February 23, 2011--Snowbirding: Peggy Pays A Visit
“I’ve got to get away for a few days.” Peggy was calling from snow-bound New York. “I just finished editing the galleys for my new novel, Death Takes A Vacation, and thought that if I don’t take a little vacation now the novel will soon turn into an autobiography.”
Rona had picked up Peggy’s call and, ever-compassionate, asked, “Is everything all right? I mean with you.”
“I’m as fine as I can be, considering I haven’t slept for three days and during that time the temperature never went higher than 22 degrees.”
“Sounds awful.”
“But let’s agree not to talk about the weather, all right? I know it’s your favorite subject, but I don’t want to turn into someone who thinks that a 75-degree day is the meaning of life.”
When Rona told me about her conversation with Peggy, our longest-standing New York friend, I knew, since we had taken up snowbirding, she was again having fun at our expense.
“You know how much I hate Florida,” Peggy did not need to remind Rona—she was anything but shy about reminding us in frequent e-mails and occasional phone calls--“but I’m a little short of cash at the moment, my publisher owes me a bundle, and if that spare bed you have down there is not being used by one of your gangly nephews or nieces, I could manage to put up with all the early-birders. That is, if you could stand having me around for a few days.”
Having Peggy around for a few days, especially in a small condo, isn’t either Rona’s or my favorite way to spend time. We guard our privacy jealously; but considering the affectionate nature of the relationship and the fact that Peggy, though complicated, is in fact a wonderful and generous person and, above all, was tapped out, Rona, even without consulting me, agreed to have her come for a hopefully restorative visit.
“Just tell us when you’ll be arriving,” Rona offered, “and we’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“Thank you, darling. But I must warn you that though I can’t wait to see you I still hate Florida. In fact, our mutual friends, who worry that you have by now turned into real Floridians as opposed to just snowbirds, expect me to deprogram you, return you to your senses, and bring you back to the city with me.”
I don’t know what Rona said to that. The fact that she refuses to say is not a good sign.
“What are we going to do with her all day?” I worried after Rona hung up.
“She sleeps to at least 10:30 so half the morning will be gone. And it will be noon before she’s awake enough and ready to actually do anything. But I know what you’re thinking.”
“What’s that?
“If she manages to drag herself out of bed at a decent hour she’ll want to go with us to the Green Owl for her coffee and then when she discovers they don’t make espresso she’ll be miserable, make a ruckus, and we’ll be embarrassed to go back there after she leaves.”
“That’s about right,” I confessed. I was also concerned that if she insisted on going to the Owl—to check out where we go in the morning and talk about as one of our favorite things about being down here—she’d get into all sorts of arguments with our Florida friends. Especially the political conservatives.
“And if she wants to hang out here for some R&R,” I added, “She’ll also fight around with our neighbors. They won’t have read the same books as she and will think True Grit is the best movie of the year. We know how much Peggy hated it—it was too politically regressive for her: Rooster Cogburn again riding to the rescue of the lawless state—and can’t stand people who disagree with her about movies or books. Remember how she almost excommunicated us when we disagreed with her about Brokeback Mountain? She thought it was the best movie of all time and we thought it was just so-so.”
“How I remember that,” Rona said, “she didn’t speak to us for a month.”
“Literally.”
“So, what will we do with her? Minimally, we had better plan not to have dinner before 8:00 o’clock.”
“Eight-thirty would be better.”
We were plunged in a state of trepidation.
So, five days ago, we drove to West Palm Beach to pick her up at the airport. She had checked her bags and we joined her at the luggage carousel. When she spotted us she ran over to embrace the two of us at the same time.
“Look at them, poor things. Him in plaid shorts. And her shoes.” She spoke about us as if we were someone else. “But I understand, they have gone native. Undoubtedly very clever. To blend in. And look at me, I’m only here for three days and I schlepped five bags with me.”
As we thought if they would fit in the trunk of our car, she explained, “One for shoes, one for hair, another for my face, and the other two stuffed with summer clothes. I hate summer and summer clothes, they make me look swollen; so I brought all of them.” Addressing Rona directly for the first time, she said, “You’re such a darling. You’ll help me pick what to wear. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
She had been speaking so loudly and dramatically that the other passengers had formed a circle around the three of us and were staring raptly at this strange and fascinating creature who had been on the plane with them.
Thus, as anticipated, embarrassment had already commenced.
Continued tomorrow . . .
Rona had picked up Peggy’s call and, ever-compassionate, asked, “Is everything all right? I mean with you.”
“I’m as fine as I can be, considering I haven’t slept for three days and during that time the temperature never went higher than 22 degrees.”
“Sounds awful.”
“But let’s agree not to talk about the weather, all right? I know it’s your favorite subject, but I don’t want to turn into someone who thinks that a 75-degree day is the meaning of life.”
When Rona told me about her conversation with Peggy, our longest-standing New York friend, I knew, since we had taken up snowbirding, she was again having fun at our expense.
“You know how much I hate Florida,” Peggy did not need to remind Rona—she was anything but shy about reminding us in frequent e-mails and occasional phone calls--“but I’m a little short of cash at the moment, my publisher owes me a bundle, and if that spare bed you have down there is not being used by one of your gangly nephews or nieces, I could manage to put up with all the early-birders. That is, if you could stand having me around for a few days.”
Having Peggy around for a few days, especially in a small condo, isn’t either Rona’s or my favorite way to spend time. We guard our privacy jealously; but considering the affectionate nature of the relationship and the fact that Peggy, though complicated, is in fact a wonderful and generous person and, above all, was tapped out, Rona, even without consulting me, agreed to have her come for a hopefully restorative visit.
“Just tell us when you’ll be arriving,” Rona offered, “and we’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“Thank you, darling. But I must warn you that though I can’t wait to see you I still hate Florida. In fact, our mutual friends, who worry that you have by now turned into real Floridians as opposed to just snowbirds, expect me to deprogram you, return you to your senses, and bring you back to the city with me.”
I don’t know what Rona said to that. The fact that she refuses to say is not a good sign.
“What are we going to do with her all day?” I worried after Rona hung up.
“She sleeps to at least 10:30 so half the morning will be gone. And it will be noon before she’s awake enough and ready to actually do anything. But I know what you’re thinking.”
“What’s that?
“If she manages to drag herself out of bed at a decent hour she’ll want to go with us to the Green Owl for her coffee and then when she discovers they don’t make espresso she’ll be miserable, make a ruckus, and we’ll be embarrassed to go back there after she leaves.”
“That’s about right,” I confessed. I was also concerned that if she insisted on going to the Owl—to check out where we go in the morning and talk about as one of our favorite things about being down here—she’d get into all sorts of arguments with our Florida friends. Especially the political conservatives.
“And if she wants to hang out here for some R&R,” I added, “She’ll also fight around with our neighbors. They won’t have read the same books as she and will think True Grit is the best movie of the year. We know how much Peggy hated it—it was too politically regressive for her: Rooster Cogburn again riding to the rescue of the lawless state—and can’t stand people who disagree with her about movies or books. Remember how she almost excommunicated us when we disagreed with her about Brokeback Mountain? She thought it was the best movie of all time and we thought it was just so-so.”
“How I remember that,” Rona said, “she didn’t speak to us for a month.”
“Literally.”
“So, what will we do with her? Minimally, we had better plan not to have dinner before 8:00 o’clock.”
“Eight-thirty would be better.”
We were plunged in a state of trepidation.
So, five days ago, we drove to West Palm Beach to pick her up at the airport. She had checked her bags and we joined her at the luggage carousel. When she spotted us she ran over to embrace the two of us at the same time.
“Look at them, poor things. Him in plaid shorts. And her shoes.” She spoke about us as if we were someone else. “But I understand, they have gone native. Undoubtedly very clever. To blend in. And look at me, I’m only here for three days and I schlepped five bags with me.”
As we thought if they would fit in the trunk of our car, she explained, “One for shoes, one for hair, another for my face, and the other two stuffed with summer clothes. I hate summer and summer clothes, they make me look swollen; so I brought all of them.” Addressing Rona directly for the first time, she said, “You’re such a darling. You’ll help me pick what to wear. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
She had been speaking so loudly and dramatically that the other passengers had formed a circle around the three of us and were staring raptly at this strange and fascinating creature who had been on the plane with them.
Thus, as anticipated, embarrassment had already commenced.
Continued tomorrow . . .
posted by Steven Zwerling at
5:22 AM
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