sense, we were doing our duty as Floridians. What’s the problem?

Well, apparently, there are lots of problems here. Of course the biggest problem with living in Florida is: Where does a Floridian go for vacation? Jeez… We have beaches right here.  And the fishing is the best around. Theme parks? Du-uh. Why go anywhere? And if you do, where?

Well I know where this Floridian goes: Buffalo, New York. Okay, maybe we don’t spend the whole trip there but that’s where we fly to. Why, you ask? Because our families are there.  Old friends too, because we lived there for ten years. Our daughter was born there. Find the stinkiest, dumpiest, filthiest bar in that town (and there are many) and I’ll bet you my band played there. Repeatedly.

There is a certain affinity between Buffalo and Florida. Nearly everyone living in Buffalo has some kind of connection to Florida. They’ve either lived here, been here or have family here. I wouldn’t say that about folks from Rochester or Watertown — and I lived in those places, too. Throw a “Buffalo Day” here and it’ll be packed. And the first thing a former Buffalonian will ask when he meets another is: “What neighborhood?” Because that’s what Buffalo is: a city of neighborhoods. You’re not from Buffalo; you’re from Black Rock or Hertel North Park or West Side or Sloan.

And if there’s a greater football rivalry than that of the Bills and the Dolphins, I’ve yet to hear of it. On the coldest, bitterest December Day, with winds stinging at 30 degrees off the icy waters of nearby Lake Erie, Rich Stadium will still be packed, Genny Beer will still be guzzled, and the Malecki family will still peddle its delicious dogs as the beloved Bills battle the sun-spoiled ‘Phins. Talk about home-court advantage… I know. I’ve been there.

This summer’s vacation was no exception: We were Buffalo bound. After brief visits to Hamburg and Niagara Falls (I highly recommend the “Maid Of the Mist” tour), most of the week was spent with the in-laws in the rolling hills of southern Erie County. I love this place.  Dairy farms and trout streams, farm ponds brimming with bass and yellow perch, mild air, eager nephews and bonfires; the stuff northern summers conjure. I forgot all about work, impending hurricanes and heat indexes. My only labors were nightcrawler hunts and an occasional turn at the dishes. Then, one afternoon, while dozing over a beer, my sister-in-law reminded me of where I lived.

“Have you seen this?” she asked, plopping the latest issue of Time in front of me. Having been freshly roused, I was still a bit hazy.  Smiling up from the July 21st issue was Nelson Mandela touting “The Secrets Of Leadership” at age 90. Huh? I hadn’t given South Africa much thought lately, but…whoa…wait a minute. There, perched neatly above the “T” in Time  were the words “Doom and Gloom in the Sunshine State.” My beer buzz evaporated as the pages turned.

Did you know we live in the “Sun-set State” now? Yes, according to Miami journalist Michael Grunwald, Florida is in ruins. “Water Crisis”… “Mortgage Fraud”… “Political Dysfunction”… “Algae”… “Polluted Beaches”… “Declining Crops”… “Failing Public Schools”… “Foreclosures”…  Aaaaaaaagh! What horror! Next thing you know there’ll be cannibalism and widespread panic! Masshysteria! Chaos! I love articles like this.

Now I could tackle every one of these issues separately, but what’s the use?  oes anyone really believe that these problems are confined to Florida alone? I grew up on the Great Lakes in the ’50s and ’60s. Talk about algae, polluted beaches and decline… But thank you, Mr. Grunwald. Let’s pretend it only happens here.

Nothing makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up and vibrate more than hearing the people living in this beautiful place complaining about it. Where else in this country can an average schmuck like me live in a wonderful seaside community like Melbourne Beach? Yes, it is more expensive now than it used to be, but so are those kicked-out walkup duplexes in North Buffalo. Only the filthy rich can afford to live seaside in New York, New Jersey or Massachusetts. And that’s to enjoy 45-degree water. We have the cleanest air, most inviting ocean and healthiest looking kids in the country. What more do you want?

Why do I enjoy articles like Mr. Grunwald’s? Because they scare away the people who don’t belong here; the uncertain ones; the ones who came just because they were offered a good job, retirement or inheritance. Florida is a commitment. It’s a change of lifestyle, climate, flora and fauna. If you’re not sure you’ll like it here, you probably won’t.

I have some ideas that might make Florida even better for the folks who appreciate it. As you know, I’m quite dismayed by the small percentage of people on my street who use the beach. I think every beach access should have a punch clock like you see in factories. When you hit the beach, you punch in. When you leave, you punch out. Every hour spent at the beach should be deducted from your mortgage. Those who spend no time at the beach should be penalized at that same rate. Therefore, if you like it here, you live cheaper. If you don’t, it’s more expensive. This would encourage the unsure to investigate the fun and the complainers to leave.

My next suggestion is not mine, it is my wife’s. While living in Buffalo (which has myriad big and small water possibilities) we would pass several marinas on our journeys to recreate. It was not unusual on a Sunday afternoon to see many of these marinas still heavily populated with idle boats. She suggested a law that would allow Sunday-landbound schmucks like me full access to any craft still tethered to the dock after 2 p.m. In  other words Popeye, if you’re not going to use it, let me. I will appreciate what you take for granted. That law should be the same in any waterside community.

One of the nicest features of being a Floridian involves fishing licenses. If you fish from shore or wade, you don’t need one. Likewise if you use a cane pole (which is lots of fun, by the way). I think we could take this a step further. The state should sell tiny meters, like pedometers, that attach to fishing rods and measure the quantity of use. Whether this is a time or cast measurement is unimportant; a rate should be devised. On children’s rods the rate should be doubled. These rates should be applied as credits to local beer distrbutors for those over 21, and to local soda and ice cream shops for the youngsters. The benefits are obvious: the more you fish, the more beer and sodey-pop you get. The loss to the state would be offset by sale of the pedometers; the beer and sodey-pop folks would enjoy increased revenue. There could even be vouchers for beef jerky and ‘tater chips. Maybe even bait! We’d boom again.

Of course these ideas are all totally ludicrous. They make too much sense. We can’t have Floridians running amok with lower mortgages, excess beer, beef jerky and somebody else’s boat having fun, can we? After all, Time magazine tells us it’s all doom and gloom.

Keep up the good work, Mr. Grunwald.

What misery.

To miss school due to a virus was a blessing; to miss a golden week of summer, pure hell. I laid in bed, shivering with fever, left side of my face swollen like a goiter, while my friends and siblings frolicked in the sun–seemingly beneath my bedroom window. After a week I was allowed (gradually) to rejoin my peers in summer hijinks. The sprinkler never sprinkled so sweetly. Cicadas never sang louder and hot dogs were never more succulent than after that incarceration. Then, one week later, while crunching a pickle at a neighborhood clambake, I discovered I was in relapse. This time the right side of my face, bulging like a beer gut. Back to bed, back to misery, unexpected and sicker than before. So, too, ran the course of a storm called Erin, in the summer of my forty-first year, 1995.

A sleepless night, bawling child and backed-up septic system are great motivators. We were grateful to our old friends Wayne and Terry for sheltering us during the tempest, but it was clear our welcome would soon wear thin. And as a half-liter of bourbon does a hangover make, another kind of hangover was impending: that malaise and suspension of life only a hurricane can deliver. Power was out. Many roads were closed, including the bridges to beachside. Nothing to do but sit, sweat and wait for the all-clear. I was worried about my home. We needed showers and a nap.

Fortunately, the phones were still working and power still on in some blocks of Melbourne. Soon we’d located an open motel near I-95. We bade adieu and thanks and headed for the Days Inn. The cat was good where she was, or so I thought, and I would pick her up on the return trip. At that point, the baby needed changing, our bowels needed emptying and we were all cranky for lack of sleep.

The room was dry, air-conditioned and the toilets flushed. Unfortunately, we were not the only refugees. The hotel was packed. Above us, an entire floor was occupied by a traveling all-star youth basketball team. As we showered, relieved ourselves and attempted to nap, we were serenaded by the ubiquitous boink boink of bouncing basketballs on cement floors. They too were bored and awaiting the all-clear.

With the TV on for news, my wife and I laid our baby boy between us. The last thing I saw was my son raise his head and smile, and we all drifted into oblivion. For about three hours…

I awoke to thunder in the mid-afternoon. Huh? I thought this was over. Thunder and that continuous boink boink, now louder than ever, right outside my door. Angrily, I whipped open the door and told them to stop. My wife and daughter were shocked at my choice of words, but as I defended myself, the good news flashed across the screen that the causeways were now open. All admonishment ceased and we prepared to head for the beach.

Oddly, it was raining again. The sky was black, drops huge. We could leave? In this? As we packed, another reality dawned: the floor was wet. In fact, we were flooding.

“Lets get out of here,” I commanded.

We dashed across the parking lot. It was a lake; water ankle-deep. I told my wife to take the kids and just go. I would settle the bill and follow. I had never seen rain like this. “Don’t stop for anything,” I said.  “See you beachside.”

The tab was paid with wet twenties. It was a good thing I had cash. Though they’d had power all through the hurricane, it failed suddenly in the rain. I was glad to leave. The lobby was dampening.

Water was near the floorboards as I sloshed into my Pontiac. Traffic on New Haven was thick, all headed east. Stoplights were in blink mode as I muscled into the queue. Visibility was nil.

By now, water was a foot deep in the road. Could it rain this hard for long? Would my cheapo car stall? Then I remembered the cat. Damn! I’d have to make a side trip back to Wayne and Terry’s. Although the distance was short to their street (about a half-mile), going was slow at best. I couldn’t see the car in front of me; I merely followed its wake. When I pulled on to our hosts’ untraveled side street, all was water: the road, the yards, the very air. All I could think of was that canal. I didn’t want to wind up there. There was no telling where it was. There was no telling where the road was!

Water poured in when I opened the car door in front of Wayne and Terry’s. I dared not shut off the motor for fear it wouldn’t re-start. My exhaust pipe was underwater, bubbling smoke. I waded to the house.

There were Wayne, Terry and Bob… Still playing poker… Chins on the table… They had moved the table to the living room and surrounded it with towels to keep the water away.

“I came for the cat,” I said. All I got was a weak smile. I felt bad for them. This would be a mess to clean up. Then I remembered that I had a home, too. It could be in worse shape than this. I hurried about my business.

The water in the yard was thigh-deep, cold and black. The rain still poured. I struggled with the garage door hearing Wayne in my head: “Don’t let the door fly off!” Maybe this was what you get for pissing in the eye of Erin.

The water inside was deep as the yard. And there was the cat. Floating on a box. Growling. With every hair erect. No time for introductions. I just grabbed the animal and felt her claws sink into my skin. I would wear her to the car, which surprisingly, was still running. Then came the hardest of all maneuvers: I had to turn around. Where was the driveway? Where was the road? Most importantly, where was the canal?  Water was ankle-deep in the car. The cat howled. I took a gamble and slowly inched my way through a k-turn. My luck held. Soon I was muscling my way back onto New Haven.

Myriad thoughts raced. Would my wife make it? The kids — they must be nuts with fear. What if this car stalls? There were flooded vehicles all over what was apparently the shoulder. Should I help? If I stopped, would I ever go again?

At Minton I hit what must have been a ditch. Water flooded over the hood and up the windshield. The engine shuddered. I pressed on. Then at Dairy Road, a forlorn woman stood by her drowned vehicle and waved frantically. I thought about stopping but what could I do? I had a wife and two kids out there somewhere!

The worst was by the golf course. Crane Creek was over the road. Again, water came up the windshield. The engine shuddered. I gassed it and pressed on. Finally, across Babcock. Then, like a faucet, the rain stopped. Just like that. I sailed across the causeway, cracking the car door to let the water out.

The first thing I wanted to see when I pulled in was my wife’s car. It was not there. Panic jolted my spine. I would turn around, go back and look for them. I let the cat out and backed into the street. Facing west, I saw them. My daughter looked drained. My wife smiled. We’d made it.

The house was still there.  he roof held. Suddenly, my neighbor Del walked from around back. “You’ve got some damage,” he said. “Brace yourself.”

Yes, there was damage. My attached screen room was, well…not fully attached. It had dislodged at the base and flipped up onto the garage roof — as one piece, hinged at the eave. It apparently flailed there for some time, tearing hell out of the garage roof and overhang. But the house was dry. So was the yard. The afterstorm never hit here.

My neighbors’ backyards had similar damage: torn-up screen rooms, exploded pool enclosures. Those who “rode it out” claimed they’d heard a tornado.

According to later statistics, the strongest winds passed through Melbourne Beach. Gusts of near 110 mph. This was unofficial though, measured by hand-held anemometer.

The “afterstorm”? It was an intense rainband, flung wide at sea, undetected until it hit. Supposedly Erin dropped 17 inches of rain in Brevard; twelve in the 45-minute afterstorm.

As I said in the first installment, there are images of Erin which still haunt me.

The blue glow… My cat floating on a box… Water over the windshield… That poor woman at Dairy and New Haven… Bone-dry land at the beach… An empty Pepsi can unmoved on a table in what used to be our screen room… And over a hundred dollars in dimes, nickels and quarters, gushing from my Crown Royal poker bag. Some storms do have a silver lining — literally!

Tell your grandkids.

My rapidly expanding readership (all three of you — hi, Mom!) may recall that my first visit to my now-adopted home state occurred on Columbus Day, 1979. A mere five weeks before, Florida had another visitor: Hurricane David. A Category 4 storm when it ravaged the Leewards, David strengthened to a Category 5 by the time it hit Hispaniola, killing over 2,000 before striking West Palm Beach as a Category 2. Riding the coast, it passed over Brevard County on September 3rd, then wrought havoc all over the East Coast.

By October there were few signs of damage. The locals referred to David as more nuisance than catastrophe. We made many friends on that initial visit, and two of the first were Wayne and Terry, friends we still have today, friends who sheltered us for another direct hit, Hurricane Erin.

There’s an old joke beachside: when buying land in West Melbourne, visit when it rains. That way you can be sure you’re buying land and not a lake.  Wayne and Terry’s place looked dry enough to us. There was a huge canal in front certainly capable of handling any amount of precipitation.

The first task was to make camp for the cat, who by then was nervous and whining. Wayne had a spacious yard with a large garage in back and even though it was raining, we got a tour. Miles inland with different soil, different trees and room in the garage for the cat, I felt confident and thankful we had friends so generous.

There was a sense of excitement that evening; an exhilarating resignation.  There was nothing we could do (you can’t stop a hurricane). We felt prepared (we brought a jug of water). The cat seemed safe. My old friend Tyler showed up with a whopping box of Popeye’s chicken (we would not suffer for lack of saturated fats). It was probably like the feeling an entrenched soldier gets before the big offensive. Essentially, “How will I react under fire?”

Of course my first reaction was to down a hefty bourbon on the rocks. Our hosts had a videotape of the newly-released “Forrest Gump” and it wasn’t long before my family was installed before the TV, at least while the power lasted. The poker game had begun in an adjacent room, but the movie had me transfixed. What great music. Wow, this guy met President Kennedy?  Tom Hanks is so cool. “Shrimp burgers, shrimp chowder, shrimp salad…”   Great Vietnam sequence. Then suddenly I was sick of it. The wind began to moan, calling me. Wow… Was that a pine branch flying by? It was 9 o’clock.  Coins rattled in the poker room. My baby started to cry. I poured another bourbon and grabbed my Crown Royal coin bag. Time for poker.

My first hour at poker was like a rainy boys’ night out. Quarter-ante, dealer’s choice… Lots of noise outside, rain on the windows, but nothing we hadn’t seen before. Around 10, I switched to Diet Pepsi, scarfed a chicken leg and relieved the wife of the crying baby for a while. Poor kid, he was way out of his element. Babies never sleep well on windy nights, and gee, it was getting windy.Then the power went. Boom. Black as a coal mine. Suddenly lit candles were everywhere. A big battery lantern went on in the poker room.  My baby wailed. No one seemed to break stride. They’d all been through this before. What next?

Well next, the house began to warm. No power, no A/C. Couldn’t open the windows… Someone said, “Is there something you can do about the baby?”   I gave him back to my wife and rejoined the game. A radio came on –nothing but weather — and my daughter complained that she’d missed the ending of “Forrest Gump.” A voice from the poker game slurred “He invents beer and lives happily ever after.” The baby cried on. Then my wife said she was going to try and get him to sleep. My daughter yawned and said she’d join them.

Terry gave us her sewing room. We spread sleeping bags and put the boy in a portable playpen. I left the family there, poured another bourbon and re-took my seat at the poker table. Wind howled. Rain beat against the windows. Coins clinked. The radio hissed. We sweated in the lamp glow and meanwhile, from the sewing room, my baby cried.

There were four of us at that table, five when Terry joined in. Another friend of our hosts’ was there, a guy named Bob. He drank like no tomorrow and seemingly had an endless can of poker change. He also didn’t mind losing. He’d never fold, never call, and just loved throwing quarters in the pot. Soon we were all feeling our booze with a little voice in my head chanting, “Let it blow, let it blow, let it blow.” That, it did.

Some time after midnight the radio announced the eye had come ashore between Vero and the Inlet. This, to Bob, was cause for celebration. “Time to piss in the eye of Erin,” he proclaimed, and for the first time in four hours of poker, he stood. Sort of…

I didn’t want to miss this either, and like the brave soldier volunteering for the suicide mission, I stood too. “Don’t let the door fly off,” said Wayne. Oh come on, I thought. This isn’t that bad.  and I staggered for the door. “Don’t let the door fly off,” Wayne repeated.

No, the door didn’t fly off. But it could have. I had never been in 100-mph winds, and maybe it wasn’t thatstrong, but it seemed so. Raindrops felt like needles. Yes, I was quite bourbonized and that may have been a factor, but it was all I could do to not fall over. The pines flailed wildly, scarily. The air was filled with debris: pine needles, branches, trash. A garbage can tumbled down the street, its lid preceding, the wind deafening…Breath-sucking… Here I was, trying to pee, just to brag I’d done it. We both cursed at the top of our air-drained lungs. All around was a strange blue-green glow, a color I’d never seen. Power lines sizzled and popped.

“Transformers are going,” Bob yelled and zipped up. I don’t remember if I zipped down or up. I just wanted back inside. We struggled with the door again and rejoined the game, soaked.  I had pissed in the eye of Erin. I think…

By 2, the storm had peaked. So had I. But unlike the storm, my decline was swift.  It began when I opened my cards and all five were aces. And all diamonds… I put the hand face-down and rubbed my eyes. I opened the cards again and not an ace was there. Time for bed. The game was still going strong. I don’t think anyone even noticed my departure. I grabbed my Crown Royal bag and whoa… That thing sure gained some weight. I could barely close it. Didn’t know quarters were so heavy… Too tired… Too drunk to think about it… I needed… Sleep…

But sleep was not to come. Junior was still awake, sobbing audibly. I laid on my sleeping bag, head under a nightstand. The youngster’s playpen took up most of the floor. And he, along with the howling storm and blue-green glow of doom, was determined to keep us awake.

Here I was, spinning a 7-hour infusion of bourbon, from being up since 6, from endless hours of poker and all the stinking hassles… And still I could not sleep. It was just too noisy.

I got up when I heard the day’s first activity in the kitchen. Though it was  past sunrise, it was still dark. Driving rain, trees flailing in the wind, the storm continued. So did the poker game.  Three players were left, two with chins on the table.

In an hour the rain let up. Things were calming down. I wanted to have a look.

The canals were full. They handled the situation fine. Who said West Melbourne was a lake?  Yeah, there was lots of debris. Some folks were missing shingles, but it looked like we fared pretty well. ’Course some electricity would’ve been nice…

An elderly neighbor, doing the same thing I was, walked over and said: “Good thing it was a mild one.”

Mild one? It was the worst storm I’d seen yet.

Shoulda been here for Donna in ’60,” she continued. “Now thatwas a blow!”

Oh yeah? But now I can tell my grandkids I pissed in the eye of Erin!

We lived on the west coast then. Near Naples,” she prattled. “That was a Cat Five. This weren’t barely a One.” She produced a cigarette, lit it and started to walk away. “Surprised they even namedthis one,” she puffed.

The only thing scarier than a thunderous summer is one without thunder at all. Dry summers here are truly loathsome. Insufferable heat, smoke, fires and a malodorous west wind sometimes delivering “black snow” beachside. Not fun, but there is an upside to a dry Mean Season: no hurricanes.

Conversely, take the summer of ‘95: wet. By this point my family had lived beachside for 6 years, after serving 2 on the mainland. In all that time there were only two serious hurricane threats, Hugo in ‘89 and Andrew in ‘92. Both were devastating, and both dodged our stretch of coast, leaving a false sense of invulnerability.

I’d heard many excuses for this so-called safety. The Bahamas protected us. The Gulf Stream steered storms away. They built the Space Center here because we never had hurricanes. God loved us… But in the summer of ‘95 we learned different. We were hit head-on.

By the books, Hurricane Erin was lame. Barely a Category 2, we were mere hours without power. I don’t recall any “blue roofs” or “Surfer Welfare” (as we dubbed the free ice, water and food provided by FEMA in the ‘04 storms). But though it was 13 years ago, images remain that haunt me. It was my first “direct hit” and as the song goes, the first cut is the deepest.

I had a lot at stake in ‘95. A wife, two children (one an infant), a home-based business, an unpaid-for Pontiac and a clutch of highly-prized hard-won possessions.  All ensconced within the first and only piece of property I have ever owned. As far as we were concerned the house was untried — we’d been here only a year. The place was old, close to the sea, and  we could barely make the payments. We too were untried, and unready. We also had company.

Don’t visit Florida in August. I need not repeat why. But being a teacher, my sister-in-law had few options, and why not now? There were no storms on the horizon and she was dying to see the baby. That changed in a heartbeat.

As a hobby, I track all named storms. Erin was weak, distant and seemingly headed for the Gulf. My youngest got along famously with his aunt and it afforded me time to work on a sweet new contract. But in the process of delivering this project, the word came down. I was in the lobby of a prestigious business suite at the Rialto, awaiting my check. All I heard was a hushed “it’s turned.” Suddenly people were locking file cabinets and shutting down computers.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “The hurricane’s going to hit,” a secretary said. “Most of us live beachside. We have to board up.” “I’m beachside too,” I said, perturbed.  “And I need to be paid.” She gave me a snooty look, as if to say “You don’t live in my neighborhood.” I glared back, as if to say “Glad of it.” Surprisingly, she said “I’ll see what I can do.” Fifteen minutes later, I had my check.

Ah, my first hurricane. I felt a strange elation, a mix of fear and excitement, feeling like one of the chosen who have “something to tell your grandchildren.” That would pass, for I was also to experience my first “Major Pain In the Ass.”

So I had a check. I’d been told to have plenty of cash on hand because without power, the banks may not be up. At my bank I was greeted with a worried frown. “I can’t give you cash,” said the teller. In the background, harried employees were packing briefcases and locking file cabinets. Déjà vu?

“What?”

“You can have traveler’s checks, but we’re out of cash.”

“What?  You’re a bank. How can you be out of cash?”

“We just are. Everyone’s cashing out. There’s a hurricane coming.”

“What? You’re a bank!”

“I can give you traveler’s checks, but no cash. Hurry please. We’re closing.”

I groaned and tried another branch. A half-hour later I had 900 dollars in traveler’s checks. There wasn’t a dollar bill this side of the river, so it seemed. I decided my next stop would be the grocer. I’d also been told to garner water and batteries.  Grocers took traveler’s checks, right? “I can’t give change,” the clerk said.  “We’re out of cash.”

“What?”

“No cash. Everyone’s paying with traveler’s checks.” It didn’t matter anyway. There was neither a D-cell nor jug of water to be found. Liquor stores, they take traveler’s checks, right? The shelves were near empty. I managed a bottle of bourbon and stood in line for half an hour. By the time I met the cashier they were devoid of customers. An employee was twirling the door key. You could leave, but not come in.  “We’re closing.  There’s a hurricane coming.”

Duh… Then I noticed something. “Red?” Wow, a familiar face after a parade of strangers. And the till was brimming with cash. “Well, hello!  You got here just in time. Buying hurricane supplies?” “Trying to,” I answered, eyeing the cash drawer.
She noticed my traveler’s checks.  “You in need of cash?”

“Extremely,” I confessed.

“How much you got?” she smiled. “I’ve got all the cash in town.”

Cash and booze… Time to go home. The sky spat and wind blew. Then I realized another tip: top your tank. Mine was at one-quarter. I turned toward the Chevron station, then I saw the line. Dozens of cars. Plastic bags on all but one nozzle. No cash at the bank, no water or batteries at the grocer, dregs for booze and now no gas. I turned for home.

“They’re evacuating the barrier island,” my sister-in-law announced. “Where’s that?”
My wife smiled nervously. “You’re standing on it.” “But I have a flight out of Orlando tonight. Maybe I should leave now?” We agreed. We had a lot to do. Her last words were “Good luck.”

My bride procured water: a gallon. We had no idea… But she’d also stocked other necessities: baby stuff, soft drinks… Where would we go? I had many friends across the bridge. My old friend Wayne lived the farthest inland. They were gracious. His wife Terri soothed my fears with “Yes, there is room at the inn.”

I had no window covers. I hadn’t lived in the house long enough to make them. It was late afternoon, the storm was bearing down, the weather worsening. I had to do something.

Our windows were old awning/jalousie-type. They were the originals when the house was built in 1956. A lot of the cranks didn’t even work. They were loose and rattled in the increasing wind. I found a box of machine screws and went around the building to each portal, drilling holes and fastening every set tight. It was the only protection I had at hand. And besides, it was time to go, ready or not.

Our one jug of water, the bourbon, a 12-pack of Pepsi and another of Diet 7-Up.  Baby supplies, bedding, all perishable food, cans of tuna and soup, some peanut butter and Spam. My old .22, a tool box, my guitar collection, the fax machine…  But, the cat! What would we do with the cat? Come on, puddy-tat, in the Pontiac.  We couldn’t leave her behind.  At the last minute I grabbed my Crown Royal change bag. Had to be another 15 bucks worth of dimes, nickels and quarters there. It was going to be a long night. Surely there would be poker.

Both cars were packed to the roof. My wife took the kids in her big Buick. My little LeMans was loaded like never before, cat howling. In driving rain I took a snapshot of the house. Who knew what would be left of it?  Night was falling. Though traffic was lighter, it was still thick and with wipers slashing we joined the queue. Over the bridge and toward town. Refugees in the howling night. Whitecaps on the river. All shops closed save for Popeye’s Fried Chicken. I thought about pulling in, but no, I didn’t want to separate our two-car caravan. There was a line anyway. Onward…  Creeping through the rain… Onward… To the wilds of West Melbourne and… Safety?

I would like to say I don’t spend much time watching television. I would like to say I’m above such mundane non-activity; I have too much to do, my time is too valuable and there is more to life than plopping in a chair, zoning out with beer in hand and a bowl of Fritos in my lap.

I would like to say a lot of things. Like I haven’t gained a pound since high school. Like I’m an excellent surfer and can play the violin. I own controlling stock in Mao-Mart and the People’s Republic of Sporting Goods. Yeah, there are a lot of things I’d like to say, but liking and being able to just aren’t, the same. Truth is, I never could surf (unless boogie-boarding counts). The violin baffles me, and I don’t even own controlling stock in my own business (it’s a proprietorship). And this morning I cut a new notch in a 36-inch belt… So okay, I admit it: I spend a lot of time watching television. But I eat my Fritos from the bag.

I would also like to say there are a lot of great shows on TV. Get real. I get 50 channels for 60 bucks a month and lots of times there’s nothing worth watching. So I tune in one of the Spanish channels, turn down the sound and make up my own dialog. I’m that bad. I gotta have my tube. And is it just me, or do the starlets in those Spanish soap operas have more, how can I say, exposure? I think maybe. Have you ever tuned in “Los Boobos en la Biblioteca”? That my not be the real name of the show, but it ought to be. I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, but I sure like watching it.

I must admit there are a few channels capable of issuing occasionally watchable television. The first that comes to mind is The History Channel. My family calls it “The War Channel” and that’s exactly why I like it. You can do the Civil War with breakfast, World War I with lunch, and “The Big One” (or “Dubya Dubya Two”) with cocktails. Is that heaven or what?  Sometimes they’ll slip an obscure conflict in like The Hundred Years’ War, which lasted 130 years (and we thought Vietnam was a quagmire!), or the Cod Wars between England and Iceland, but generally we get a healthy dose of cordite, poison gas and goosestepping.

Now call me nostalgic, but I also spend a lot of time on TV Land, the “Old Sitcom Channel.” Perhaps “old sitcom” is a little vague, for they also show a lot of “Bonanza” and “Gunsmoke”  episodes.

“Bonanza” may border on situation comedy, come to think of it. You definitely have a “situation”: The Ponderosa, which is Spanish for “Way Friggin’ Big.” Yep, dad-burn it, near as I can tell, that spread covers Lake Tahoe, the Grand Canyon, a good chunk of The Rockies and four-fifths of Mexico. The Cartwrights must be rich as Croesus. But if they’re so rich, how come they wear the same clothes all the time? Hoss must smell like one, and maybe that’s why Paw doesn’t have a woman hangin around. Nope, he’s got Hop Sing. And how come you never see the Cartwrights eating Chinese? Here they have this Chinese chef and they’re always chowing down to biscuits and beef. How bout a little spring roll and lo mein? Not even rice!

“Gunsmoke” though, that’s a man’s western. Actually, I think “Gunsmoke” lasted longer than the Wild West-era did. And what’s up with Marshall Dillon? He spends most of his time in the saloon hanging out with a whore (Miss Kitty). Come on, let’s call a spade a spade: Miss Kitty (if that was her real name, and I doubt it) is an aging “saloon girl,” which was the Wild West’s polite way of saying “whore.” Right down to that spot on her cheek. You know, she might want to get that burned off. You think the Marshall ever… Eeeewww! That’s like thinking about your parents in bed.

Hey, nothing beats “Leave It To Beaver.” The early ones, I mean. You know, the ones before Wally was paying child support and the Beav had a five-o’clock shadow. Ward and June always came off looking like a couple of dorks. Well, not so much the wasp-waisted June (she was mildly hot, in retrospect), but Ward ate crow on a daily basis. Quick to accuse, quick to anger, a pipe-toking boor with a bellyfull of unsolicited parables, then bingo, he’s blowing egg out his nostrils. That’s classic TV: Dad’s an idiot. Toss a couple quarts of bourbon into the mix and you’d have real life.

And like the Beav, “Andy Griffith” was only good at the outset. Opie was still cute, Aunt Bea was still a D-cup and Otis was off the wagon. Then there was Barney. What was a pencil-necked nerd doing with a hot babe like Thelma Lou? Was it the gun? Yep, “Andy Griffith” was one of a genre I call “The Whistle Shows.” Like “Leave It To Beaver,” it had a theme song that was whistled. The Beaver began to stink when the theme song went jazzy; Andy got to reekin’ when it went color (just like “The Beverly Hillbillies”).

Lots of shows do that, many on TV Land:

“All In the Family” — three seasons tops, then the characters became cartoons of themselves.

“MASH” — likewise, and like “Gunsmoke” outliving The Wild West, “MASH” lasted longer than the Korean War (with ’70s haircuts!).

“I Love Lucy” — once Ricky and Lucy moved out of the Mertz’s dumpy rental it should have been called “I Can’t Stand Lucy.”

“The Munsters” — that show always stunk (except for the car).

Now we flick over to another mostly-nostalgic station: Channel 51, or the Hallmark Channel. Who doesn’t like “The Waltons”? Back-to-back in the early a.m.,
a mite smarmy, but it’s fun to watch the little girls grow into women and that mole on John-Boy’s face grow into a map of The Ponderosa.

Come to think of it, there are a lot of similarities between the Waltons and the Cartwrights. They own a lot of land. They have dirt roads. They wear the same clothes all the time and start to stink after a few seasons. I like the episode in “The Waltons” where John-Boy goes off to war and comes back an entirely different actor (what happened to the mole?).

Later on in the a.m., Hallmark gets involved with the Ingalls family in “Little House On the Prairie.” Talk about similarities…  Like the Waltons and the Cartwrights, they have a lot of land.  Like the Waltons, they’re always broke. And like the Cartwrights, they have Little Joe. Actually had is a better verb; Michael Landon, sadly, died young. Even though the show was a little estrogen-heavy, you have to admit he was a fine actor and producer.

Hallmark, to some degree, can be classified as one of many channels I call “Nad-Crushers”: They love to bash men. Like Channel 39 (“The Chick Channel”) and Channel 40 (“All Men Suck TV”) they feature lurid made-for-TV flicks like “How I Scratched His Eyes Out,”  “My Husband Ate My Kids” and “Sleeping With Smelly Hairy Fat Guys On Beer.” Okay, there are no movies named that, but there might as well be. That’s what they’re trying to say. I like to watch those shows with my wife. Compared to the males they cast, I’m a real keeper. They also seem to satisfy her male bloodlust. She goes to bed justified and then I flip over to Mex TV and watch “Mi Amiga Con Las Ta-Tas Gigantes.”

Nothing like a little culture before bedtime, especially on a hot summer night.