There and Back Again

My brother and I went to our aunt's funeral service Thursday. Google Maps lied about how long it would take to get there so despite leaving ten minutes earlier than planned and consistently exceeding the speed limit  (by only about 5/10 mph) we barely made it with minutes to spare which was still pretty good since our family has, for generations now, a well-deserved reputation for tardiness.

(Beautiful downtown Pahokee)

Part of the problem is that there are no direct routes between our corner of the Gulf coast and their section of the Atlantic shore what with Lake Okeechobee directly in the way. We took the southern route around the lake which was technically shorter and despite construction along a good chunk of the route we were only held up once (in beautiful downtown Pahokee) where the road went down to one lane for half a mile and the flag man waited until the line of vehicles backed up enough on our side to make it worthwhile to switch the directional flow of traffic (we, of course, were the first car in line.) for the record, Pahokee makes Belle Glade (which we also passed through on the southern route) look like a thriving metropolis and Belle Glade was once, way back at the beginning of the epidemic, the AIDS capital of the world although they seem to have gotten it under control since the BG General Hospital is now the BG General Hos  tal a farm implement distributor.

(The road and the dike)

We never did see the lake despite driving right next to it for fifty or so miles since it is completely hemmed in by a 25-35 foot tall dike. We drove along beside that straight, flat-topped sloping green wall on one side and low, flat open miles of sugarcane on the other until the monstrously huge sugar refinery rose up alone in the distance all towering smokestacks and multi-acre-covering building. There are very few roads out there but railroad tracks built up on berms crisscross the area.

(Another section of dike)

Aunt Shirley's service itself was pleasant enough, if Baptist. She'd become increasingly religious as she aged and at least some of her grandchildren (although not her kids so much) seem to be also. One of the grandkids sang a couple of songs in a very nice strong, light baritone. It was interesting to see how few of my generation even pretended to join in the hymns.

From there it was a short convoy to the cemetery where the preacher said a few more words and I had my most traumatic experience of the day when the groundskeepers offered bottled water to the attendees (the tent sheltered only the coffin and immediate family and the rest of us were out in the direct sun). One woman handed a bottle to a small boy with the instructions, "Give this to grandpa." The lad proceeded to hand it to my closest cousin who was born less than six months before me! Grandpa? Grandpa! WTH?!? I'm still debating what I want to be when I grow up!

Then it was off to to one of the cousins' homes for store-bought platters of sandwiches and veggies supplied by the church folk and trying to identify people in old photographs and other reminiscing and then retracing our steps another three hours back home through dying towns and cane fields. We did see a train full of sugar cane, trucks full of oranges, a parade of some thirty brand new snub-nosed farm tractors going the other way (perhaps to the BG General Hos  tal) with a police escort front and back, and more vultures in and beside the road, up in trees and on telephone and light poles than I'd seen before in all my time down here.

Good Citizens

I voted early late yesterday. It was an interesting exercise in civic virtue and endurance.

5:10 p.m. -- Found a parking spot in the nearly full lot across the street from the county office and got in line. I'm less than fifteen feet from the entrance. Unfortunately the line goes the other way, down the length of the building into another parking lot, disappears around the corner and comes back again alongside the building to the door. Some female DJ has set up just past the door and is urging people to get excited, clap, cheer and dance in line while she alternates playing patriotic songs ("Anchors Aweigh," "The Ballad of the Green Berets," "The Caissons Go Rolling Along") and Village People hits (unless "In the Navy" is considered a patriotic song now). At least, in this segment of the line, we are slowly shuffling away from her.

5:25 p.m. -- The sun is shining, the air is warm, the sky is cloudless and deep with sixteen buzzards lazily circling together high overhead sharing a single thermal. The short Cuban woman immediately in front of me is reading her Nook. We've made some progress and the line has filled in behind us but we can still hear the music. The cameraman from the local Fox station has panned the crowd a couple of times and is leaving.

5:35 p.m. -- The two rather large young women behind me are on a cell phone: "We're going to the rodeo tomorrow night. Ask him if he wants us to take his truck there and sell it. There'll be, like, a thousand cowboys there."

5:50 p.m. -- We have reached the first turn. The line is revealed to be sort of golf club-shaped and we have traveled down the length of the shaft and are just starting across the base of the club head. The flock of buzzards has drifted off to the east.

6:05 p.m. -- I have a better view of the crowd as it loops around. There are people of European, African and Asian extraction, some in mixed groups, and a few unidentifiables. There are singles, couples and families, older folks with large bellies and tractor caps, young people with very short and very long hair, a couple of shirt and tie types and -- this being Florida -- a whole slew of Bermuda shorts and polo shirts.

6:10 p.m. -- Starting the second hour. The whole bottom-of-the-club-head part of the line, being in the parking lot, has to shuffle around like an immobile conga line to allow two cars that we have surrounded to leave. We imitate a rough sine wave. Both vehicles escape. No one loses their place. The Cuban woman looks up from her story to tell me how impressed she is that we Americans are actually willing to stand in line this long for anything.

6:15 p.m. -- We have reached the second turn and are now moving toward the top of the club head. People who are part of groups are temporarily dropping out of line to go sit on the curb. One gentleman is leaning against a Dumpster and the family a couple of people in front of the Cuban woman who is back to reading her Nook have split up with the mom taking the baby and carriage off somewhere.

6:40 p.m. -- The third turn. We are now starting across the top of the club head. We are also, at last, on the sidewalk that circles the building. Which means, we are also, finally, headed toward the entrance to the polling station. It gives us a sense of accomplishment. The sun goes down. Although the sky stays yellow and pale blue, without clouds the air cools quickly. Somewhere behind the rodeo girls, I overhear one couple talking to another about how they have friends in Illinois. I hear the words "their senator" and "well, they ought to know, then" but cannot tell either from context or tone of voice whether they are praising Obama or damning him.

6:55 p.m. -- The building exterior lights come on. Although the sky overhead has turned indigo, toward the horizon it's still pinkish orange creating intricately delicate silhouettes from the palm trees. The rodeo girls are talking with a young Nicaraguan woman who is voting for the first time. From what I can gather one of their horses (it's hard to tell from the names. They could just as easily be discussing a ranch hand) got in with the goats and scared them.

7:00 p.m. -- The final turn. From here its a straight line to the front door down a long narrow pink stucco arched arcade dripping with giant spider webs spun around and under the recessed ceiling lights (which is really pretty smart when you think about it because that's exactly where the moths and other night insects are going to go) and which the numerous, and very large, spiders are busy repairing and expanding. We remark on something we have all noticed: Although we see people being let in in groups, we have not seen anyone leaving. I suggest they're storing voters in a large underground vault, but one of the rodeo girls insists that if you don't vote for Obama, they just kill you right there. Can't tell if she approves or not.

7:10 p.m. -- Start of the third hour.  The reactions of the people when they turn that corner and recognize the final gauntlet they must negotiate is amusing. Several, including the larger of the rodeo girls, decide to step out of the arcade and move along on the lawn parallel to the line. The line itself develops knots and gaps as people bunch up between light fixtures and avoid standing directly under webs. The spiders do have a tendency to jiggle around and occasionally drop a foot or two before catching themselves.

7:20 p.m. -- The larger rodeo girl rejoins us and the Nicaraguan amuses herself by playing "what's that on your shoulder?" with her. The Nicaraguan then begins to imagine that creepy things are on her but I let her know it's just karma crawling up her back.

7:25 p.m. -- There is a stifled scream behind us and we turn to see an open circle of six people staring at their feet. Apparently, a spider lost its footing, but they all bravely stomped it.

7:35 p.m. -- We're at the door! It is being guarded by a sweet little old lady of iron will and steel determination. She asks how many in our group (which we have sort of become over the course of the evening) and when one of the rodeo girls pipes up, "Table for eight, please," shuts the door in front of the Cuban woman.

7:40 p.m. -- We actually see some people leave and the gatekeeper lady lets the Cuban and me in. We are greeted by another line, this one to present IDs. There are three stations but only one in use. As we stand there a second station opens up. The rodeo girls and the Nicaraguan are let in. I say, "That's what you get for being a smart-ass," to the one who requested the table and she grins.

7:45 p.m. -- The Cuban lady and I present ID. Basically, you swipe your driver's license (or other acceptable form of ID including credit or debit card(!?! Seriously, WTF? debit or credit card?) Mine is fine but it turns out the Cuban lady has requested and received an absentee ballot and does not have it with her or proof that she did not already use it and so, after two hours and 35 minutes in line, she is taken away.

7:50 p.m. -- I sign electronically that I am not committing voter fraud and am sent to the next table where my ballot is printed out. I am told that, in this county, thanks to various local offices, referenda and initiatives, there are 32 possible different ballots. Every voter gets a custom one based on their precinct. mine is four large sheets, printed on both sides.

7:55 p.m. -- I manage to find the only sit down voting station in the building.

8:10 p.m. -- Beginning hour four.

8:15 p.m. -- I finish marking my ballot, put it in the protective "privacy jacket" and take it to the vote counting machine where, under the very-careful-not-to-notice-how-you-voted scrutiny of a poll worker I, after verifying my identity, feed the sheets into the machine. I give them back their pen and "privacy jacket" and they give me an "I Voted" sticker.

8:20 p.m. -- The rodeo girls and the Nicaraguan are finishing up the same time I am. We're all veterans now so we just nod and smile a little and say "goodbye." The parking lot is almost empty when I retrieve my car.

I find out later the Cuban lady had to cast a provisional ballot until the County Clerk's office can track down her absentee ballot. She spent all that time in line Friday because she works two jobs both Saturday, the last day of early voting, and Tuesday, election day. I, of course, have no idea who she voted for but with that kind of dedication this country's in good shape.

Necrophages in the Shade

We had a rough weekend in terms of system collapses and infrastructure breakdowns. People are all O.K. but the air conditioning quit on Sunday and my brother's truck has developed an out-of-alignment condition that led on Saturday to a shredded front tire which was rust welded to the wheel so he was vehicleless until today when he could take it into the shop. He got back just as the HVAC guy was crawling into the attic.

So it was no real surprise to me to find four turkey vultures on the front lawn standing in a circle under a large shade tree. One had the red head of an adult but the other three were black-headed juveniles. They stood a little over two feet tall with three to three-and-a-half foot wingspans. They circled the tree and each other occasionally rising up into the lower branches although they would descend again almost immediately.

I don't think they eat air conditioners or pickup trucks but apparently they can sense the entropy around here and are hanging out in hopes something carbon-based is next.

Where the Rotting Things Are

So, this morning a vulture landed in the neighbor's back yard gliding in on its four/four-and-a-half foot wingspan exactly as if it was still a thousand feet up right until it was its own height above the ground and then dropping as gentle as could be and walking over behind some bushes so I couldn't see what had attracted it in the first place. It immediately took off again, from a standing start, which is impressive for a creature that large, circled, came in again, disappeared behind the bush and took off a second time. It's shadow as passing over the yard was worthy of a Nazgul.

The vultures are back in force all around the neighborhood and are flying quite low as a rule. I can't imagine there are that many dead things just lying around (opossum and cat were the last two I saw and that was weeks ago) but they sure seem attracted to a number of sites.

They're Baaack!, or, The Return of The Birds

Hah! Two movie refs in one title!

During the height of the Hot/Rainy Season most of the birds seemed to disappear. I haven't mentioned vultures or raptor tornadoes because they simply weren't there. No parrots, no mockingbirds. For a while (after a week of torrential downpours that raised the water table to about a foot below surface level) even the owls were nowhere to be found. Now the humidity has dropped, the temperature has dropped and the birds are back!

Including really ugly Muscovy ducks and . . .

. . .some sort of black duck, possibly female Gadwalls or maybe young Mallards and

the local neighborhood Red Shouldered Hawk . . .

. . .which I last saw sitting in a concrete faux-fountain birdbath on somebody's front lawn.

Best of all the owls are back (if they ever really left). Three different sites along my morning walking route have at last four different owls in them (total).

So all is right with (this little corner of) the world!

A Word to the Wise

I've noticed recently that most of the birds that were hanging around the neighborhood seem to be gone. The mottled ducks are still up at the north end of the road by the canal and most of the burrowing owls are still there, but no ibis, vultures or parrots and hardly any doves, crows, mockingbirds, etc. I presume nesting season is over and most of them are just off somewhere but it is weird to walk around at dawn in silence.

The neighborhood falcon is still here, though. This morning he was sitting on the telephone line in a front yard at the end of my street. We stared at each other as I walked directly beneath him. As I went by a squirrel came down the driveway toward me, obviously oblivious to the raptor over his head. He was coming from behind the hawk so the bird didn't see him either. I stopped, pointed and yelled at the squirrel, "You idiot! Look up!!" He froze. I continued on a little way, then turned around. The squirrel was gone.

The falcon saw me coming back and swooped off the wire, diving down to my height before gliding up to the top of the nearest telephone pole. As soon as he did, the squirrel popped out from under some ground cover planted along the driveway and took off.

The falcon is not that big and the squirrel was probably more than he wanted to deal with, but still, it's nice to know the rodent paid attention to my warning.

Things That Move...

Startled a buzzard the other day. I was taking my morning constitutional and had to detour across the street because this suburbanite was getting his pool pumped out at 8 a.m. and the pool pumpers had run a hose (we're talking 5-6 inch diameter flexible accordion hose here) from the backyard out to the street where they were recreating the original pool only 3 inches deep and a lot wider. As I moved along the shoreline, a dark shape jumped from the grass and launched itself in that long, slow, shallow awkward ascent typical of large birds, bombers and jumbo jets. It was a good hundred feet down the road before it was able to clear the roofline of a stucco ranch and disappear on the other side. Ungainly, with a long neck, so not a hawk despite the five foot wingspan. I'd seen vultures feeding on roadkill on previous trips (they'll step aside to let a car pass, but won't abandon their prize). I didn't see anything for it to feed on but I didn't exactly search the grass either.

Speaking of vultures, it's a little unnerving to be walking along, noting the occasional hawk/vulture float overhead and disappear, wonder where they disappear to, turn around and realize you're being followed by two dozen of the things. A couple days ago I looked straight up after losing track of a couple of them and found myself at the bottom of a swirling vortex of raptors/scavengers at least 500 feet high. Must have been thirty of them. Toto at the base of a bird tornado. Now I know how Tippi Hedren felt.

Speaking of big ungainly birds, I drove up to the mythical town of Cocoa Beach (geezer reference) to watch the last night-time launch of the space shuttle. Ever since the moon landings we have been slowly cutting back our goals, dreams and capabilities with regard to manned space flight to the point where we can barely get 200 miles above the surface of the planet with rickety technology we will now retire not having any replacement in hand. Needless to say, NASA did not disappoint: five minutes before blast-off they cancelled the launch leaving tens of thousands of us stranded on the beach out in the cold (literally). It succeeded as metaphor, if nothing else.

It took over five hours for traffic to clear out enough to drive home. I took back roads pretty much the whole way, around the north of Lake Okeechobee, a pleasant, flat drive through subtropical forest, farm fields and cattle pastures with occasional clumps of small identical standardized 1940s-era plastered-cinder-block ranch houses each with a broken front window, kitchen appliance in the front yard, and late model vehicle (SUV or truck) in the dirt driveway. Probably built for migrant labor originally, there'd be a half-dozen of them at one spot and then miles before the next bunch. Nothing that could be called a town for forty miles in any direction.

Speaking of the ragged edge of civilization, my eldest nephew called the other day. He's being sent to Iraq. To guard prisoners. Which is perfect military logic because not only is he in the Navy, he spent the first half of his career in Hawaii as a nuclear tech on a submarine and the second half in Charelston, SC teaching nuke tech. I say we send all of our people with nuclear skills and knowledge to Middle Eastern war zones. What could possibly go wrong? Anyway, he starts 90 days of either Army or Marine combat training next month and then Baghdad for nine months. The younger nephew is probably jealous. He's been to the Gulf a couple of times but never been off his ship (that I know of).