April 29, 2008--Snowbirding: Until Next Winter . . .

We received a call from the woman who owns the apartment we are renting. She told us she received an inquiry from someone who was interested in it for next February. We think that because we are neat and do not disturb her finicky neighbors, she likes us as tenants and therefore offered us the right of first refusal. We assumed this had nothing to do with the fact that, without bargaining in a declining real estate market, we are paying top dollar. And on time.

Rona and I absorbed the news in a state of panic—what would happen if we lost access to this, our modest toehold in paradise? What would we do next February, much less for the rest of the winter? What would happen to us if we were cast out?

So it took but a moment to tell her that, yes, we want to come back in February. In fact, not just in February, but also in December and January and March and maybe even for April.

We held our breath until she revealed, after noisily rattling the papers on which she had her notes, that she had not committed the apartment to anyone for those other months; and, therefore, if we wanted it, and would decide right then and there, she would reserve it for us. That it would be ours! So, without consulting each other, we impetuously said, “Yes we want it for at least those four months.” And after we heard what might have been a sigh of relief at her end, it would likely not be easy to rent places of this kind next year, we raced out to our favorite restaurant, Veri Amici of course, and ordered a bottle of their best Tuscan to accompany our favorite pasta and veal dishes.

When we were down to our last scraps and glass, after glancing up at the moon which hung directly above our street front table, tipsily we peered deeply into each other's eye and wondered, What has become of us? We never before liked it here. We came in the past not to visit Florida but to see my mother and the rest of the family who had moved south years ago. We loved seeing them but loved getting back to New York even more. But here we were now celebrating the fact that we would be able to spend four or five months back here next winter. What had happened? What had become of us to bring about such a change in our state of being?

We always thought of ourselves as so cosmopolitan, so New York, so je ne sais quos . . . Downtown. Now we were relieved and joyous that we would be returning to this world of Earlybird Specials, shopping malls, super markets, top-ten movies, alta cockas, watery coffee, and where much that is located west of our precariously situated barrier island town is so culturally--how to put this gently--uninspiring and, because of the population density of Seniors, so medicalized.

So unlike our Gotham.

After a wistful moment of recognizing that we were in the process of perhaps giving up life as we have known it, we leaned toward each other and, after a soulful kiss, accepted the idea of what we had become . . . Snowbirds.

We went home and, after a night of amore, rose early to pack up and head to the airport. Feeling a little less blue about leaving with the certain knowledge that by December—later this very year—we would be able to return and everything would be the same. Assuming all will not have been destroyed by a new Hurricane Andrew.

With these comforting thoughts and in anticipation of what was to come, the flight home was blissful. We barely heard all the whining and crying children or noticed how cramped we were back in coach. I even managed to drift off into a sweet sleep, which was uninterrupted by my usual anxious dreams about finding our apartment in New York under a foot of water in spite of the fact that we live on the 14th and top floor.

But before we had completely unpacked, in spite of the fact that by the next morning it was a beautiful spring day in Manhattan and all the trees were in full bloom and our remaining friends still remembered who we were and didn’t give us too much attitude about having escaped for the entire winter while they had to remain behind, lucky at best to have been able to escape to the sun for a long weekend or two, in less than 24 hours, though I will soon be fine, I had already begun to miss . . .

The daily pelican migrations. The same seventeen flying south shortly after sunrise in a perfect V-shaped wedge to better negotiate the shifting thermals only to return later in the day like clockwork with bellies gorged from diving along the ocean margins for Grouper and other bait fish.

After the pelicans, that sunrise igniting my writing table, the sky so distracting with its opulent display of pastel ribbons that, in spite of my colorblindness, interupts my thoughts in mid sentence.

The far-off call of the 6:00 a.m. freight from west of the Intracostal borne east on the trade winds as the boxcars rattle up the coast stuffed with produce and cheap goods from Latin America.

Learning from Dennis who tends the grounds—I can see him sitting by the water’s edge with the first of his many coffees also watching the sun hoist itself above the ocean horizon--the lore of hurricane survival. How he has for eighteen years protected these buildings. He tells us, no instructs us what to do when the sirens sound. As he assures us they will. “Get out. Just get out. And fast. It’s that simple. I’ll take care of things. These places will be here when you return. But you don’t want to be here. No, no. It’s not exciting. That’s the wrong way to think about them. They’ll just kill you. I’ve seen that too. But things will be all right here. I’ve lived through ‘em all. And I don’t look no worse for wear now do I?” We decide not to answer, leaving it just at that.

I already miss those we meet every morning for breakfast at the Green Owl. We need to hear how Traci’s 15 year-old son Sean is doing. He busted his lip last week, which required twenty-two stitches—about each of them he is very proud—but they are due to come out on Monday and we won’t be there to get an early report on how he did—just fine I’m certain—and how he’ll look—still drop-dead handsome as he already is. But we want to know and to see him when he comes in on Saturday to help Traci out with her waitressing.

Has Christian made any progress in putting the money together to get him to Australia in August? He has the promise of a job there, in the botanical garden, but needs another $500 for the airfare and to tide him over. He busses the counter in the Owl but his side business, working on PCs is doing well and he should be able to accumulate what he needs.

Joe’s 22 month-old first son is showing signs of being uncommonly bright so we spent some time trying to locate a pre-school for him where he would be sufficiently stimulated and challenged. We found a couple of possibilities but would so much like to be there to help Joe ask the right questions. We’ll do our best by mail. But that little Joe-Joe is some special kid and we’ll miss his second birthday. Rona’s already thinking about what to send.

With gas prices at about $4.00 a gallon and people doing less driving, Troy’s towing business is not what it once was. He’s getting a lot of attitude from his customers complaining about his having to add a surcharge to each job to pay for the gas. Everyone’s bent out of shape about this and no one knows where things are heading. But folks down there are real worried.

Megan’s pregnancy is going well. So well in fact that the 3D pictures she brought in of her late second-semester daughter-to-be were so vivid that we could tell that the kid already looks just like Megan. Which is a good thing. Dave is a handsome-enough guy, but Megan is gorgeous. She’s due in June so I guess we’ll have to be OK with just seeing more pictures.

Then Tom’s got this new Internet business going. We don’t think he needs the money. He’s doing it we speculate for the action. Which in many cases is more important. He’s got a neat Website and we hope to learn that next month he takes in more than the $63 he grossed in March. But again, it’s not about the money. Though most times it is.

On Sunday we’ll be thinking about our 94 year-old neighbor, Ticket M___ (that’s her name), the matriarch of our compound, who drives her big Mercury over to the Owl every Sunday—she’s been doing it for more than twenty-five years--is the first to be seated when they open the doors at 7:30, secures her regular table, orders her same two scrambled eggs with grits and bacon, splashes hot sauce all over the eggs, and with her feet up on the chair opposite, sits for at least an hour reading every single page of the New York Post, lingering especially, it would appear, over the latest equally spicy items on Page Six.

Jack will be full of stories about the basketball playoffs. He’s still in mourning that his beloved North Carolina Tarheels didn’t make it to the NCAA finals, but by now he’ll be almost equally pumped up about what’s going on with the pros who are in their first round. Also, he’ll know about how Tiger’s recovering from his knee operation and why the Marlins got off to such a good start. Some days he’s so worked up that Christian has to give us the five minute bell to let us know there are people out on the street waiting for a place at the counter so it’s time for us, really Jack, to begin to wrap things up. So we get right up but continue to listen to his stories and concerns as we amble together up Atlantic Avenue over to see Bruce who for twenty-eight years had owned the hole-in-the-wall Trouser Shop.

He’s always in good form. He never seems to mind that we stop by to catch up on the latest town gossip. Especially what the Chamber of Commerce is up to. Some new scheme to slow down traffic that Bruce thinks will only make things worse. He’s seen how those big plans worked out in the past so he never hesitates to pause in wheeling out onto the sidewalk his jam-packed display racks of pants and shirts to tell us a story or two about what happened back then or just last week. He knows we are smitten with Delray and wants us to know all about its history and attractions. “Why fourteen years ago, or was it thirteen—I forget, right here at this corner of Atlantic and Fifth, a car was speeding south and the driver must have been distracted by something and jumped up on that curb over there. And where there’s now that restaurant, it was a bank back then, he crashed it through their big plate glass window so when the tellers showed up for work he was already in line waiting to make a withdrawal.” We believe every word of this but then his wry smile gives him away and we realize he’s been doing a little exaggerating. Things are pretty quiet on the streets most mornings and he is so eager for us to like it here that he often tries to infuse things with enough excitement to appeal to us New Yorkers who he must think miss the big city action. Though we’re fine, just fine, just hanging out with him. That’s enough action for us.

And how will we be without getting our latest lessons about living generously offered by a new friend who is dying? At about age 60 she began to experience disturbing symptoms and learned that she had S____ M____ . And though she almost immediately lost her hearing (it came back miraculously after six months of experimental treatment) and the coordination of her right leg, she is the most consistently joyous and optimistic person we’ve ever met. “It’s not about feeling sorry for yourself,” she buoyantly keeps insisting, and by example demonstrates, “It’s about not doing that so that every minute will count.” And then never fails to remind us, “It’s a beautiful day so you need to not be lazy and take a long walk on the beach. And be sure to hold hands. It’s much better that way.” Rona and I assure her that’s a big part of our plan for the day. Her husband, S___ nods his head at that, smiling at her all the time.

Later that day, when we’re wandering down toward Highland Beach where the condos begin to rise out of the sand, our turnaround point, when we separate for a moment to bend over to retrieve a coral or seashell oddity that was tossed up onto the beach by last night’s tide, when Rona races back to excitedly to show me a sea stone that was transformed by the relentless grinding of the surf into the shape of a Valentine heart, saying, “It’s for you. Made expressly for you by the ocean,” we remember what J___ advised and again take each other’s hand. And as she knew, it is much better that way.

Then when we get back to our compound, Bermuda High some developer named it likely thinking the places would sell better if folks from up north would fancy it to be more exotic than what basic Delray could provide back then, Rona noticed that while we were wandering the morning sun, which had finally migrated north enough as spring deepened to strike full-on the hibiscus plantings that dot our grounds. And that sunlight, or its heat, had burst the hundreds of swollen buds so that in that short hour there had been a silent explosion of lurid color. As if to welcome us back from our beach walk.

So will the same thing happen next year? Will we be able to depend on the hibiscus while so much else in the world continues to rage on unpredictably? Will there still be summer tomatoes in February? Later-summer fresh corn in March? Will Jeanine over at Grangers still be making her incandescent key lime pies? Will Jack have any news about why Phil collapsed again at the Doral? And what about his Tarheels? Will Christian still be in Australia or will Delray exert its pull on him, as on us, so that we’ll find him back at the Owl? Megan we know will be there with her baby girl. And hopefully things will be going a little better for Troy. Ticket needs to have a hernia repaired, which is a dangerous thing for someone her age; but we are convinced that she is so sufficiently fortified by all that Sunday hot sauce that we’ll find her propped up at her usual place. She too knows J___ very well and like J___ has no plans to leave us anytime soon. Bruce will for sure have a few sly stories waiting for us. I know we can count on that as we can that the Spinner Sharks with be heading north in March unless one or two decide, when in their feeding frenzy they get pitched up onto the beach, to linger a while as I know we will.

It’s not so bad here one of them might think and thus might, just outside our window, I can almost see it from where I’m now sitting, they just might decide to begin again that long 385 million-year journey that brought us here. To a beach somewhere. Perhaps this very one.