Note: This is an article I wrote while in my last year as an undergrad at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg. It was written for a journalism class (my BA is in Mass Communications/Journalism; class of 2009).
MICHAEL MCGOFF, NATURALIST
By Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2009
It is one of those rare Florida days when the temperature and humidity are perfect. A slight breeze rustles the leaves of the nearby trees. Just past the final turn in the long driveway to Sawgrass Lake Park, the park’s Anderson Environmental Educational Center comes into view. The airy openness of the building is deceiving: this is a classroom. But this is not any old boring class: this one is fun. The fun stems from several directions: the interesting subject matter, the outdoors, and the teacher.
Naturalist Michael McGoff is passionate about the subject he taught for years: preserving the Florida environment. “I’ve always had an interest in the outdoors,” the recently-retired McGoff told me while at the center. “Since I was a little kid, I either wanted to be a park ranger or a cowboy. Cowboy positions weren’t opening, so it came to be a park naturalist,” he adds, a smile creeping onto his face.
The Tampa Bay native (“I grew up near MacDill Air Force Base”) decided early on that he wanted to work outdoors. He checked several Florida colleges while still in high school and discovered that Lake City Community College in Lake City offered several associates’ degrees that would allow him to follow his dreams. He enrolled in the park ranger program, ready to follow the call of the great outdoors. But he soon discovered that being a park ranger had more to do with logging and lumbering so he switched majors to park management, which would allow him to be more in touch with nature. The irony is that he no longer sees himself as a park manager but as a naturalist.
According to Random House Dictionary, a naturalist is “a person who studies oris an expert in natural history, especially a zoologist or botanist,” while Online Etymology Dictionary defines it as a “student of plants and animals.” Both definitions fit McGoff perfectly. His eyes light up when discussing the plant and animal life around him.
I first met Michael McGoff in the Anderson Environmental Educational Center at Sawgrass Lake Park. The building’s large entrance looks like a breezeway, open at both ends. In reality, it takes the visitor into a large room where live animals are displayed: there are native snakes in large enclosures, slithering up large branches, turtles swimming in a large aquarium filled with native plants. In the far corner of this room is an office; it was here I found Mr. McGoff.
He offered to give me a tour of his office, which housed cabinets and shelves with all manor of interesting finds. The first cabinet he opened was filled with black plastic boxes, white cards on the front to indicate the contents of each container. “These are the aquatic invertebrates,” McGoff said, pointing to the boxes. “When we do a pond-study with the students, usually fourth-graders, they go out and catch stuff with nets and we identify it.” His eyes crinkled as he spoke about the experience. It was easy to imagine the excitement the students must feel, learning through hands-on experience, rather than simply reading about animals.
Another cabinet was filled with jars of vertebrate specimens, many dating back to 1979 when the county was first developing the park. There were various types of fish, several leopard frogs, sea turtle eggs and snakes. “This is rather old-school,” he said, pointing out several of the specimens. “I doubt we would use the same methods (of recording specimens) today. The idea of keeping a dead animal in formaldehyde is passé.” He much prefers digital cameras to keep a record of what is found.
The next stop was an impressive shell collection, held on large sliding trays. Most of these were found at Fort DeSoto, while the rest were brought in from other Pinellas County beaches. There was even a horseshoe crab and a sea urchin test in the collection. (A test is the sea urchin’s exoskeleton and usually all that remains after a sea urchin has died.) “I think they’re very interesting,” McGoff said, pointing to these last two items. A lot of the park’s publication materials are also kept in the shell cabinet, which is somewhat air-tight and filled with moth balls.
Heading for a group of large drawers, McGoff’s voice became animated. “This is one of the fun drawers!” he exclaimed, pulling open a deep drawer to reveal an alligator skull. “This is fun as a hands-on exhibit, taking it to schools.” I was impressed; imagine the oohs and ahhs a group of fourth-graders would make over seeing and touching the skull.
McGoff opened another drawer and pulled out a large bag. He admitted that it wasn’t nearly as exciting as the alligator skull. Is that…? “Yes, this is dirt,” he responded, both of us laughing. “But different types of soils are associated with different kinds of plant communities and different elevations, so it’s important for us to know this.”
There was another drawer with fossilized shells, many from extinct specimens, as well as pottery shards and stone tools. “Archeology is another important part of Sawgrass Lake Park’s educational program,” he said. The park once had an archeologist on staff.
Above the drawers sat several stuffed animals, including an otter and a large owl. As the otter stood sentinel, the owl seemed to stare fiercely at us, challenging us not to cause any more extinctions. We headed to the educational center’s main room or lobby, the owl’s stare following us out the door.
Along one wall were aerial photographs and maps of the park. McGoff pointed to a hand-drawn map from 1845. It showed the lake, labeled as Sawgrass Pond; the map shows it connected to the salt water. “There was a tidal influence and with that salt water influence, most of what was growing in this natural basin was sawgrass, a very salt-tolerant species,” McGoff stated.
A second map, from 1952, showed canals. “These canals have been developed, some as early as the 1920s,” he went on. These canals drain much of the surrounding area into a natural basin. “There’s also a spill-way that tends to separate the fresh water from the salt water. Now we have drainage that allowed relatively dry, moist land open to the sun and that’s when a maple forest grew up here,” he continued, indicating land just west of Sawgrass Lake.
According to McGoff, a person might still find rows of citrus trees just north and east of the lake; these were planted by the O’Berry family, early citrus pioneers in Pinel-las County, who planted groves in the park.
“SWIFTMUD purchased the land for flood control,” McGoff continued. In 1979, SWIFTMUD got together with Pinellas County Park Department with the idea that if the land was going to be used for flood control, it could also be used as a Pinellas County park. “While the land is still mainly used as flood control, it is also used now for educational and recreational opportunities.”
Next on the tour is the aquarium located in the middle of the lobby. “It is a central attraction here,” McGoff stated. Several people were peering into its water at the plants and animals, backing up his statement. “Many of the animals here were found in area canals.” There were peninsula cooters, a type of turtle native to Florida, with dis-tinctive yellow stripes on its head and legs; soft-shelled turtles; several large-mouth bass. But not all the animals that make their way here from canals are native to Florida. “We have a walking catfish, which is native to Southeast Asia.”
The last two exhibits we looked at were several snakes in terrariums, sunning themselves on the grass or slithering up tree limbs, and native Indian artifacts. He also talked about one of his biggest gripes: garbage. “If someone brings sodas in six-pack rings or decides to fish using poles and fishing lines and then leave them, birds, turtles and other wildlife can get caught and not be able to get away. Even if they do get away, the rings and filaments can prevent them from eating. I guess what I’m trying to say is that garbage kills.”
The phone rang; it was for Mr. McGoff. He smiled, took the call, and waved as I headed off to wander through the park with a new appreciation for the local environment. Several hours later, as I was leaving, I found Mr. McGoff to report several areas where I had spotted some garbage. Most of it was beyond reach from the boardwalk.
“It’s amazing,” he sighed. “It seems that garbage is everywhere, even here.” He made note of where I’d spotted the garbage and said he’d have some of the park’s volunteers retrieve it by boat. He thanked me before heading back to his office, where he planned to finish paperwork before calling it a day.
After 37 years of working for the Pinellas County Parks’ Department, he has more than called it a day. As of October 1, 2009, Michael McGoff is officially retired. Many people might choose to kick back and relax, maybe playing a little golf or catching the latest soap operas. Not Michael McGoff. It took several weeks of trying to finally reach him.
While the first two or three calls to various Parks And Recreation numbers weren’t helpful in reaching Michael, they were revealing of his personality and his love of the environment.
“What a fantastic guy! He’s why I went to work for the parks’ department!” one woman told me. “He retired and I don’t have his number. Let me give you another number. They might be able to reach him…”
Finally, a lady named Jean (“Just Jean, please.”) at the Parks And Recreation’s main office told me she had a contact number for him. “Let me give it a try. Call you right back.” Half an hour later, she called me. “He wasn’t home, but that’s not surprising. I finally left a message on his voice mail.”
Thanking her, I hung up. Two days later, when my phone rang, an unfamiliar number on the caller ID, I answered. “Hi, Mike McGoff here,” he said to my hello? “I understand you’ve been trying to reach me.”
When asked what he’d been up to, now that he was retired, he answered without hesitation. “I’ve been doing a little traveling around the state. So far, I’ve visited half a dozen State Parks in the Florida panhandle, maybe a few more. Of course, it’s only been six weeks since I’ve retired,” he laughed. Did he plan to visit more parks? “Definitely. I want to try visiting all the State parks in Florida. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while.”
What was the most enjoyable part of teaching students and adults about parks and the environment, I wondered. “What would really make my day would be is someone said they were here in the fourth grade and were back with their family. Just being able to see people I’d taught come back with their family and say that they were working to help the environment in one form or another was really great.”
Several weeks ago, I spoke with Jason C.... The 35-year-old grew up in Pinellas County and had gone to several public schools in the area. He remembered going to Sawgrass Lake Park on a fourth grade field trip. “There was a man there — I think his last name was McGoff — and he was really excited about the environment.” It was the first time that Jason realized that a person could actually make a living teaching about the environment and making a difference. “I decided then that I wanted to do something to help the environment when I grew up.”
He now lives in Knoxville, Tennessee and is committed to environmental issues. He recently started helping out with the United Mountain Defense, a volunteer group “dedicated to protecting Tennessee’s environment and communities and halting the destructive practices of mountaintop removal.”* “I’ve been busy trying to teach others about the environment and why thinking and acting environmentally so important.” He credited his fourth grade field trip with helping him realize that this was something he’d love to do.
When I relayed this to Mike McGoff, he sounded happy. “I’ve always wanted to impart the love of the outdoors to those I’ve come in contact with.”
Soon it was time to say our good-byes.
So, the next time you’re at a Florida state park, if the tall man next to you begins telling you that that tree is a Bald Cypress and that if you want to see the worlds largest stand, you should check out the Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, and, by the way, he’s proud that you’re teaching your children not to litter, listen; you just may be in the presence of a Naturalist, environmental teacher and hero.
* Quote about the United Mountain Defense group is from UMD’s website and may be found at http://www.unitedmountaindefense.org/volunteer.html.
Note: This was written in late 2009/early 2010.
Also, check this out for a short video.
Thursday, September 19, 2024
Tuesday, September 17, 2024
“WAIT’LL YOU HEAR THIS ONE”
Note: This is an article I wrote while in my last year as an undergrad at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg. It was written for a journalism class (my BA is in Mass Communications/Journalism; class of 2009).
It should be noted that I worked as a cab driver in Pinellas County, Florida, during the 1990s.
“WAIT’LL YOU HEAR THIS ONE”
by Robin Shwedo; 2009
©: Robin Shwedo, 2009
Think bartenders have heard it all? There’s a good chance that cab drivers have heard and seen even more!
“So I’ve got these two guys in my car, right? The younger one just turned 21, this is the first Friday he can legally drink, so his buddy’s taking him to Carly’s. They’re both talking ‘bout how nothing impresses them anymore, right?”
Kevin Carter slows down for the light up ahead, hitting the brakes hard when someone in the center lane cuts him off on the way to the turn lane. It’s Friday afternoon — “Idiot Friday,” he calls it, but in more colorful language, because, as he puts it, “Everyone on the road turns to idiots (or the more colorful term) on Fridays” — and he misses the car by a good foot.
“So, anyway, we’re sitting in the right-hand through lane on 49th Street, waiting for the light at Park Boulevard. Suddenly, this jet black Mercedes with a moon-roof zooms up in the center lane. Guess who’s driving?” He waits for me to ask who, then answers, “’Macho Man’ Randy Savage. The two guys in the back seat are like all excited, because there’s Macho Man.”
I laugh, and Carter goes on.
“Macho Man yells over, ‘Yo, cabbie, is this Park Boulevard?’ So I’m like, ‘Yeah,’ and he goes, ‘I need to hang a right here. When the light turns, mind if I cut in front of you so I can hang a right?’ And I tell him, ‘Yeah, sure, man.’ Just then, the light changes, and he yells, ‘Yo, thanks, man! You’re cool!’ And he takes off.” Carter laughs, “And here’s these two guys who’ve said that nothing impresses them, totally freaking out because Macho Man Randy Savage and I actually talked!”
Kevin Carter
Kevin Carter has driven for Yellow Cab for a little over twelve years. It was supposed to be a stopgap job, something to do between “real jobs.” Like many other drivers, though, it didn’t take long to become hooked — or come up with a million stories.
“If I knew when I first started driving what I know now, I would’ve picked up at least a good tape recorder,” Carter maintains. “Some of the things you hear out here…”
One story involves a former cab driver — a woman — who had picked up the same drunk from the same bar every night for almost three weeks. The last night she picked the man up, he slammed the car door on his leg “at least five or six times.” She finally had to grab the man by the shoulder to stop him. After telling him to put his leg in the cab, then shut the door, the man looked at her through bleary eyes and said, “Honey, if you ever need a good man, I’m it.”
When the woman refused to give her inebriated fare her phone number (“Sorry, Bud, I’m still using it!”), he insisted she write down his number. “So, when do you think you’ll call me?” he asked, to which she responded, “When Bella Abzug becomes Pope!”
“Cool!” the drunk proclaimed.
“The man had no clue that it’d be difficult for a Jewish Congresswoman to be Pope — and when the remark was made, Bella’d been dead for maybe six months already!”
When Carter first started, the cabs were voice dispatched; dispatchers had to drive cab for a while before training for the job. Cabs now get their calls on computers; anyone off the streets can apply to dispatch.
“You wouldn’t believe the message I got on the computer,” Carter laughed one day. “It said, ‘Body in the middle of road, US 19 and Thirty-eighth Avenue. Body still moving. Traffic tied up. Please avoid.’” Another laugh. “Avoid what? The intersecttion? Traffic? The body?” A shrug. “Rookie dispatchers.”
Paul Middleton retired when his eyesight started to fail. One of the dispatchers nick-named him “the Rookie,” as he’d driven Cab “for only 37 years.” He frequently maintained that if anyone wanted to study psychology, it would behoove them to drive cab.
One of Middleton’s favorite stories involved a scruffy-looking gentleman he’d picked up one evening near the end of his shift.
“I’d been hauling him for the better part of a week,” Middleton recalled. “He was staying in a cheap motel off Haines Road, using a cab to go back and forth to a lawyer’s office in St. Pete, sometimes do a little shopping on his way back to the motel.” The man had inherited a tobacco conglomerate several years earlier; Middleton never found out what he was doing in St. Pete, or why the cut-rate accommodations.
At the end of the week, a wad of cash in his pocket, the man called the cab company and requested Middleton to pick him up.
“Could you pop the trunk?” was the first request. In went two double barrel shot-guns. “We need to stop at a convenience store,” was the second request. After buying two bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine and several Snickers and Three Musketeers, he stated his destination: Key West. Upon learning that the flat rate was usually cheaper than the meter rate, “The man told me just to turn the meter on. Paid all the tolls along the way, too.”
Just outside Miami, the man insisted on stopping in a J. C. Penny’s so he could pick up a few things for the place he’d bought in Key West. “Do you need anything?” he inquired. “Come on, there must be something you need.”
Middleton conceded that his alarm clock had died the previous day. Half an hour later, the fare came back carrying two large bags. Just before placing them in the trunk next to the shotguns, he pulled out an am/fm radio alarm clock. “Best one they had on the shelf,” he told Middleton.
“You realize it would’ve been cheaper to fly,” Middleton told the man a little later, as they pulled into his driveway.
“Yeah, but this was a lot more fun,” his fare stated, handing him $400. “Keep the change.”
“To this day, if he hadn’t shown me the paperwork, I would’ve sworn he was some day laborer. And here he’d inherited this huge tobacco empire!” He laughed, adding, “Nothing like a hundred-dollar tip.” (1)
Back in Kevin Carter’s cab, heading home from school, I hear another story.
“You know Joan, right?” I nod. Joan is another of Carter’s regulars. “Okay, you know her grandson A. J. lives with her. Well last week, A.J. and one of his friends are playing. The friend’s older brother has an exercise room in the garage. A. J. and the friend are eight years old and they have all this energy, right? So the brother says, ‘Why don’t you two pretend to box? I’ll show you some basic moves. But you have to be careful.’ So they put on the eight-ounce gloves and pretend to box.
“Well, the brother leaves and the friend goes, ‘I got this loose tooth. How ‘bout hitting me and knocking it out? I’ll give you half the money I get for it. It’ll look cool: you hit me and I spit out the tooth!’ So A. J. hits him like three times and the tooth still doesn’t come out, so he grabs the eighteen-ounce gloves and knocks the tooth out with that.
“Now his friend is all mad now because he didn’t realize it was gonna hurt, so he yells, ‘Payback time!’ And he grabs the heavy gloves and goes Wham! upside A. J.’s head!
“’You kidding?’ I ask him, and he goes, ‘See? Look at this!’ Sure enough, he’s got this knot on the side of his head.” Carter quietly chuckles before adding, “Joan said A. J.’s not allowed to play at his friend’s house for a week. A. J. says she’s being mean.”
While most calls are cash calls, many drivers do carry “paper, ”charges that the cab companies extend for various reasons. “I don’t do paper,” Carter maintains. While many charges are metered-paper, others pay much less.
John, an ex-driver, carried paper for several years. There was one weekly charge that he always tried to get. “Ethel and her buds,” he called the group coming out of Sun-set Mobile Home Park. Two or three cabs would carry eight to twelve women from the park to the nearest Publix and back.
“It was great,” John admitted. “Eighteen bucks to the store, eighteen back, plus a buck from each lady on the return trip.”
His favorite part was listening to the residents, most of whom were in their seven-ties and eighties, talk about other residents. “Who are we picking up?” the first pick up in the park would ask. “Oh, Betty, Jane, and Ethel?” The women instinctually knew which order the pick-ups went, and would talk accordingly. “Did you hear about Betty? No? Ooh, she kicked her husband out! Caught him flirting with a woman at the pool. He claimed he had something in his eye…” By this time, John would be pulling into Betty’s driveway. Once in, the first woman would relay, “We’re picking up Jane and Ethel.” Immediately, the gossip started.
“The gossip was always better on the way back,” John reminisced. “They were worse than a bunch of teenagers! And funny…I never would’ve guessed old women could be so wild!”
I’ve called for a cab, and Kevin Carter pulls into the driveway. Before we’re even on the road, Carter is shaking his head. “It’s going to be one of those days, I just know it.”
What happened, I ask.
Turns out, he got a call to pick up at a Circle K. “Usually the person’s waiting outside the store, but I don’t see anyone. I stick my head inside and the only person there is the clerk. So I ask if someone called for a cab. ‘Yeah. He’s in the bathroom.’ So I go to the bathroom and knock on the door. I holler, ‘Cab,’ and the guy calls back, ‘Be right out.’
“By now, the clerk is standing next to me, whispering, ‘He ain’t dressed right.’ I just go, ‘Oh?’ ‘Yeah,’ the clerk says. ‘Just wait. You’ll see.’
“Just then, this Sheriff’s Deputy comes into the store and the clerk tells him, ‘Please stick around. I think the guy in the bathroom needs help.’
“So it’s me, the deputy and the clerk all hanging out next to the bathroom, when out comes the guy, dressed in nothing but a hospital gown, a pair of socks and an IV port still hanging out of his arm. He points to me and goes, ‘If you’re the cabbie, I’m ready to go.’ The cop and me, we’re just looking at each other like, ‘We’re not really seeing this, are we?’ and the cop says, ‘Hey, man, I think we need to talk.’
“The guy says that he left the hospital and that his girlfriend left earlier with his clothes and money, which is why he’s dressed this way. So the cop asks for the girl-friend’s phone number, and while he’s trying to call her, the guy bolts. The cop calls for backup and starts chasing the guy. So the guy vaults over this wrought-iron fence around some storage units, giving everyone a show. Finally gets caught on the other end of the units where there’s a boggy area. Course, by now there’s like eight or ten cruisers there.
“Never did find out what his problem was. Never got paid for the fare. But what can you expect on Idiot Friday?”
(1) This story, relayed from Paul Middleton, happened during the late 1960s - early 1970s; the cab fare from Pinellas County, on Florida's west coast, to Key West would now be a whole lot higher.
Kevin Carter, who I rode with while going to USFSP, retired around early 2015, and has since died.
It should be noted that I worked as a cab driver in Pinellas County, Florida, during the 1990s.
“WAIT’LL YOU HEAR THIS ONE”
by Robin Shwedo; 2009
©: Robin Shwedo, 2009
Think bartenders have heard it all? There’s a good chance that cab drivers have heard and seen even more!
“So I’ve got these two guys in my car, right? The younger one just turned 21, this is the first Friday he can legally drink, so his buddy’s taking him to Carly’s. They’re both talking ‘bout how nothing impresses them anymore, right?”
Kevin Carter slows down for the light up ahead, hitting the brakes hard when someone in the center lane cuts him off on the way to the turn lane. It’s Friday afternoon — “Idiot Friday,” he calls it, but in more colorful language, because, as he puts it, “Everyone on the road turns to idiots (or the more colorful term) on Fridays” — and he misses the car by a good foot.
“So, anyway, we’re sitting in the right-hand through lane on 49th Street, waiting for the light at Park Boulevard. Suddenly, this jet black Mercedes with a moon-roof zooms up in the center lane. Guess who’s driving?” He waits for me to ask who, then answers, “’Macho Man’ Randy Savage. The two guys in the back seat are like all excited, because there’s Macho Man.”
I laugh, and Carter goes on.
“Macho Man yells over, ‘Yo, cabbie, is this Park Boulevard?’ So I’m like, ‘Yeah,’ and he goes, ‘I need to hang a right here. When the light turns, mind if I cut in front of you so I can hang a right?’ And I tell him, ‘Yeah, sure, man.’ Just then, the light changes, and he yells, ‘Yo, thanks, man! You’re cool!’ And he takes off.” Carter laughs, “And here’s these two guys who’ve said that nothing impresses them, totally freaking out because Macho Man Randy Savage and I actually talked!”
Kevin Carter
Kevin Carter has driven for Yellow Cab for a little over twelve years. It was supposed to be a stopgap job, something to do between “real jobs.” Like many other drivers, though, it didn’t take long to become hooked — or come up with a million stories.
“If I knew when I first started driving what I know now, I would’ve picked up at least a good tape recorder,” Carter maintains. “Some of the things you hear out here…”
One story involves a former cab driver — a woman — who had picked up the same drunk from the same bar every night for almost three weeks. The last night she picked the man up, he slammed the car door on his leg “at least five or six times.” She finally had to grab the man by the shoulder to stop him. After telling him to put his leg in the cab, then shut the door, the man looked at her through bleary eyes and said, “Honey, if you ever need a good man, I’m it.”
When the woman refused to give her inebriated fare her phone number (“Sorry, Bud, I’m still using it!”), he insisted she write down his number. “So, when do you think you’ll call me?” he asked, to which she responded, “When Bella Abzug becomes Pope!”
“Cool!” the drunk proclaimed.
“The man had no clue that it’d be difficult for a Jewish Congresswoman to be Pope — and when the remark was made, Bella’d been dead for maybe six months already!”
When Carter first started, the cabs were voice dispatched; dispatchers had to drive cab for a while before training for the job. Cabs now get their calls on computers; anyone off the streets can apply to dispatch.
“You wouldn’t believe the message I got on the computer,” Carter laughed one day. “It said, ‘Body in the middle of road, US 19 and Thirty-eighth Avenue. Body still moving. Traffic tied up. Please avoid.’” Another laugh. “Avoid what? The intersecttion? Traffic? The body?” A shrug. “Rookie dispatchers.”
Paul Middleton retired when his eyesight started to fail. One of the dispatchers nick-named him “the Rookie,” as he’d driven Cab “for only 37 years.” He frequently maintained that if anyone wanted to study psychology, it would behoove them to drive cab.
One of Middleton’s favorite stories involved a scruffy-looking gentleman he’d picked up one evening near the end of his shift.
“I’d been hauling him for the better part of a week,” Middleton recalled. “He was staying in a cheap motel off Haines Road, using a cab to go back and forth to a lawyer’s office in St. Pete, sometimes do a little shopping on his way back to the motel.” The man had inherited a tobacco conglomerate several years earlier; Middleton never found out what he was doing in St. Pete, or why the cut-rate accommodations.
At the end of the week, a wad of cash in his pocket, the man called the cab company and requested Middleton to pick him up.
“Could you pop the trunk?” was the first request. In went two double barrel shot-guns. “We need to stop at a convenience store,” was the second request. After buying two bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine and several Snickers and Three Musketeers, he stated his destination: Key West. Upon learning that the flat rate was usually cheaper than the meter rate, “The man told me just to turn the meter on. Paid all the tolls along the way, too.”
Just outside Miami, the man insisted on stopping in a J. C. Penny’s so he could pick up a few things for the place he’d bought in Key West. “Do you need anything?” he inquired. “Come on, there must be something you need.”
Middleton conceded that his alarm clock had died the previous day. Half an hour later, the fare came back carrying two large bags. Just before placing them in the trunk next to the shotguns, he pulled out an am/fm radio alarm clock. “Best one they had on the shelf,” he told Middleton.
“You realize it would’ve been cheaper to fly,” Middleton told the man a little later, as they pulled into his driveway.
“Yeah, but this was a lot more fun,” his fare stated, handing him $400. “Keep the change.”
“To this day, if he hadn’t shown me the paperwork, I would’ve sworn he was some day laborer. And here he’d inherited this huge tobacco empire!” He laughed, adding, “Nothing like a hundred-dollar tip.” (1)
Back in Kevin Carter’s cab, heading home from school, I hear another story.
“You know Joan, right?” I nod. Joan is another of Carter’s regulars. “Okay, you know her grandson A. J. lives with her. Well last week, A.J. and one of his friends are playing. The friend’s older brother has an exercise room in the garage. A. J. and the friend are eight years old and they have all this energy, right? So the brother says, ‘Why don’t you two pretend to box? I’ll show you some basic moves. But you have to be careful.’ So they put on the eight-ounce gloves and pretend to box.
“Well, the brother leaves and the friend goes, ‘I got this loose tooth. How ‘bout hitting me and knocking it out? I’ll give you half the money I get for it. It’ll look cool: you hit me and I spit out the tooth!’ So A. J. hits him like three times and the tooth still doesn’t come out, so he grabs the eighteen-ounce gloves and knocks the tooth out with that.
“Now his friend is all mad now because he didn’t realize it was gonna hurt, so he yells, ‘Payback time!’ And he grabs the heavy gloves and goes Wham! upside A. J.’s head!
“’You kidding?’ I ask him, and he goes, ‘See? Look at this!’ Sure enough, he’s got this knot on the side of his head.” Carter quietly chuckles before adding, “Joan said A. J.’s not allowed to play at his friend’s house for a week. A. J. says she’s being mean.”
While most calls are cash calls, many drivers do carry “paper, ”charges that the cab companies extend for various reasons. “I don’t do paper,” Carter maintains. While many charges are metered-paper, others pay much less.
John, an ex-driver, carried paper for several years. There was one weekly charge that he always tried to get. “Ethel and her buds,” he called the group coming out of Sun-set Mobile Home Park. Two or three cabs would carry eight to twelve women from the park to the nearest Publix and back.
“It was great,” John admitted. “Eighteen bucks to the store, eighteen back, plus a buck from each lady on the return trip.”
His favorite part was listening to the residents, most of whom were in their seven-ties and eighties, talk about other residents. “Who are we picking up?” the first pick up in the park would ask. “Oh, Betty, Jane, and Ethel?” The women instinctually knew which order the pick-ups went, and would talk accordingly. “Did you hear about Betty? No? Ooh, she kicked her husband out! Caught him flirting with a woman at the pool. He claimed he had something in his eye…” By this time, John would be pulling into Betty’s driveway. Once in, the first woman would relay, “We’re picking up Jane and Ethel.” Immediately, the gossip started.
“The gossip was always better on the way back,” John reminisced. “They were worse than a bunch of teenagers! And funny…I never would’ve guessed old women could be so wild!”
I’ve called for a cab, and Kevin Carter pulls into the driveway. Before we’re even on the road, Carter is shaking his head. “It’s going to be one of those days, I just know it.”
What happened, I ask.
Turns out, he got a call to pick up at a Circle K. “Usually the person’s waiting outside the store, but I don’t see anyone. I stick my head inside and the only person there is the clerk. So I ask if someone called for a cab. ‘Yeah. He’s in the bathroom.’ So I go to the bathroom and knock on the door. I holler, ‘Cab,’ and the guy calls back, ‘Be right out.’
“By now, the clerk is standing next to me, whispering, ‘He ain’t dressed right.’ I just go, ‘Oh?’ ‘Yeah,’ the clerk says. ‘Just wait. You’ll see.’
“Just then, this Sheriff’s Deputy comes into the store and the clerk tells him, ‘Please stick around. I think the guy in the bathroom needs help.’
“So it’s me, the deputy and the clerk all hanging out next to the bathroom, when out comes the guy, dressed in nothing but a hospital gown, a pair of socks and an IV port still hanging out of his arm. He points to me and goes, ‘If you’re the cabbie, I’m ready to go.’ The cop and me, we’re just looking at each other like, ‘We’re not really seeing this, are we?’ and the cop says, ‘Hey, man, I think we need to talk.’
“The guy says that he left the hospital and that his girlfriend left earlier with his clothes and money, which is why he’s dressed this way. So the cop asks for the girl-friend’s phone number, and while he’s trying to call her, the guy bolts. The cop calls for backup and starts chasing the guy. So the guy vaults over this wrought-iron fence around some storage units, giving everyone a show. Finally gets caught on the other end of the units where there’s a boggy area. Course, by now there’s like eight or ten cruisers there.
“Never did find out what his problem was. Never got paid for the fare. But what can you expect on Idiot Friday?”
(1) This story, relayed from Paul Middleton, happened during the late 1960s - early 1970s; the cab fare from Pinellas County, on Florida's west coast, to Key West would now be a whole lot higher.
Kevin Carter, who I rode with while going to USFSP, retired around early 2015, and has since died.
Wednesday, May 15, 2024
Hurricane Season, or If It's Summer in Florida, There Will Be Rain
Okay, we're more than one-third of the way through the year, and I'm just now writing my second post of the year (at least for Life in the Left-Hand Lane). No excuses, just that life happens.
We're half-way through May, which, here in Florida, means only a few weeks until the start of hurricane season. Next week, NOAA is scheduled to announce this year's hurricane outlook. With any luck, it won't be too hectic.
The Tampa Bay area of Florida has had numerous close calls over the years, but very few direct hits. There was the 1921 Tampa Bay hurricane (otherwise known as the 1921 Tarpon Springs hurricane) that hit Tarpon Springs on October 25, 1921 as a Category 3 hurricane. According to Wikipedia, "It was the first major hurricane to make landfall in the Tampa Bay area since the hurricane of 1848 and the last to date."
There's also an article from The New York Times (September 27, 2022; "A Major Hurricane Has Not Hit Tampa for Over 100 Years") that states, "The 1921 storm, the most destructive to hit the Tampa area since 1848, was so powerful that it wrecked coastal structures for miles and smashed ships against docks after pulling them off their moorings. Most of the eight deaths attributed to the storm were drownings caused by extra water pushed toward shore, the Weather Service said in a 2013 video."
In 2004, my neighbors and I had four close calls with hurricanes over six weekends to deal with ("4 hurricanes in 6 weeks? It happened to one state in 2004."). Fortunately, the Tampa Bay area was spared - again.
Years ago, I had heard that there were forces protecting the Tampa Bay area from storms, left over from ancient Native American blessings. According to WFLA (the NBC affiliate in Tampa), "Local legend has it that mounds built by the Tocobaga tribe hundreds of years ago, protected the area from major storms for centuries. ...Some locals claim the tribe blessed the mounds for protection from hurricanes and other hazards, but we have yet to confirm the validity of their story." ("Are supernatural forces protecting Tampa Bay from hurricanes? Probably not.") It's as good an explanation as any; maybe not exactly scientific, but it does make one wonder every time we have a near miss that decides at the last minute to head elsewhere.
Several years ago, Hurricane Irma passed close to Tampa Bay. It wasn't a direct hit, fortunately, but it did get plenty of attention. Pinellas County's bus system, Pinellas Suncoast Transit Authority (PSTA) had buses halted for a couple of days, as well as their paratransit system for disabled people. Cabs were next to impossible to get hold of, since many people (including, I suppose, cab drivers) left the area for higher ground. It was a crazy time.
We had family staying with us at the time (my daughter and grand-). My daughter (M.H.) wanted to head out of the area, but as we listened to newscasts, we realized that that was not the best idea: the traffic on the I-275, as well as other roads, was horrendous; gas stations were running out of gas from so many motorists fleeing the area. I had visions of them stranded on the side of the road, out of gas, miles from the nearest exit (with gas stations). Not a good scenario.
Then there's the fact that hurricanes have a tendency to change course. To paraphrase Yogi Berra, when tracking a hurricane, It ain't over 'til it hits.
Since M.H. and G.H. were staying with us, and we have a huge oak tree in our front yard, with a semi-rotten branch directly over the driveway, we decided to find a parking garage for their car. Finding one in downtown St. Pete at the reasonable rate of $20 for the duration of the storm, M.H. and G.H. headed out to park their car. I'd managed to get one of the neighbors to drive me to the parking garage to then pick the two up. (This same neighbor just happened to have enough plywood to board up our windows, since he no longer needed them. Talk about help!)
My grand- (G.H.) was hoping to get at least something memorable from Irma. Having lived in Rhode Island for much of his life, G.H. had had snow days from school, but had never experienced a hurricane.
"Maybe we'll get to be without power for a while," he said. He also hoped for some minor damage; nothing life-threatening, mind you, but something exciting to report to his cousins and other grandma up north.
I was working at the local newspaper at the time, and, as the storm approached, discovered that most of us would be getting paid days off until it was deemed safe to come back in. (Paid days off, of course, are almost always a nice thing!) M.H. was also getting paid time off, as well as my son, M.
The night Irma approached, we had grown tired of the non-stop hurricane updates on T.V., and ended up putting a movie on the blu-ray player. There are times when movies can be a blessed distraction; this was one of those times.
The movie ended right around midnight. We popped the movie from the blu-ray player, turned that and the T.V., and, a minute later, lost power.
"Wow, cool!" G.H. said. "I wonder how long the power'll be off!"
"Who knows," was the response.
Slowly, everyone drifted off to their rooms, since obviously, there wasn't much we could do in the dark. I think we may have left the dining room light switch on, so that if the power came back on during the night, there's be no guessing. I do know that the front and back porch lights were left on. (More on that in a minute.)
The next morning, I managed to wake up before anyone else was awake. I did notice a sliver of daylight between one of the boards over my windows and the frame, so I figured it was okay to get up. I dashed in to take a shower, and discovered that we still had some warm water in the water heater. Yay! (I've never been a fan of cold showers.)
Then, to the kitchen. Of course, the coffee maker wasn't working; the power was still off.
But wait...still some hot water in the water heater. Using a clean mug, I managed to dump enough hot water through the coffee filter to end up with a pot of coffee, which M.H. found amazing when she wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later.
We spend the morning cleaning up yard debris from the large tree. The neighbors, of course, were all doing the same thing, all of us mentioning that, all things considered, was nothing to worry about. No one's house was damaged in our neighborhood, and only a couple of families had sections of fence knocked over.
After several hours, G.H. asked when the power would come back on, as he was so over not having power. Cell phones can't be charged up; neither can game systems. No T.V., no ice for sodas...Well, you get the idea.
At one point, M.H. wanted to pick up her car, so the neighbor drove us to the garage to pick it up. The neighbor and I took a little more time getting back to the house than M.H. did, as we were trying to see if any convenience store had anything to eat that didn't require power. Alas, it was not to be, and we headed home.
As we pulled into the driveway, I told the neighbor, "Geez, I guess I forgot to turn off the porch light this morning," then realized what I'd just said. The neighbor had power, too. In fact, the power came on just as we pulled into the driveway. All up and down the street, we could hear neighbors cheering the return of the lights.
For the record, G.H. did get to tell his other grandma about surviving the hurricane.
Okay, fast forward to 2022, and a close call with Hurricane Ian.
Several days before Ian, one of my sons, J., wandered out of his room and asked if the lights in the living room had flickered.
"Nope."
He guessed maybe the light in his room was about to go out.
But then, literally half the house went dark. No kitchen lights, no lights in the utility room, etc, but the rest of the house stayed lit.
I called Duke Energy, which figured out that the underground cable supplying 220 voltage to the house had shorted out.
Fortunately, they were able to get someone with a generator out (it was almost 11 at night), and get us up and running, with the promise of replacing the underground cable that week.
But before anyone could come out to replace the cable, Hurricane Ian came close to us. Thank goodness, it wasn't a direct hit. That said, about half the neighborhood ended up in the dark. Most people had their power back on in 24 hours or so.
Us? We lost power Wednesday, and didn't get it back on until Saturday night. The texts I kept getting from Duke Energy assured us we'd have power on "no later than midnight, Saturday."
Over the next couple of days, I kept calling, hoping that they'd be able to get us hooked back up sooner. I ended up having to throw out the food in our refrigerator and freezer. M.H. stopped by several times with fresh coffee. (Yay.)
Finally, at 9:30 P.M. Saturday, I began to wonder if we'd actually have power that evening. It was hot in the house (no power meant no A.C.). We were all a little grumpy.
Around 10:15, M. went to bed. I figured I'd stay up a little later.
As I got ready to shut the living room curtains, I saw A POWER TRUCK in front of our house, getting ready to get our power back on.
I explained to the workers about the underground cable. After checking the transformer out back, they acknowledge that it was, indeed, the cable that was a problem.
"The bad news is we don't have that kind of cable on our truck," one of the men told me. "The good news is that we do have it at the staging area, 30 minutes away."
"So, you will be able to get it tonight?" I asked.
Yes, half an hour to get to where the cable was, half an hour back, no problem. The cable was replaced (above ground, as it was dark out), and we had power by 11:43 P.M. Saturday night: seventeen minutes to spare before the midnight deadline.
Last year, Hurricane Idalia danced around, threatening the area, but leaving us alone.
I hope we don't have to deal with a hurricane that starts with an I. The darn things just don't play fair.
And no, I don't figure on moving any time soon. No matter where ya live, it's always something...
We're half-way through May, which, here in Florida, means only a few weeks until the start of hurricane season. Next week, NOAA is scheduled to announce this year's hurricane outlook. With any luck, it won't be too hectic.
The Tampa Bay area of Florida has had numerous close calls over the years, but very few direct hits. There was the 1921 Tampa Bay hurricane (otherwise known as the 1921 Tarpon Springs hurricane) that hit Tarpon Springs on October 25, 1921 as a Category 3 hurricane. According to Wikipedia, "It was the first major hurricane to make landfall in the Tampa Bay area since the hurricane of 1848 and the last to date."
There's also an article from The New York Times (September 27, 2022; "A Major Hurricane Has Not Hit Tampa for Over 100 Years") that states, "The 1921 storm, the most destructive to hit the Tampa area since 1848, was so powerful that it wrecked coastal structures for miles and smashed ships against docks after pulling them off their moorings. Most of the eight deaths attributed to the storm were drownings caused by extra water pushed toward shore, the Weather Service said in a 2013 video."
In 2004, my neighbors and I had four close calls with hurricanes over six weekends to deal with ("4 hurricanes in 6 weeks? It happened to one state in 2004."). Fortunately, the Tampa Bay area was spared - again.
Years ago, I had heard that there were forces protecting the Tampa Bay area from storms, left over from ancient Native American blessings. According to WFLA (the NBC affiliate in Tampa), "Local legend has it that mounds built by the Tocobaga tribe hundreds of years ago, protected the area from major storms for centuries. ...Some locals claim the tribe blessed the mounds for protection from hurricanes and other hazards, but we have yet to confirm the validity of their story." ("Are supernatural forces protecting Tampa Bay from hurricanes? Probably not.") It's as good an explanation as any; maybe not exactly scientific, but it does make one wonder every time we have a near miss that decides at the last minute to head elsewhere.
Several years ago, Hurricane Irma passed close to Tampa Bay. It wasn't a direct hit, fortunately, but it did get plenty of attention. Pinellas County's bus system, Pinellas Suncoast Transit Authority (PSTA) had buses halted for a couple of days, as well as their paratransit system for disabled people. Cabs were next to impossible to get hold of, since many people (including, I suppose, cab drivers) left the area for higher ground. It was a crazy time.
We had family staying with us at the time (my daughter and grand-). My daughter (M.H.) wanted to head out of the area, but as we listened to newscasts, we realized that that was not the best idea: the traffic on the I-275, as well as other roads, was horrendous; gas stations were running out of gas from so many motorists fleeing the area. I had visions of them stranded on the side of the road, out of gas, miles from the nearest exit (with gas stations). Not a good scenario.
Then there's the fact that hurricanes have a tendency to change course. To paraphrase Yogi Berra, when tracking a hurricane, It ain't over 'til it hits.
Since M.H. and G.H. were staying with us, and we have a huge oak tree in our front yard, with a semi-rotten branch directly over the driveway, we decided to find a parking garage for their car. Finding one in downtown St. Pete at the reasonable rate of $20 for the duration of the storm, M.H. and G.H. headed out to park their car. I'd managed to get one of the neighbors to drive me to the parking garage to then pick the two up. (This same neighbor just happened to have enough plywood to board up our windows, since he no longer needed them. Talk about help!)
My grand- (G.H.) was hoping to get at least something memorable from Irma. Having lived in Rhode Island for much of his life, G.H. had had snow days from school, but had never experienced a hurricane.
"Maybe we'll get to be without power for a while," he said. He also hoped for some minor damage; nothing life-threatening, mind you, but something exciting to report to his cousins and other grandma up north.
I was working at the local newspaper at the time, and, as the storm approached, discovered that most of us would be getting paid days off until it was deemed safe to come back in. (Paid days off, of course, are almost always a nice thing!) M.H. was also getting paid time off, as well as my son, M.
The night Irma approached, we had grown tired of the non-stop hurricane updates on T.V., and ended up putting a movie on the blu-ray player. There are times when movies can be a blessed distraction; this was one of those times.
The movie ended right around midnight. We popped the movie from the blu-ray player, turned that and the T.V., and, a minute later, lost power.
"Wow, cool!" G.H. said. "I wonder how long the power'll be off!"
"Who knows," was the response.
Slowly, everyone drifted off to their rooms, since obviously, there wasn't much we could do in the dark. I think we may have left the dining room light switch on, so that if the power came back on during the night, there's be no guessing. I do know that the front and back porch lights were left on. (More on that in a minute.)
The next morning, I managed to wake up before anyone else was awake. I did notice a sliver of daylight between one of the boards over my windows and the frame, so I figured it was okay to get up. I dashed in to take a shower, and discovered that we still had some warm water in the water heater. Yay! (I've never been a fan of cold showers.)
Then, to the kitchen. Of course, the coffee maker wasn't working; the power was still off.
But wait...still some hot water in the water heater. Using a clean mug, I managed to dump enough hot water through the coffee filter to end up with a pot of coffee, which M.H. found amazing when she wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later.
We spend the morning cleaning up yard debris from the large tree. The neighbors, of course, were all doing the same thing, all of us mentioning that, all things considered, was nothing to worry about. No one's house was damaged in our neighborhood, and only a couple of families had sections of fence knocked over.
After several hours, G.H. asked when the power would come back on, as he was so over not having power. Cell phones can't be charged up; neither can game systems. No T.V., no ice for sodas...Well, you get the idea.
At one point, M.H. wanted to pick up her car, so the neighbor drove us to the garage to pick it up. The neighbor and I took a little more time getting back to the house than M.H. did, as we were trying to see if any convenience store had anything to eat that didn't require power. Alas, it was not to be, and we headed home.
As we pulled into the driveway, I told the neighbor, "Geez, I guess I forgot to turn off the porch light this morning," then realized what I'd just said. The neighbor had power, too. In fact, the power came on just as we pulled into the driveway. All up and down the street, we could hear neighbors cheering the return of the lights.
For the record, G.H. did get to tell his other grandma about surviving the hurricane.
Okay, fast forward to 2022, and a close call with Hurricane Ian.
Several days before Ian, one of my sons, J., wandered out of his room and asked if the lights in the living room had flickered.
"Nope."
He guessed maybe the light in his room was about to go out.
But then, literally half the house went dark. No kitchen lights, no lights in the utility room, etc, but the rest of the house stayed lit.
I called Duke Energy, which figured out that the underground cable supplying 220 voltage to the house had shorted out.
Fortunately, they were able to get someone with a generator out (it was almost 11 at night), and get us up and running, with the promise of replacing the underground cable that week.
But before anyone could come out to replace the cable, Hurricane Ian came close to us. Thank goodness, it wasn't a direct hit. That said, about half the neighborhood ended up in the dark. Most people had their power back on in 24 hours or so.
Us? We lost power Wednesday, and didn't get it back on until Saturday night. The texts I kept getting from Duke Energy assured us we'd have power on "no later than midnight, Saturday."
Over the next couple of days, I kept calling, hoping that they'd be able to get us hooked back up sooner. I ended up having to throw out the food in our refrigerator and freezer. M.H. stopped by several times with fresh coffee. (Yay.)
Finally, at 9:30 P.M. Saturday, I began to wonder if we'd actually have power that evening. It was hot in the house (no power meant no A.C.). We were all a little grumpy.
Around 10:15, M. went to bed. I figured I'd stay up a little later.
As I got ready to shut the living room curtains, I saw A POWER TRUCK in front of our house, getting ready to get our power back on.
I explained to the workers about the underground cable. After checking the transformer out back, they acknowledge that it was, indeed, the cable that was a problem.
"The bad news is we don't have that kind of cable on our truck," one of the men told me. "The good news is that we do have it at the staging area, 30 minutes away."
"So, you will be able to get it tonight?" I asked.
Yes, half an hour to get to where the cable was, half an hour back, no problem. The cable was replaced (above ground, as it was dark out), and we had power by 11:43 P.M. Saturday night: seventeen minutes to spare before the midnight deadline.
Last year, Hurricane Idalia danced around, threatening the area, but leaving us alone.
I hope we don't have to deal with a hurricane that starts with an I. The darn things just don't play fair.
And no, I don't figure on moving any time soon. No matter where ya live, it's always something...
Tuesday, March 5, 2024
Going to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair
No Longer M.I.A.
I know, I know...I've been Missing in Action for a while. I meant to post on and off last year (and, actually, since In Praise of Libraries, posted in August of 2022). But somehow, time sort-of slipped away, and it was another week, another month...Yeah, like that never happens, right?
So, last year here was crazy, ending with a family member's trip to the E.R. on Christmas Eve afternoon, which was a Sunday. We got there at 3:00 PM, I had to go searching for a 24-hour pharmacy around 6:30 (since most pharmacies close here at six on Sunday, and would not reopen until Tuesday), he came home after 8:00 PM. Yeah, that was fun. Suffice it to say, quite of bit of last year was along the same fun roller coaster ride.
So, fast forward to now. This past Saturday, my son M. and I went to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair. We try to go every year, usually on Saturday. It's held from Friday through Sunday; Friday's hours are mostly late afternoon and early evening, and Sundays just don't work for us. So Saturdays are it.
Coliseum
As far as I know, it's always been held at the St. Petersburg, Florida's Coliseum. If you've ever been there, especially inside, you probably know that it's kind-of cool in an off-beat sort-of way. It also made it into the movie Cocoon (the scene where the old couples are dancing). If you've never been there, the strands of lights hanging from the ceiling (which are seen in the movie) are there year 'round.
This year's book fair, showing the lights and some of the crowd
Coliseum, from the 2015 Antiquarian Book Fair, showing the lights
This year, after paying for our tickets just inside and going into the main room, we drifted toward the left. Two bookstores that show there every year are among our favorites: Glover's Bookery from Lexington, Kentucky, and Lighthouse Books, now located in Dade City, Florida (formerly from St. Petersburg).
It seems that every year, M. finds several old editions of different sci fi magazines at Glover's, and tries to decide which ones to get; this year, he snagged two Astounding Magazines, one from 1936, the other from 1938. (Yeah, he goes for that sort of stuff.) I helped him find the boxes of pulp magazines and read off a few covers until he found what he wanted.
Next, we drifted towards Lighthouse Books. We used to stop by the store periodically when it was still located in St. Pete. The pictures of the new Dade City store looks like it was a good move for Michael, the owner. M. and I both got a chance to talk with Michael for a few minutes, and he acknowledged that he and the store are doing well in their new location. (Hint: If you're ever in Dade City, Florida, check out Lighthouse Books. Good people, good vibes, etc.
Glover's Bookery's stall. The crates with the pulp magazines where M. found the Astounding Magazines are directly under the picture of Ernest Hemingway.
The entrance to Lighthouse Books' stall, taken from Glover's Bookery. Lighthouse Books' owner, Michael, can be partially seen through the crate slats holding Hemingway up.
M. and I wandered around on our own for a while before meeting back up at the food court. After a snack, and hitting up the restroom (an art deco-ish room), we wandered a little more before our ride showed up.
While I didn't buy any books this year, I have in the past. But all told, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Back in Time Books
Other shots
I know, I know...I've been Missing in Action for a while. I meant to post on and off last year (and, actually, since In Praise of Libraries, posted in August of 2022). But somehow, time sort-of slipped away, and it was another week, another month...Yeah, like that never happens, right?
So, last year here was crazy, ending with a family member's trip to the E.R. on Christmas Eve afternoon, which was a Sunday. We got there at 3:00 PM, I had to go searching for a 24-hour pharmacy around 6:30 (since most pharmacies close here at six on Sunday, and would not reopen until Tuesday), he came home after 8:00 PM. Yeah, that was fun. Suffice it to say, quite of bit of last year was along the same fun roller coaster ride.
So, fast forward to now. This past Saturday, my son M. and I went to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair. We try to go every year, usually on Saturday. It's held from Friday through Sunday; Friday's hours are mostly late afternoon and early evening, and Sundays just don't work for us. So Saturdays are it.
Coliseum
As far as I know, it's always been held at the St. Petersburg, Florida's Coliseum. If you've ever been there, especially inside, you probably know that it's kind-of cool in an off-beat sort-of way. It also made it into the movie Cocoon (the scene where the old couples are dancing). If you've never been there, the strands of lights hanging from the ceiling (which are seen in the movie) are there year 'round.
This year's book fair, showing the lights and some of the crowd
Coliseum, from the 2015 Antiquarian Book Fair, showing the lights
This year, after paying for our tickets just inside and going into the main room, we drifted toward the left. Two bookstores that show there every year are among our favorites: Glover's Bookery from Lexington, Kentucky, and Lighthouse Books, now located in Dade City, Florida (formerly from St. Petersburg).
It seems that every year, M. finds several old editions of different sci fi magazines at Glover's, and tries to decide which ones to get; this year, he snagged two Astounding Magazines, one from 1936, the other from 1938. (Yeah, he goes for that sort of stuff.) I helped him find the boxes of pulp magazines and read off a few covers until he found what he wanted.
Next, we drifted towards Lighthouse Books. We used to stop by the store periodically when it was still located in St. Pete. The pictures of the new Dade City store looks like it was a good move for Michael, the owner. M. and I both got a chance to talk with Michael for a few minutes, and he acknowledged that he and the store are doing well in their new location. (Hint: If you're ever in Dade City, Florida, check out Lighthouse Books. Good people, good vibes, etc.
Glover's Bookery's stall. The crates with the pulp magazines where M. found the Astounding Magazines are directly under the picture of Ernest Hemingway.
The entrance to Lighthouse Books' stall, taken from Glover's Bookery. Lighthouse Books' owner, Michael, can be partially seen through the crate slats holding Hemingway up.
M. and I wandered around on our own for a while before meeting back up at the food court. After a snack, and hitting up the restroom (an art deco-ish room), we wandered a little more before our ride showed up.
While I didn't buy any books this year, I have in the past. But all told, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Back in Time Books
Other shots
Monday, August 29, 2022
In Praise of Libraries
I have had an affinity for libraries ever since I can remember. There's something special, an almost reverance, about them, in a happy, chaotic way.
My first memories of libraries were from elemenary school in New York (state, not city). Every week, we had certain days for different activities: art, music, and the library. On library day, we had 30 to 45 minutes to look through the books and choose one or two to bring home for the next week. Just think: being a child who has an adult telling us when to get up, what to eat, when to go to bed, but being able to pick our own book to enjoy for the next week or two. Is that great? You bet it is!
I'm sure that there was a public library in Yorktown, where I lived during my elementary school years, but I really don't remember it. But I do remember the school library fondly, devouring book after book.
The summer after fraduating elementary school, we moved to a small town in Connecticut, tucked in the northeast corner. It was an older two story house on two acres of land, and with a library within walking distance. The old library building now houses a local historical museum, with a larger library in another part of town, no longer within walking distance of our old house, at least judging from what I've found online.
When we lived in Thompson, my sister and I would head for the library, sometimes with our younger brother in tow.
During the school year, there was plenty of time spent in the research room, doing homework, looking up stuff for reports, and more.
Summertime, though, the library held events for kids, making reading fun, with parties and prizes, depending on how many books we had read over the summer. It was not uncommon for groups of kids comparing notes on which books were worth a read.
The only down side of the library, at the time (mid- to late-1960s) was that the library closed at noon on Saturdays, and didn't reopen until Monday morning. Dad and I would run errands Saturday mornings. Usually, around 11:15, I'd start asking the time, and Dad knew what I wanted, and would try to hurry. I'm not sure how often we'd get home by 11:45, and I'd run as fast as my legs would carry me to get to the library, find a book or two, and check them out before the noon closing.
After three years, we moved to the next town over, and discovered the Woodstock library. The only bad thing was that it wasn't in walking distance.
Fast forward to Florida. The city I now live in (with part of my family) has upgraded their public library at least four or five times since I moved here.
During one upgrade, when my kids were young, our lives were undergoing some upheavals. The one constant that we looked forward to was our weekly trips to the library. Every Wednesday, we'd head out after dinner, and hang out there until its 8:30 closing, then swing through McDonald's for ice cream cones.
It was during this upgrade that I discovered Gloria Naylor's The Women of Brewster Place, along with several other goodies, while the kids made their own reading memories.
During another renovation, this one from the late 1990s to the beginning of 2001, the library building underwent a total overhaul. But, of course, the city leaders knew that they didn't want to deprive the citizens of a library; books, staff, everything and everyone were temporarily moved to the lower level of a nearby mall. During this shift, with stacks of fiction, non-fiction, children's books, and research areas all jumbled around, everyone searching for their favorite books, it was impossible not to stumble across new books and authors we might have otherwise overlooked.
It was during one of these mall-library trips that I discovered Anne Lamott's amazing and wonderful book Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. Until then, I'd never heard of Anne Lamott; now, I've got the better part of a shelf full of her books.
Note: Traveling Mercies is followed by Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith. These are filled with essays by a left-wing Christian writer; her writings are totally relatable.
One of my sons and I still try to get to the library at least once a week, where we pick up a couple of books, movies on DVD and blue-ray, CDS, and more. We both have great memories of libraries, and are making more great library memories.
But why, exactly, are libraries so important? Sure, you can borrow books, and in many libraries now, movies, audio books, music CDs, and more, thus saving you money. I've heard that some libraries even have a line at the end of the reciept for when the books are due back that reads, "You saved (this much money) borrowing materials this year."
But there's so much more...so many reasons libraries are important. In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott has a piece titled "Steinbeck Country." In this piece, she mentions that California's governor at the time had planned to close several public libraries in Salinas. This, of course, did not set well with the reading (and writing) public; the protests helped pursuade the higher-ups to keep the libraries open.
Many libraries have after-school programs for kids so that they have a safe place to hang out, and even get help with homework. This is especially important for kids whose parents work and who worry about kids heading home to an empty house.
There are computers with internet; this is useful for those who can't afford a computer (including those who can't afford to get a computer fixed), and who need to go online for job searches, online classes, or to simply keep in touch via email.
Another plus is a variety of informal classes to enrich the community. The local library where I live - the Barbara S. Ponce Public Library, in Pinellas Park, Florida - offers American Sign Language classes, as well as an upcoming financial wellness class, reading time for kids, afternoon movies, computer classes, and more.
During tax season, AARP has tax preparers helping people file their taxes free of charge at several of the libraries in Pinellas County, Florida; I imagine they offer this service at other libraries, too.
There are plenty of homeless people in the area; the library offers a safe, air conditioned place to hang out during the day, where they have access to computers (job searches, housing searches, etc).
Sure, there are books one can borrow at the library. But it is so much more. A town without a library is not a place I would want to live.
My first memories of libraries were from elemenary school in New York (state, not city). Every week, we had certain days for different activities: art, music, and the library. On library day, we had 30 to 45 minutes to look through the books and choose one or two to bring home for the next week. Just think: being a child who has an adult telling us when to get up, what to eat, when to go to bed, but being able to pick our own book to enjoy for the next week or two. Is that great? You bet it is!
I'm sure that there was a public library in Yorktown, where I lived during my elementary school years, but I really don't remember it. But I do remember the school library fondly, devouring book after book.
The summer after fraduating elementary school, we moved to a small town in Connecticut, tucked in the northeast corner. It was an older two story house on two acres of land, and with a library within walking distance. The old library building now houses a local historical museum, with a larger library in another part of town, no longer within walking distance of our old house, at least judging from what I've found online.
When we lived in Thompson, my sister and I would head for the library, sometimes with our younger brother in tow.
During the school year, there was plenty of time spent in the research room, doing homework, looking up stuff for reports, and more.
Summertime, though, the library held events for kids, making reading fun, with parties and prizes, depending on how many books we had read over the summer. It was not uncommon for groups of kids comparing notes on which books were worth a read.
The only down side of the library, at the time (mid- to late-1960s) was that the library closed at noon on Saturdays, and didn't reopen until Monday morning. Dad and I would run errands Saturday mornings. Usually, around 11:15, I'd start asking the time, and Dad knew what I wanted, and would try to hurry. I'm not sure how often we'd get home by 11:45, and I'd run as fast as my legs would carry me to get to the library, find a book or two, and check them out before the noon closing.
After three years, we moved to the next town over, and discovered the Woodstock library. The only bad thing was that it wasn't in walking distance.
Fast forward to Florida. The city I now live in (with part of my family) has upgraded their public library at least four or five times since I moved here.
During one upgrade, when my kids were young, our lives were undergoing some upheavals. The one constant that we looked forward to was our weekly trips to the library. Every Wednesday, we'd head out after dinner, and hang out there until its 8:30 closing, then swing through McDonald's for ice cream cones.
It was during this upgrade that I discovered Gloria Naylor's The Women of Brewster Place, along with several other goodies, while the kids made their own reading memories.
During another renovation, this one from the late 1990s to the beginning of 2001, the library building underwent a total overhaul. But, of course, the city leaders knew that they didn't want to deprive the citizens of a library; books, staff, everything and everyone were temporarily moved to the lower level of a nearby mall. During this shift, with stacks of fiction, non-fiction, children's books, and research areas all jumbled around, everyone searching for their favorite books, it was impossible not to stumble across new books and authors we might have otherwise overlooked.
It was during one of these mall-library trips that I discovered Anne Lamott's amazing and wonderful book Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. Until then, I'd never heard of Anne Lamott; now, I've got the better part of a shelf full of her books.
Note: Traveling Mercies is followed by Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith. These are filled with essays by a left-wing Christian writer; her writings are totally relatable.
One of my sons and I still try to get to the library at least once a week, where we pick up a couple of books, movies on DVD and blue-ray, CDS, and more. We both have great memories of libraries, and are making more great library memories.
But why, exactly, are libraries so important? Sure, you can borrow books, and in many libraries now, movies, audio books, music CDs, and more, thus saving you money. I've heard that some libraries even have a line at the end of the reciept for when the books are due back that reads, "You saved (this much money) borrowing materials this year."
But there's so much more...so many reasons libraries are important. In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott has a piece titled "Steinbeck Country." In this piece, she mentions that California's governor at the time had planned to close several public libraries in Salinas. This, of course, did not set well with the reading (and writing) public; the protests helped pursuade the higher-ups to keep the libraries open.
Many libraries have after-school programs for kids so that they have a safe place to hang out, and even get help with homework. This is especially important for kids whose parents work and who worry about kids heading home to an empty house.
There are computers with internet; this is useful for those who can't afford a computer (including those who can't afford to get a computer fixed), and who need to go online for job searches, online classes, or to simply keep in touch via email.
Another plus is a variety of informal classes to enrich the community. The local library where I live - the Barbara S. Ponce Public Library, in Pinellas Park, Florida - offers American Sign Language classes, as well as an upcoming financial wellness class, reading time for kids, afternoon movies, computer classes, and more.
During tax season, AARP has tax preparers helping people file their taxes free of charge at several of the libraries in Pinellas County, Florida; I imagine they offer this service at other libraries, too.
There are plenty of homeless people in the area; the library offers a safe, air conditioned place to hang out during the day, where they have access to computers (job searches, housing searches, etc).
Sure, there are books one can borrow at the library. But it is so much more. A town without a library is not a place I would want to live.
Wednesday, July 13, 2022
Karma Kitty - Rest in Peace
It's been a rough couple of months. First, I managed to fall, fracturing a vertebrae. While that has pretty much healed, we ended up losing Karma Kitty.
But first, let me back up just a little.
"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.
"I already have a cat," I reminded him.
But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.
E.B. White
"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.
(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)
Kevin
Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.
Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.
The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.
"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."
She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.
That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.
It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.
It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.
At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.
Karma Kitty
"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff
Drexie
Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...
I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.
But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).
Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.
His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.
We figured the end was coming sooner or later...
Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.
I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...
I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.
After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.
I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.
I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.
We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)
The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.
Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.
Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.
But first, let me back up just a little.
"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.
"I already have a cat," I reminded him.
But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.
E.B. White
"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.
(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)
Kevin
Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.
Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.
The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.
"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."
She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.
That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.
It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.
It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.
At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.
Karma Kitty
"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff
Drexie
Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...
I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.
But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).
Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.
His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.
We figured the end was coming sooner or later...
Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.
I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...
I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.
After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.
I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.
I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.
We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)
The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.
Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.
Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.
Wednesday, June 15, 2022
Life Goes On, Somewhat Crazily
I realize I've been M.I.A. since last August. Even then, I didn't post much last year; from the looks of things, there were four (!) posts all of last year.
Of course, getting started here again has been interesting, to say the least. Anyone who's a writer (or artist of any sort) can related that too much time off makes it a little difficult to get motivated to head off in a forward direction.
But what the heck, I'm back.
Several weeks ago, I came so close to cutting my hair short (at least, short for me). The last time I had a major hair cut was for a job I'd landed, back in 1980. I can already hear at least one or two people thinking, Yikes! No need to tell me that was a long dang time ago.
The job I'd landed was working for a local fire department. The department had hired eight of us (if I remember correctly), including two women. (This is where your's truly fits in.) There was only one other department in our county, here on the west coast of Florida, that had a female firefighter; she'd been on the job less than a year.
I had already started off, near the end of 1979, as a volunteer with Pinellas Park Fire Department, shortly after the department had hired a new chief, so I had a somewhat vague idea of what to look forward to.
The department Jane and I were hired on at seemed okay with the length of my hair. I'd start off my shift with my hair in a braid. If we had a fire, and needed to wear our bunker gear, it was no big deal to grab the end of the braid, put said braid on top of my head, put my helmet on, and immediately, no hair showed.
However, when we started at the local fire academy, the then-head of the academy made it clear that I had to have my hair cut above my shirt collar. After all, that was how short the men had to have their hair. While our chief went to bat for me, I still had to get it cut short. Problem was, having it that short, I couldn't braid it and keep all the hair from sticking out from under the helmet.
At that point, I vowed never to cut my hair again, until I was good and ready.
So why was I thinking of cutting it recently? Well...Six weeks ago, I slipped and fell, landing hard on my back. Instant excruciating pain.
Silly me. Once I was able to move, and actually talk (I'd spent several minutes babbling, leaving my sons thinking I'd had a stroke), I got up and decided to take a shower. I was sure I'd simply pulled a few muscles in my back.
An hour or two later, though, when the pain showed no sign of subsiding, I agreed to go to a local free-standing ER to get it checked out. As it turned out, I'd fractured one of my vertibrae! No wonder it hurt!
Several hours later, after a room opened up in the main hospital (several miles away, with an in-house ER), I was transferred by ambulance and taken straight up to the assigned room, where I spent the weekend. While there, I ended up with an MRI lasting about half-an-hour (never a fun thing for someone who's claustrophobic). Fortunately, it turned out okay, still a fracture, but without further complications.
Two days later, I got to come home. But for six weeks, I've been stuck wearing a dang back brace. The first coupld of days, my hair kept getting caught in the brace; it was then that I seriously thought about cutting my hair shoulder-length. I didn't, though, and I'm now glad I didn't.
It's only a few more days until I get another X-ray to see if the back has healed enough to do without the back brace. Siiiiigh...
Also, to throw in some more fun, our two cats are now 15 years old, and starting to really show their age. Karma is showing it a little harder than is sister, Drexie, is. But either way, Karma and Drexie are getting up there.
At one time, Karma had topped off at 12-pounds and change; he's now down to 5.8 pounds, and has the beginnings of kidney issues, while Drexi, who used to be 6-pounds, is a little closer to 7 pounds now. They both seem to sleep more these days. Karma is also showing some signs of slowing down, and not able to jump as well as he used to.
Anyone who has had cats (or dogs, or any other pets) and who've gotten seriously attached to the pets knows how bitter-sweet it can be, watching the decline, knowing it's simply a matter of time when the pets are no longer around. That's what we're looking at with Karma and Drexie. I know we'll all be basket-cases when their time comes. But in the meantime, they'll get all the love, cuddles, and treats we can give them.
One last word: love your family, even the pets.
Karma Kitty
Drexie Calabash
Of course, getting started here again has been interesting, to say the least. Anyone who's a writer (or artist of any sort) can related that too much time off makes it a little difficult to get motivated to head off in a forward direction.
But what the heck, I'm back.
Several weeks ago, I came so close to cutting my hair short (at least, short for me). The last time I had a major hair cut was for a job I'd landed, back in 1980. I can already hear at least one or two people thinking, Yikes! No need to tell me that was a long dang time ago.
The job I'd landed was working for a local fire department. The department had hired eight of us (if I remember correctly), including two women. (This is where your's truly fits in.) There was only one other department in our county, here on the west coast of Florida, that had a female firefighter; she'd been on the job less than a year.
I had already started off, near the end of 1979, as a volunteer with Pinellas Park Fire Department, shortly after the department had hired a new chief, so I had a somewhat vague idea of what to look forward to.
The department Jane and I were hired on at seemed okay with the length of my hair. I'd start off my shift with my hair in a braid. If we had a fire, and needed to wear our bunker gear, it was no big deal to grab the end of the braid, put said braid on top of my head, put my helmet on, and immediately, no hair showed.
However, when we started at the local fire academy, the then-head of the academy made it clear that I had to have my hair cut above my shirt collar. After all, that was how short the men had to have their hair. While our chief went to bat for me, I still had to get it cut short. Problem was, having it that short, I couldn't braid it and keep all the hair from sticking out from under the helmet.
At that point, I vowed never to cut my hair again, until I was good and ready.
So why was I thinking of cutting it recently? Well...Six weeks ago, I slipped and fell, landing hard on my back. Instant excruciating pain.
Silly me. Once I was able to move, and actually talk (I'd spent several minutes babbling, leaving my sons thinking I'd had a stroke), I got up and decided to take a shower. I was sure I'd simply pulled a few muscles in my back.
An hour or two later, though, when the pain showed no sign of subsiding, I agreed to go to a local free-standing ER to get it checked out. As it turned out, I'd fractured one of my vertibrae! No wonder it hurt!
Several hours later, after a room opened up in the main hospital (several miles away, with an in-house ER), I was transferred by ambulance and taken straight up to the assigned room, where I spent the weekend. While there, I ended up with an MRI lasting about half-an-hour (never a fun thing for someone who's claustrophobic). Fortunately, it turned out okay, still a fracture, but without further complications.
Two days later, I got to come home. But for six weeks, I've been stuck wearing a dang back brace. The first coupld of days, my hair kept getting caught in the brace; it was then that I seriously thought about cutting my hair shoulder-length. I didn't, though, and I'm now glad I didn't.
It's only a few more days until I get another X-ray to see if the back has healed enough to do without the back brace. Siiiiigh...
Also, to throw in some more fun, our two cats are now 15 years old, and starting to really show their age. Karma is showing it a little harder than is sister, Drexie, is. But either way, Karma and Drexie are getting up there.
At one time, Karma had topped off at 12-pounds and change; he's now down to 5.8 pounds, and has the beginnings of kidney issues, while Drexi, who used to be 6-pounds, is a little closer to 7 pounds now. They both seem to sleep more these days. Karma is also showing some signs of slowing down, and not able to jump as well as he used to.
Anyone who has had cats (or dogs, or any other pets) and who've gotten seriously attached to the pets knows how bitter-sweet it can be, watching the decline, knowing it's simply a matter of time when the pets are no longer around. That's what we're looking at with Karma and Drexie. I know we'll all be basket-cases when their time comes. But in the meantime, they'll get all the love, cuddles, and treats we can give them.
One last word: love your family, even the pets.
Karma Kitty
Drexie Calabash
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