Stereotypes, Florida Automotive Division

Today, on a major boulevard in town: a delivery truck for a local electronics retailer cruising down the middle lane with his left turn blinker on. Yesterday, on a slightly smaller street (only two lanes in each direction) a motorcycle in the far right hand lane, ridden by an elderly gentleman, cars fearful of passing him because he, also, had his left turn signal blinking merrily away for over a mile.

Coming out of the library, a little old emphysematic lady (she doesn't use oxygen but you can hear her wheezing a good ten feet away) wisely stopped at the edge of the curb and waited while an SUV pulling out from the book drop-off ran the stop sign. She then tottered through the parking lot to her own car where she literally disappeared (her hands on the steering wheel were more visible through the windshield than her head). The car eased off down the road a good fifteen miles and hour under the speed limit.

The decade-old, mufflerless pick up truck with the rebel flag decals on the rear window that took off from the intersection as if the green flag had dropped at Daytona all screeching tires and clouds of exhaust fumes only to stall out half a block down the road blocking the lane.

And not least, by far: the Mercedes SUV with the "Tell Barack I'm Baroke" bumper sticker.

I don't think so.

Patriots and Palm Trees

My brother's favorite football team lost in the playoffs Sunday. He had gone out earlier in the day dressed in his official Tom Brady #12 jersey which I gave him for Christmas several years ago to watch the game at his usual bar with friends who, if not Patriots fans, at least tolerate his own fixation.

He came home late Sunday night, long after the game ended and well past closing time, and went straight to his room. Monday, he got up around one in the afternoon, and without a word started up his power hand saw, and chopped down a couple of smallish palm trees growing close to the lanai.

I think he's taking it all very well, under the circumstances.

(The palms had it coming, anyway.)

The Littlest Thing

I have been advised to express my gratitude for "the little things in life." Here goes.

I am grateful that the mosquito in the living room last night (there is one, and only one, in there every night, always different, sometimes one of the larger types with the high-pitched buzz but, just as often the small silent little bitches with the extremely painful, and surprisingly long-lasting bites, and all nearly impossible to see in the gloaming) was stupid and/or desperately thirsty enough to land right on my wrist where I could smoosh it immediately thus allowing me to avoid an entire evening of ritual random spastic arm and leg movements, swatting at shadows and forced focussed attention to imaginary sightings at the expense of enjoying my book.

There. That is absolutely the littlest thing I could possibly be grateful for.

We won't mention health, family (including an incredibly brave and sweet niece), friends, a roof overhead, (too much) good food. Nope.

Just the little things.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

The most exciting thing going on around here this weekend is the Great Burmese Python Hunt which runs for 30 days starting this afternoon.

Over 800 people from 32 states and Canada according to the latest tallies, most of whom have never hunted at all let alone hunted predatory snakes up to 30 feet long, will be tromping hip-deep through swamps infested with alligators, other (poisonous) snakes, wild boar and the occasional endangered panther. Even the plants can attack as saw grass is aptly named for its ability to slice into skin (and who doesn't want open wounds when slogging through stagnant semi-tropical water?). But, the participants will get a 30 minute training session and sign waivers so its all O.K.

Someone else must also see the potential for disaster. They're offering to turn the hunt into a reality TV show.

This is our (Republican) governor's "market approach" to dealing with invasive species.

Miscellanea

Well, both eagle eggs have hatched and the chicks seem to be doing fine. The parents have brought in a load of fish for the entire family (and all the flies in the neighborhood). People are coming around to visit, too, (you can see them in the background of the web cam) but they're generally pretty good about respecting the eagles' "personal space."

 Meanwhile the privateer Lynx has arrived in town (actually across the river) and is open to visitors. The original Lynx was a raked schooner used as a blockade runner during the War of 1812 and was captured and renamed by the British. The current Lynx, the owners are careful to point out, is not officially a replica, despite an amazing attention to detail in the reconstruction, since they have added some modern amenities . . . including an engine.














Meanwhile, on the domestic front, the Christmas tree is half down, the former koi pond is completely filled in although not landscaped and my brother has given a first coat of paint to the wood he bought to repair the lanai room.

And Bartleby has had a relapse on her perching binge from last year. We're continually chasing her off various tables: coffee, TV, dining and "memorial" (an antique oval marble-top that holds a bunch of family portraits and gives a nice cat-view out the front window), which is kind of hypocritical since we encourage her to snuggle in our laps in the easy chair or couch. It's a distinction her little kitty brain just can't process.

Deconstructing The Old Year

Our nephews came down for the New Year celebrations. They were down here to party with friends so, technically, they just used our house as a base of operations but they did visit for a while when their sister and mom returned from Georgia and they also helped tear up the back yard which was a good thing.

My brother has long wanted to remove the small mound out back that Dad built years ago. It originally contained a rock garden and a small working waterfall feeding a stream that emptied into a koi pond. The mound was built on a base consisting of the excavated dirt from the pond. On top of that, Dad stacked a short ton of coral boulders glued together with cement. The watercourse from the fall to the pond was lined with river stones embedded in cement. The pond was a homemade basin of cement over a sheet of black waterproof plastic liner and edged with slate cemented into place. Dad was a frustrated landscape architect and concrete was his medium.

The overall effect was very pleasant for several years but, eventually, the underlying earth sank a bit and the water didn't flow properly and the pump stopped and the whole thing was too tightly cemented together for the operating guts to be accessible to repair and so it became simply a pond with a slight rise in the background. The folks added and aerator to the pond and the fish were happy.

The fish were happy for a while, anyway. I was on the phone with Mom one day when she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, look at the great blue heron!" which, of course, being on the phone from Connecticut, I could not, but she described in detail how it had just landed in the pond. Her excitement was understandable. Great blue herons are magnificent birds and not that common, even down here, are usually spotted at long range off in a swamp somewhere, and to have one standing not more than 20 feet from the back door was extraordinary. It was only after the great blue had flown that Mom realized the visit might have been somewhat less than exceptional and that, in fact, they had invited the heron by setting out such an easily accessible goldfish buffet. A few of the smaller fish survived by hiding under the leaves overhanging the edge of the pond but they were too traumatized to ever come out of the shadows again.

Dad died and the pond and mound became overgrown. The last of the fish were eaten by some other bird (no witnesses this time) and the water was allowed to evaporate. My brother didn't make any changes while Mom was alive because she liked some of the flowers that took root there.

That all changed this past weekend. The nephews gave my brother a new sledge hammer and chain saw for Christmas. I gave him a new orange tree. On New Year's Eve day we all went out and started dismantling the pond with the sledgehammer (my brother initially claimed he didn't need a new one so the boys started off with the old one but it broke about ten minutes in (Dad always made bunker-grade concrete.)) and the overgrowth with the chain saw.

The nephews have now gone back to base. The project's not done yet. The walls of the pond are completely broken up and it is about two-thirds filled in with rubble and dirt. The mound is half gone. We will have extra volume remaining thanks to the cement fill. The coral boulders have been rolled back to the property line in preparation for we know-not-what further use. The trees and bushes are down (with the exception of the central trunk of the tree on which the mockingbirds built their nest last summer where its ruins still perch) and the branches hauled out front for disposal.

The area looks disturbingly like a mass grave. Sod or grass seed will take care of that. What's worse, we can now see the neighbors.