SOUTH FLORIDA

It’s winter here. The natives and the Snowbirds as well, they know winter when they see it. The sun hangs lower and sets sooner and a day in the 80’s is a welcome respite from the steamy heat of summer. Locals love the business that Snowbirds bring to the economy but they hate the traffic. Six lane boulevards suffer endless gridlock with exotic, out of state SUV’s, bumper to bumper. I’m a Michigander with a well honed sensibility to springtime bluster, bucolic summers up the lake shore, blazing fall colors; then frost on the glass and lake effect snow. It’s a dance where the music changes every few months and you change along with it. I love it. Just down the road from Fort Myers, I feel like an alien, afraid I’ll be discovered and dragged down to the beach to be flogged by incensed frostophobes. I’m trying to adjust. It’s short sleeve protocol outside but when I come in the AC is working, as much to dehumidify as to cool, and I need to slip on long sleeves. It makes perfect sense I suppose but I resist in principle and remain keenly aware that I am out of sync with everyone else. 

In Alaska, bears are deep in hibernation and Michigan squirrels are holed up as well. January in Florida, the change is more subtle but the animals here know all about winter. Humidity is high but not much rain, canals and sloughs are running low. When egrets swoop in to catch lunch the vegetation that used to be at water’s edge is now high and dry, and the deep holes in the middle are just right for wading. With no place to hide, little fish are easy pickin’ and the big birds just feed without rationalizing. I stalked an egret along the canal today, hoping for a good photo with a fish in its beak but it was too fast and the best I could do was a shot of it flying away. I’ll fly away in another week or so. I’ll have good photos and stories to tell and it will be cold outside and warm inside, like it’s supposed to be. 

"USS DRUM" SS 228

I suppose it’s cold everywhere. It rained in Baton Rouge last night; the droplets on the roof of my car were puddled up and frozen this morning. North Dakota was way-below zero, Chicago was just, below zero and the Gulf Coast was nothing but chattering teeth, all the way from Baton Rouge, east. In Mobile, I-10 curves down under, through the channel tunnel and then across the causeway over Mobile bay. Coming out of the tunnel, off to the right, you see the USS Alabama, BB-60, battle ship from WWII. It’s berthed there at Battle Ship Memorial Park. Every time I drive this route I say to myself, “One time, maybe next time, I’ll stop and visit BB-60." You know that nuclear powered aircraft carriers are big but they’re not 75-yrs old. The Alabama is big. From the highway it’s a mile away and the big guns jut out so you can’t, not notice. 

Down into the tunnel, lights on, up and out the other side, look to the right and there it is. “One time, maybe next time. . . what the heck, I’ve got time.” So I drop off on the exit and loop back to the park. To my surprise they have an aircraft hanger full of war birds and a submarine on display. They had a great display on the  (Tuskegee Airmen, 332nd Fighter Group, the Red Tails). I know a man who knows somebody who flew in WWII and told him the Red Tails were actually incompetent cowards and their war record was a conspiracy, hatched by Eleanor Roosevelt. He wanted to perpetuate that racist rhetoric. I didn’t respond; it was his house. The subject changed and we talked about something else. Most of those old pilots are gone now but they had them on film and the interviews were awesome. On the battle ship, it was cold and windy, not many visitors. I was more than impressed with the height of the super structure and the size of the big gun turrets. The BB’s carried two single engine sea planes, launched off catapults and retrieved with small cranes off the fantail. I imagined hundreds of sailors scurrying up and down ladders, from duty stations to battle stations. The big guns could hurl a one-ton, explosive projectile 21 miles and the decks were covered with smaller cannons, anti-aircraft and machine gun mounts. I liked the BB but big doors and high ceilings made it seem little more than a big, steel building with lots weird shape rooms and bristling with fire power. 

USS DRUM SS 228 was bigger than I thought a WWII submarine would be. I was impressed with tiny hatches and cramped spaces. Enlisted men had to keep the clothes they weren't wearing under their mattress, with only inches between them and the bunk above. The idea of being submerged in there with 60 other people, fighting a war, was disturbing in itself. They had a big gun on deck but their muscle was the torpedoes. “Drum” was highly decorated through 11 patrols in the Pacific. Working my way back from the officers quarters, through the control areas, engine room and torpedo rooms, you feel how much , out-of-their-element they were. I am comfortable with my smart phone technology, take it for granted. The dash board in the control room featured dials and levers that looked more like going to sea in a bath tub, with a pipe wrench. 

It was a nice little break and I got some exercise. Battle ships are impressive and I love airplanes but if you ever get a chance to go through a submarine, take it. I got into Pensacola before dark and will be in Naples, FL tomorrow night. 

ON THE FIRST DAY

I just went back a year and reread my New Year’s Eve piece from 2012. I was on the beach, Gulf of Mexico, in good company; anticipating the new year. Well, not really; I know it’s customary to think about years but I'm not good with norms. I was dwelling in the moment then, without much thought about 2013. On the split, at the midnight hour, we went down and sat in the dunes with tiny wine glasses and a small decanter of home made, Cranberry Liqueur, from Alaska. It was cool, the wind had an edge; we reminisced on other New Year’s Eves and huddled under a blanket. Out with the old, in with the new; I slept but was up early, watching from the balcony as beach pilgrims in jackets and hats walked the line between wet and dry sand. It was a new day and the numbers seemed irrelevant. 

Last night I was among friends. The house was built in 1888, three stories with  hard wood floors, nine foot ceilings, giant pocket doors between rooms, a back stairs for the servants and huge brick chimney in the kitchen. Our hosts kept the side board  supplied with food and drink and being together was enough reason to be there. The kids; teens and 20-somethings, were squeaky clean and anxious for their future to unfold. They had more places to go after midnight, more to do, like sponges, soaking up everything that was soluble. Those with the grizzly experience from decades, we shared ideas and story from the work place and from travels. 

I don’t think it matters much, shifting from one calendar to another. We need more reasons to get together, more often. It’s a good thing, even if I can’t give it a good name. I can reflect on the past like old movie classics and ponder the future like leaves in the wind, but I live in the moment. I’ll continue to write something down, so you know I was there, somewhere. On the road tomorrow. I’ll be back here in a month or maybe two and 2014 won’t be new anymore. 

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Mickey Mantle played center field for the New York Yankees: he was awesome. Fast as a deer, a switch hitter, he was a league leader in both home runs and batting average. His reputation off the field was just as prolific except it went to alcohol and fast women. He was the golden boy of New York. From 1951 through 1968, the Mick was the face of the franchise. He lived the philosophy, Live Fast, Love Hard & Die Young. Both his father and grandfather had died in their early 40’s and Mick believed that he would follow their fate. But he didn’t die young, he suffered the aftermath of old, sports injuries and lingering alcoholism well into his 60’s. After two failed liver transplants, there were no more options.  His last public thoughts were shared with a reporter shortly before he passed in 1995. He said, “If I knew I’d live this long I’d have taken better care of myself.” 

I saw Mickey play once in 1951 when the Yankee’s send him down to their Triple A farm team, the Kansas City Blues. He needed more seasoning with the bat and making the move from shortstop to the outfield. The company my dad worked for had a promotion night at the ball park and there were several hundred of us; sat in the upper deck on the first base side. When Kansas City players came up out of the dugout I could look straight down on them, see the cleats on their shoes and the trademark on their bats. I thought I was in heaven. 

My mom and I listened to almost every Blues game on the radio. I think it was her passion for the game that rubbed off on me. I was a K.C. Blues fan from the start but the chance to see Mantle play made it even more special. For weeks, the radio announcer pleaded, “. . . if you want a chance to see history in the making, get on down here to the ball park and see Mickey Mantle play. It won’t be long, he’ll be back hitting homers with the Yankees and we’ll not see him back here again.” The next week, he was called back up to New York. I got to see him play. He went 2 for 4 with a single and a double; scored both times he was on base. He was 20 years old, I was 12.

“If I knew I’d live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.” I think all of us, had we known what lay ahead might have changed a thing or two. That was a key theme in the 1985 movie trilogy, Back To The Future. They couldn’t do anything different that would interrupt the time-space continuum (change history.) The smallest, most insignificant change might chain react and send history off in an unpredictable, maybe disastrous direction. If Mickey had taken better care of himself, he might have only been great rather than legendary. Who knows how that would have played out? It might have spilled over into other stories and other lives. In a stretch of imagination, it might have even given me a subtle push in one direction or another which could have sent me down another path. 

Sometimes I have nothing better to do than ruminate on my laissez faire (let them be - leave it alone) life style. Had I worked harder, smarter, I might have been a great success. Success after all is about ambition and the realization of goals. It is a destination and you know when you have arrived. Happiness on the other hand, I believe, is about discovery, one after another, like links in a chain. It can stretch out across a life-journey or repeat itself in little circles, in simple ways, with no other value than the glow of the moment. My hopes and dreams have all been small and shortsighted. I'll have a New Day resolution for January 1, but I'll have another one for the 2nd. like every other day.  I have a friend, a consultant to CEO's and Board Directors; he tells them they have to rediscover the joy that brought them here if they want to overcome adversity. Big corporations and little individuals as well; whether it's a ten year plan or getting through the day, stacking stones or skipping them out across the water, rediscover the joy that brought you here.  

I love quotes; I save them. Garrison Keillor, popular radio personality said, “I was always afraid that I would have an ordinary life and I wanted my life to be extraordinary. But that’s what we get, all of us, an ordinary life: and that’s good enough.” With regard to Mickey: If I'd have known that I would be this happy, I might not have worked at all.

MERRY CHRISTMAS BABY

If you don’t like Christmas music, then you don’t want to listen to the radio. Every station is dialed in on Christmas. I’m more in the spirit this year than any time I can remember. My righteous friends want it to be all about the baby Jesus but it’s about a lot more than religion. People have been celebrating this time of year since they figured out moon cycles and the four seasons. I can hear Nat King Cole on the radio in the kitchen, “. . . and so I’m offering this simple phrase, for kids from 1 to 92, although it’s been said, many times, many ways; Merry Christmas, to you.” This is the Christmas I’ll celebrate and remember. 

Life is pretty good. Mine is long enough that I truly know the difference and young enough I still think about the future; the music is a gentle push in that direction. This holiday is for kids and people who remember what it was like. We haven’t changed that much, just a little tattered around the edges. I remember rushing home from work, packing the car with food and presents; with kids in pajamas who would sleep while I drove through the night. The next morning they were ready for breakfast at Granny’s, then play in the back yard while I caught up on sleep. Now it’s them on the road, coming to see me for the holidays. Music on my radio has turned to Chuck Berry and “. . . run, run Rudolph, tell Santa he can take the freeway down,” 

Winter in Missouri isn’t like it was when I was a kid; not like Michigan winters when my kids were kids. I gets wet and cold here and it may snow but you can’t count an anything but nasty. I spend as much time in Grand Haven, Michigan as I can; any season, any reason. I’ll drop in at “Coffee Grounds,” day or night and they know me, remember that I take a toasted “Everything Bagel” with butter, a large decaf and that I’ll set up shop at the table in the window. It snows there, you can count on it. People come and go and nobody talks about the weather; they eat a scone or a muffin and drink their coffee, talk about kids and pets; talk about detours on the highway and the economy. I sit at the window and write about whatever comes to mind. Summer will come in good time and people will dress for it. Sandals and shorts will be in order at Coffee Grounds and the tourists will return, the beach will be crowded and the river channel will be full of power boats, idling their way out to the big water. Elvis just called in and it’s still Christmas season with, “. . . Merry Christmas, Baby; you sure do treat me nice. . . . feelin’ good tonight, got music on the radio. . . want to kiss you, underneath the mistletoe.” I am in a sweet Christmas frame of mind. 

LAKE EFFECT

Last night I went to a pot-luck, family reunion with friends, honoring great grandparents who spend their winters now in Florida. They’d come back to Coopersville for Christmas. Great grandpa and I were the only old men there and we sat on the fringe while young moms passed their babies around and their men huddled around chips & dip, arguing football and politics. I’ve known GG Pa for a long time but haven’t seen him in a while. We’ve had good conversations but last night, all he wanted to talk about was how wonderful, warm Florida was and how awful, cold Michigan is. He was obligated to several generations of descendants, had to be there and couldn’t get his head around the idea that I was there by choice. It happens every year, somewhere; somebody condescends on snow and cold, in favor of January golf and sun tan lotion, somewhere else. I don’t try to defend winter any more. I spend a lot of time in the South and they shiver in the summer heat, just at the thought of winter up North. They think I’m nuts but southerners tend to think that of everyone who lives north of Atlanta anyway. I don’t love being cold or snow down my neck but I dress appropriately and it’s not an issue. I just listen and nod, shake my head now and then and look for a chance to change the subject. 

It had snowed all day and the temp never got out of the teens. I spent the day in Grand Haven, taking care of auto license and bank business. The wind was whipping in off the lake with more snow in the air than on the ground, close to a white-out. I holed up in my favorite coffee shop, waiting for the wind to lie down. Got back to the house just in time to strike out for the pot-luck. It was still snowing when we got back to the house but no wind. The forecast called for 4 to 6 inches of lake effect so I swept off the deck railing and figured to check in the morning to see how much actually fell. 

I love lake effect snow. When dry, frigid, arctic air plunges down out of Canada, Wisconsin freezes. When the same air heads east, across Lake Michigan, it gathers up moisture and warms up just a little. Then, over Michigan’s land mass it cools off again, condensation and “Voila” Lake Effect snow. It comes down soft and slow, like teenagers sneaking in after curfew. I remember back in ’97, we woke up to a foot of lake effect. Snow was  walled up 6 or 8 inches, maybe half an inch thick on the power lines; looked like a curtain except it was on top of the wire. Once the sun hit it, it collapsed in seconds. This morning would be overcast but the sun was in no hurry to rise. I stepped out on the deck and there was a riff laid up on the rail, 4 to 6 inches, just like the forecast called for. Winter’s not so bad after all. It’s December and I’m ready for a change. Autumn was great with all the color and balmy afternoons. I’ll be ready for spring before it comes but for now, snow crunching under my feet and lake effect snow sounds just right. 

JUST WORDS

Nelson Mandela died on Thursday. He was sick for a long time and we knew it would come but you don’t feel the weight until it falls. I know how to play with words and sometimes I say something worth hearing but I’m a lightweight. There’s nothing I can say about Mandela that will not be said better by someone else. Maya Angelou; she is for real, today read a poem in tribute to him. Titled, “His Day Is Done.” she alluded to the sun and the fact that it can not avoid its own sunset. But she left the window open for someone, someday to rise up and usher in a new morning. Nelson Mandela was born into an ugly, unforgiving world and he helped change it. Somebody had to and it fell to him. 

I felt a sense of loss when Jacques Cousteau died, back in 1997. He helped change a world where the sea was our sewer and life there was only worth the assets we could strain out of it. I wondered, who will fill his shoes? No one could take his place but lots of someones picked up his cause and we moved on. I felt the same loss when Ray Charles died, in 2004; two days after Ronald Reagan. In a climate of political fervor and national pride, Reagan’s passing overshadowed Ray Charles. But a decade later, Ronald Reagan is just another dead president whose performance and ideals have lost their luster. Ray’s music still lends comfort and courage to those in hard times. I knew we would get another politician but who would give me something to believe in? Nobody took his place but the music is still lifting us up. 

I know that nobody can fill the void left by Nelson Mandela and I feel the weight. But there will be others to  champion the poor and disenfranchised, and their journeys are just beginning. Decades from now, you will be able to pull up Angelou’s poem and it will touch hearts as it did today. I identify with Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor and Noble Laureate who said, “I write as much to understand as to be understood.” So I write down my little words and I read them again, to myself, and it’s alright. I am ready to move on.