Mixing cupcake batter, phone cradled at my neck, I listened to my fellow homeschooling parents "Laissez le bon temps rouler" attitude about Katrina. New Orleans and the Gulf Coast were not under evacuation, more importantly, we had a party in Ocean Springs that afternoon.
As the kids woke up, my phone continued to ring with mixed messages on what to do. I had never left for a storm before, preferring to take my chances. Besides, I lived on the second floor.
"Go to the party, wait till we are under evacuation."
"Go to New Orleans so you are not struck when the surge comes."
"Come to Key West, we've already been hit."
"Come to the party and if you want,you can ride out the storm on my daddy's steel hulled shrimp boat."
"Come visit us in North Carolina."
"Ya gotta go."
I finally turned on the TV, adjusted the rabbit ears to get a better picture, hushed the kids who were excited for Liam's party.
Holy Shit, she's a big mighty big one. I had never seen a storm so wide before.The newscaster were preaching preparation for Apalachicola to Texas, moving the cone of probability closer to Galveston. I blinked and looked again, following the wind shear and water temp calculations. Nagin, the mayor of New Orleans came on and reiterated that we were not under evacuation yet and would keep us posted.
The voice of God or maybe reason spoke to me as clear as day.
"You have to go right NOW."
Dialing the phone, the lines had started to jam. Getting calls through was becoming increasingly harder, the storm had doubled in size overnight.
Getting Russell, my spiritual advisor, sometimes boss and closest friend to leave was impossible. He also lived in Pass Christian now, about two miles up from the coast in a brand new Aracadian style house.
" Darlin' don'cha remember Hurricane Georges? We ate real good, Gigi danced naked and pee'd on my coffee table" he said laughing,I could hear the smile in his voice.
We had spent a week or so holed up in his house far out on the West Bank, couple of miles from Bayou Barataria. We cooked up all the meat in the freezer so it wouldn't spoil when the power went out. Russell made the best gumbo and fried chicken I ever had. We spent our time shooting the shit, eating, and laughing. I used the time cooped up inside to potty train my daughter. We marveled at the stillness when we went outside to stand in the eye of the storm. When it was all said and done, we had no damages, down the road every one flooded.
"Come stay with us, I'll make ya gumbo, I live further inland."
"You old goat, are you gonna get in the car if I come pick you up?"
My car was a beater, a grey Thunderbird two door, no air conditioning, and windows that you prayed to work.
"Now you know Felicia, Sable and I will not fit in that car of yours."
"You ol' fat coon ass, maybe if you didn't start everything with a stick of butter and walked further than to make a cup of coffee you would." This was an old argument, Russell had a tripe bypass a few years back before I had met him. I constantly nagged him for selfish reasons. I wanted him to live.Felicia was his girlfriend, an ex stripper turned High Priestess. Sable was their three-legged,wheezing, fat pug.
"I'm gonna go this time, I believe it's gonna be bigger than Camille" hanging up, I started to panic. I poured the rest of the cupcake batter in the sink and washed the bowl. I did not want to come back home to a house full of ants after the storm.
Next time I saw Russell we were both shell-shocked, defeated and homeless.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Evacuations
Before I continue with this train of thought from my last blog entry, I would like to insert a footnote about my feelings on evacuating.
Newscasters on the major channels in this country portray those of us who live in Hurricane Alley negatively. I believe we are victims to editing and how the media wants to create a
stereotype of Southerners that the rest of the country expects or enjoys rolling its eyes at.
When a mandatory evacuation is put in order, the media insists on showing only one or two types of people who remain. Usually they show some stoic ol' Bubba who says "I was raised in this town and I ain't gonna leave" or they show a bunch of people a hoopin' an' a hollerin' getting ready for a hurricane party.
Weather reporting on a whole is not an exact science. No matter where you are in the world, I know that you have heard a weather report then walked outside and wondered if the weatherman had thought to do so too before the broadcast.
Living in a hurricane zone is like living with an active alcoholic.
You really don't know what's going to happen if and when they come home. They may bring blues skies and be contrite when you projected bad behavior, you can become complacent and have the shock of your life. When you live with an alcoholic or hurricanes, always hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
If you are a regular Joe like me, you work either the trades or in the service industry. The South has no labor laws, our jobs are not protected nor is there pay for hurricane evacuation. Just because Mother Nature/ local government decides you can't work doesn't mean there are not still bills due on the first of each month. Along with the lost wages is the added expense of leaving town. It's a great life if you can afford to take off and leave town every time they call for a storm. Those who can afford it still find it bothersome especially if you have four no show storms in a month or two.
You start to wonder if it's your own personal karma wrecking havoc on your finances.
My point is not everyone can afford to leave. Period.
Oh, you bring up the shelters so graciously provided by the government. I think the Super dome coverage finally showed what we all heard and known to be true years before. I'd rather take my chances at home, thanks. Guess where the Monroe County hurricane shelter is? Homestead, which was basically wiped off the map in Andrew but that's a story for another day.
I want to state that in Cuba, our communist neighbor, barely anyone dies in Hurricanes and they do an excellent job of evacuating everyone. Then again, they have nothing and no food anyway.
We might look like a bunch of hardheaded hicks and maybe we are. We are resolved to the fact that we are dancing with a 600-pound gorilla that we have no control over.
Next time you are being threatened to be wiped off the face of the earth make sure you have enough mixer's and ice for the drinks. Remember to pick your hurricane party friends carefully, it's like going out on a boat trip, you may be stuck with them for a long time.
Newscasters on the major channels in this country portray those of us who live in Hurricane Alley negatively. I believe we are victims to editing and how the media wants to create a
stereotype of Southerners that the rest of the country expects or enjoys rolling its eyes at.
When a mandatory evacuation is put in order, the media insists on showing only one or two types of people who remain. Usually they show some stoic ol' Bubba who says "I was raised in this town and I ain't gonna leave" or they show a bunch of people a hoopin' an' a hollerin' getting ready for a hurricane party.
Weather reporting on a whole is not an exact science. No matter where you are in the world, I know that you have heard a weather report then walked outside and wondered if the weatherman had thought to do so too before the broadcast.
Living in a hurricane zone is like living with an active alcoholic.
You really don't know what's going to happen if and when they come home. They may bring blues skies and be contrite when you projected bad behavior, you can become complacent and have the shock of your life. When you live with an alcoholic or hurricanes, always hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
If you are a regular Joe like me, you work either the trades or in the service industry. The South has no labor laws, our jobs are not protected nor is there pay for hurricane evacuation. Just because Mother Nature/ local government decides you can't work doesn't mean there are not still bills due on the first of each month. Along with the lost wages is the added expense of leaving town. It's a great life if you can afford to take off and leave town every time they call for a storm. Those who can afford it still find it bothersome especially if you have four no show storms in a month or two.
You start to wonder if it's your own personal karma wrecking havoc on your finances.
My point is not everyone can afford to leave. Period.
Oh, you bring up the shelters so graciously provided by the government. I think the Super dome coverage finally showed what we all heard and known to be true years before. I'd rather take my chances at home, thanks. Guess where the Monroe County hurricane shelter is? Homestead, which was basically wiped off the map in Andrew but that's a story for another day.
I want to state that in Cuba, our communist neighbor, barely anyone dies in Hurricanes and they do an excellent job of evacuating everyone. Then again, they have nothing and no food anyway.
We might look like a bunch of hardheaded hicks and maybe we are. We are resolved to the fact that we are dancing with a 600-pound gorilla that we have no control over.
Next time you are being threatened to be wiped off the face of the earth make sure you have enough mixer's and ice for the drinks. Remember to pick your hurricane party friends carefully, it's like going out on a boat trip, you may be stuck with them for a long time.
Homewrecker
It's been four years this week since that no-account, home-wrecking bitch destroyed my happy home. She wasn't happy just to destroy my life, she destroyed the life of all she came in contact with. Like a crack addict with a vendetta, she blew into town, took all that she could and left the rest of us to shake our heads and wonder how we would ever pick up the pieces.
That morning I started it like any other morning. I would wake up before the kids drink my coffee on my steps and enjoy the quiet morning air, the view of scrub pines, the morning light dancing on the Gulf of Mexico, listening to the wind and the cicadas which had come out of hiding that year.
I went inside to bake vegan cupcakes for a friends son's birthday party, the phone rang. I knew it was going to be about Katrina, her name was on every one's lips.
"Hey Jt, you gotta go." It was Mikey, a dear friend in Key West who rarely called.
"Come on now, how many times have you ever evacuated?" I countered back.
"That doesn't matter, this storm did more damage as a one here in the Keys than most threes, I am not kidding," referring to the Saffir Simpson rating system of hurricanes.
"Well, I am baking cupcakes for a party and they haven't even issued a warning for the Mississippi Coast yet."
" Jt, you gotta go, I lost my car to the surge in my parking lot."
Mikey lived on relatively high ground for Key West. That's not saying much when a storm blows through and you live on a two by four island that at it's highest point is fourteen feet above sea level.
I'll look at the news and think about it."
"Be safe."
"K, love ya."
As soon as I hung up, my phone continued to ring incessantly with more damage reports from the Keys telling me I might think about leaving my beloved little shrimping village. I went on with my baking.
That morning I started it like any other morning. I would wake up before the kids drink my coffee on my steps and enjoy the quiet morning air, the view of scrub pines, the morning light dancing on the Gulf of Mexico, listening to the wind and the cicadas which had come out of hiding that year.
I went inside to bake vegan cupcakes for a friends son's birthday party, the phone rang. I knew it was going to be about Katrina, her name was on every one's lips.
"Hey Jt, you gotta go." It was Mikey, a dear friend in Key West who rarely called.
"Come on now, how many times have you ever evacuated?" I countered back.
"That doesn't matter, this storm did more damage as a one here in the Keys than most threes, I am not kidding," referring to the Saffir Simpson rating system of hurricanes.
"Well, I am baking cupcakes for a party and they haven't even issued a warning for the Mississippi Coast yet."
" Jt, you gotta go, I lost my car to the surge in my parking lot."
Mikey lived on relatively high ground for Key West. That's not saying much when a storm blows through and you live on a two by four island that at it's highest point is fourteen feet above sea level.
I'll look at the news and think about it."
"Be safe."
"K, love ya."
As soon as I hung up, my phone continued to ring incessantly with more damage reports from the Keys telling me I might think about leaving my beloved little shrimping village. I went on with my baking.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Valentines Day circa 1974
"Wake up, wake up, hurry."
Wiping the sleep from my eyes I was so excited, it's Valentine's Day! I had spent the last week drawing out valentines to my classmates and waiting for the party at school, oh, the sweet adrenalin of anticipation.
"We are leaving right now, you may pack one bag to take with you, we are leaving in 5 minutes"
Whatever my eight year old mind's version was of "oh shit, not again," my dreams of hearts crumbled.
"Mom, it's valentines day, you can't" I was afraid of my mother, more of her disapproval, the disappearances and her ideals that kept me separate from my classmates, than getting whacked upside the head.
Can't we wait till after the party?Please?
One ice cold glare and the rebellion was frozen. Begrudgingly, I grabbed whatever was important at the time and got in the car.
Breaking the silence I started to sing
"I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again"
Heading South, I knew I wasn't going to be abandoned on the doorway of relatives on Long Island.
"Please stop singing that song." I moved quickly over to the window, my mom's arm could not reach across the distance of a 1962 Chevy Impala.
Fueled mania, tears and probably a heavy dose of crystal meth, we drove straight through the night. Grey skies and barren trees gave way to spring,then summer as the miles flew by.
Late the second night, we stopped at a traveler's motel. Carrying the bags up the wrought iron stairs I was excited to watch television. There had not been much conversation, I still did not know where we were heading.
Waking up, I was greeted by a wondrous world. A light fog that was burning off in the heat of the sun, Spanish moss, palm trees and a wetness in the air that I had never felt.
"Where are we?"
"Somewhere on the Florida/Georgia border."
The lost Valentines day slipped away. This was one of my mom's crazy trips I was not going to regret.
Wiping the sleep from my eyes I was so excited, it's Valentine's Day! I had spent the last week drawing out valentines to my classmates and waiting for the party at school, oh, the sweet adrenalin of anticipation.
"We are leaving right now, you may pack one bag to take with you, we are leaving in 5 minutes"
Whatever my eight year old mind's version was of "oh shit, not again," my dreams of hearts crumbled.
"Mom, it's valentines day, you can't" I was afraid of my mother, more of her disapproval, the disappearances and her ideals that kept me separate from my classmates, than getting whacked upside the head.
Can't we wait till after the party?Please?
One ice cold glare and the rebellion was frozen. Begrudgingly, I grabbed whatever was important at the time and got in the car.
Breaking the silence I started to sing
"I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again"
Heading South, I knew I wasn't going to be abandoned on the doorway of relatives on Long Island.
"Please stop singing that song." I moved quickly over to the window, my mom's arm could not reach across the distance of a 1962 Chevy Impala.
Fueled mania, tears and probably a heavy dose of crystal meth, we drove straight through the night. Grey skies and barren trees gave way to spring,then summer as the miles flew by.
Late the second night, we stopped at a traveler's motel. Carrying the bags up the wrought iron stairs I was excited to watch television. There had not been much conversation, I still did not know where we were heading.
Waking up, I was greeted by a wondrous world. A light fog that was burning off in the heat of the sun, Spanish moss, palm trees and a wetness in the air that I had never felt.
"Where are we?"
"Somewhere on the Florida/Georgia border."
The lost Valentines day slipped away. This was one of my mom's crazy trips I was not going to regret.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Witches Closet
"Mister Russell, look, I got these fine clothes for sale."
"Yes indeed, mighty fine, how much you need?" Russell shifted his considerable weight, barely looking over his crooked reading glasses from daily count of murder and mayhem in the Times-Picayune.
The skinny old man was sheepish in stance, refusing to look anyone in the eye, thin arms forever scratching, either from the bedbugs from his Treme flophouse or symptoms of the dope, didn't much matter the cause, cuz' it's an itch and ya gotta scratch.
"Well here now, Floyd, I have five dollars for ya." Leaning back in the old wooden swivel chair, the Grand PoohBah of Saint Phillipe Street dug in the faded black jeans adding "You be good, ya hear."
"Yes'm" and he was gone.
"Why do you always do that?" I was aggravated to no end, for every one paying customer there were two coming in looking for a handout.
I spent my days waiting for customers to magically appear so I could read their tarot cards, those few souls who were curious enough to enter the dusty doorway in search of the "Real New Orleans." All who entered were looking for something, in my case I was looking for an apartment and wound up with a job.
The Witches Closet felt like an unfinished set for a horror movie, black walls, Spanish moss tacked to the ceiling a few decades ago covered in cobwebs, mostly empty ancient apothecary jars with labels of obscure herbs and gris gris bags, few candles in the prerequisite shapes and a basket of souvenir voodoo dolls that my 8 month old daughter used in lieu of teething rings.
"Well, Floyd there is a junkie and let's just say I saved some poor tourist from being mugged so he can get his next bag."
"Yes indeed, mighty fine, how much you need?" Russell shifted his considerable weight, barely looking over his crooked reading glasses from daily count of murder and mayhem in the Times-Picayune.
The skinny old man was sheepish in stance, refusing to look anyone in the eye, thin arms forever scratching, either from the bedbugs from his Treme flophouse or symptoms of the dope, didn't much matter the cause, cuz' it's an itch and ya gotta scratch.
"Well here now, Floyd, I have five dollars for ya." Leaning back in the old wooden swivel chair, the Grand PoohBah of Saint Phillipe Street dug in the faded black jeans adding "You be good, ya hear."
"Yes'm" and he was gone.
"Why do you always do that?" I was aggravated to no end, for every one paying customer there were two coming in looking for a handout.
I spent my days waiting for customers to magically appear so I could read their tarot cards, those few souls who were curious enough to enter the dusty doorway in search of the "Real New Orleans." All who entered were looking for something, in my case I was looking for an apartment and wound up with a job.
The Witches Closet felt like an unfinished set for a horror movie, black walls, Spanish moss tacked to the ceiling a few decades ago covered in cobwebs, mostly empty ancient apothecary jars with labels of obscure herbs and gris gris bags, few candles in the prerequisite shapes and a basket of souvenir voodoo dolls that my 8 month old daughter used in lieu of teething rings.
"Well, Floyd there is a junkie and let's just say I saved some poor tourist from being mugged so he can get his next bag."
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Island time
I suffer from a rare ailment rarely seen outside the Caribbean and the Deep South. Back home it's referred to as the Keys Disease. It can be considered a mental defect, philosophy or maybe one of the seven deadly sins~ sloth to those not initiated in our ways.
Symptoms include the ability to put off forever what was to be done yesterday, amazement of those who have a sense of urgency over anything other than fishing, tanning and drinking. One might hurry up and get on the boat for the opening for one of the many start of fishing seasons or might muster up the strength to make it to the bar on time for 2 for 1 happy hour prices or to get to the the store for hurricane supplies, but other than that, all bets are off.
People come to the islands to slow down and relax.They tend to develop high blood pressure and resentments. We locals embody the lifestyle the transplants seek. How many times have I waited on some northerner who expected me to jump for them and were surprised when I don't move as fast as they want. I once watched a man freak out in a Dunkin' Donuts and scream " Your slow asses would never get a job up where I am from!" We really don't care how you down up north. Manana is the slogan, mantra and battle cry against deadlines, expectations and responsibility. Excuses and justifications are perfected to an art form judged on creativity. Transplants either accept this malady that affects the island or quickly leave.
Those who arrive by cruise ship tend to bustle quickly in search of trinkets, store bought memories. The waiters and shop clerks chain-smoking and gossiping in doorways can spot at 50 paces the ones that will succumb to heat stroke first, those traveling at breakneck speed, unaccustomed to walking, the strength of the sun and 100 percent humidity. Despite color or origin, these hapless souls are sometimes referred as fat white puffy people. We try our best to empty their wallets within the designated four hour layover.
I moved to Chicago a couple of years ago, three days after arriving I was out on an evening stroll, enjoying the sights of my new neighborhood. I heard someone quickly approaching behind me. Zipping quickly past me was a man with a club foot and a cane who shouted with anger as he past me by " CAN YOU WALK ANY SLOWER?"
Symptoms include the ability to put off forever what was to be done yesterday, amazement of those who have a sense of urgency over anything other than fishing, tanning and drinking. One might hurry up and get on the boat for the opening for one of the many start of fishing seasons or might muster up the strength to make it to the bar on time for 2 for 1 happy hour prices or to get to the the store for hurricane supplies, but other than that, all bets are off.
People come to the islands to slow down and relax.They tend to develop high blood pressure and resentments. We locals embody the lifestyle the transplants seek. How many times have I waited on some northerner who expected me to jump for them and were surprised when I don't move as fast as they want. I once watched a man freak out in a Dunkin' Donuts and scream " Your slow asses would never get a job up where I am from!" We really don't care how you down up north. Manana is the slogan, mantra and battle cry against deadlines, expectations and responsibility. Excuses and justifications are perfected to an art form judged on creativity. Transplants either accept this malady that affects the island or quickly leave.
Those who arrive by cruise ship tend to bustle quickly in search of trinkets, store bought memories. The waiters and shop clerks chain-smoking and gossiping in doorways can spot at 50 paces the ones that will succumb to heat stroke first, those traveling at breakneck speed, unaccustomed to walking, the strength of the sun and 100 percent humidity. Despite color or origin, these hapless souls are sometimes referred as fat white puffy people. We try our best to empty their wallets within the designated four hour layover.
I moved to Chicago a couple of years ago, three days after arriving I was out on an evening stroll, enjoying the sights of my new neighborhood. I heard someone quickly approaching behind me. Zipping quickly past me was a man with a club foot and a cane who shouted with anger as he past me by " CAN YOU WALK ANY SLOWER?"
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Hurricane Season
Time is marked by seasons, in different places this means different things. Crab season, shrimp season, lobster season, crawfish season, Carnival season, hunting season. The granddaddy of them all is Hurricane season.
It's mid August, there hasn't been a named hurricane yet. Last time I remember that happening was back when Andrew hit. Ask anyone from the Redneck Riviera to the Florida Keys what they were doing when Andrew hit, sure as the day is long, they will tell you exactly what they were doing. It's also a bonding ritual of sorts, the collective memory of a region.
Storms are the markers on time lines in Hurricane Alley. Personal stories and antidotes are dotted with the big ones, the near misses, the ones that got away. Big fish tales are commonplace but pull up a bar stool, discuss past storms and you've got a friend who will be coming to your next barbecue.
We moved up north two years ago after the season started to affect my daughter's mental health. I could not bear the wide eyed terror that would fill her eyes every time it started to rain. Katrina not only took our belongings, it took our community and sense of safety.
I follow the storms like people up here follow baseball. Statistics, past performance, wishful thinking and a "I know better than you" bravado are needed for predicting both. Just like baseball it's a game of winners and losers, somebodies gonna get hit and you hope to hell it ain't you.
It's mid August, there hasn't been a named hurricane yet. Last time I remember that happening was back when Andrew hit. Ask anyone from the Redneck Riviera to the Florida Keys what they were doing when Andrew hit, sure as the day is long, they will tell you exactly what they were doing. It's also a bonding ritual of sorts, the collective memory of a region.
Storms are the markers on time lines in Hurricane Alley. Personal stories and antidotes are dotted with the big ones, the near misses, the ones that got away. Big fish tales are commonplace but pull up a bar stool, discuss past storms and you've got a friend who will be coming to your next barbecue.
We moved up north two years ago after the season started to affect my daughter's mental health. I could not bear the wide eyed terror that would fill her eyes every time it started to rain. Katrina not only took our belongings, it took our community and sense of safety.
I follow the storms like people up here follow baseball. Statistics, past performance, wishful thinking and a "I know better than you" bravado are needed for predicting both. Just like baseball it's a game of winners and losers, somebodies gonna get hit and you hope to hell it ain't you.
Parrotheads
"Are you here for the Parrothead convention?"
"Not in a million years."
Oh, shit, this really was my own personal hell.
I had just flown to Tampa from New Orleans to retrieve my half of my mom's ashes from an estranged aunt.
My mom had been missing for years. The last contact was a mysterious package containing her favorite pieces of art. Six miniature ivory paintings of the Mongolian royal family members who invaded India in the fifteenth century, a Japanese woodblock of a frog jumping into water, and an English seascape watercolor. The enclosed note read " The car died, I haven't."
The Holiday Inn clerks laughed as they handed back my Key West, Fl state id.
I have had my fill of Parrotheads. It was a common belief that Jimmy Buffett did more to destroy our small island life than anything else possible. He announced to the masses what was magical in our world. With this came higher rents, chain stores, cruise ships and development.
The Keys and Key West would let out a collective groan when Parrotheads would arrive for their yearly convention. The sound off section of the Key West Citizen and other local papers would light up like a eyes of the strippers at the Red Garter Saloon when the Navy ships dock. The business owners loved the Parrotheads because they always came off season, the rest of us wished we could afford to sail to the Tortuga's for the week. Parrotheads are notoriously bad tippers, right up there with the German and French. The Europeans had enough sense not to run around in grass skirts and plastic lei's, which gave them bonus points in my book.
Thanking the clerks I grab my key, head to the elevator.
Surprise, surprise, some body's wearing those damn two beer/straw contraption hats with another Budweiser in his hand.
" Ya here for the show?"
"Whoo Hoo"
" No, I am here to pick up my mom's ashes, she has passed."
"Oh man, ya want a beer?"
"No, baby, I'm in recovery " I sigh, adding, "Just friggin' tip decent while ya'll are here, okay?"
Entering my room, I flop on the itchy hibiscus printed bedspread and burst into tears as "Son of a Son of a Sailor" blares from the room next door.
Momma was right about Buffett.
"Not in a million years."
Oh, shit, this really was my own personal hell.
I had just flown to Tampa from New Orleans to retrieve my half of my mom's ashes from an estranged aunt.
My mom had been missing for years. The last contact was a mysterious package containing her favorite pieces of art. Six miniature ivory paintings of the Mongolian royal family members who invaded India in the fifteenth century, a Japanese woodblock of a frog jumping into water, and an English seascape watercolor. The enclosed note read " The car died, I haven't."
The Holiday Inn clerks laughed as they handed back my Key West, Fl state id.
I have had my fill of Parrotheads. It was a common belief that Jimmy Buffett did more to destroy our small island life than anything else possible. He announced to the masses what was magical in our world. With this came higher rents, chain stores, cruise ships and development.
The Keys and Key West would let out a collective groan when Parrotheads would arrive for their yearly convention. The sound off section of the Key West Citizen and other local papers would light up like a eyes of the strippers at the Red Garter Saloon when the Navy ships dock. The business owners loved the Parrotheads because they always came off season, the rest of us wished we could afford to sail to the Tortuga's for the week. Parrotheads are notoriously bad tippers, right up there with the German and French. The Europeans had enough sense not to run around in grass skirts and plastic lei's, which gave them bonus points in my book.
Thanking the clerks I grab my key, head to the elevator.
Surprise, surprise, some body's wearing those damn two beer/straw contraption hats with another Budweiser in his hand.
" Ya here for the show?"
"Whoo Hoo"
" No, I am here to pick up my mom's ashes, she has passed."
"Oh man, ya want a beer?"
"No, baby, I'm in recovery " I sigh, adding, "Just friggin' tip decent while ya'll are here, okay?"
Entering my room, I flop on the itchy hibiscus printed bedspread and burst into tears as "Son of a Son of a Sailor" blares from the room next door.
Momma was right about Buffett.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Decisions
Having spent my adult life working on my tan, I have finally decided to go to college.
I decided that I wanted to be a beach bum at an early age one summer on the Outer Banks. We had spent our days sitting on the pier with chicken necks tied to strings, crabbing in the morning and digging for oysters with our toes in the afternoon. I wasn't allowed back for lunch until I had caught at least a half a bushel. It wasn't until I was an adult that I found out that people ate she crabs, I had thought it was illegal because we always threw the females back to reproduce. Daddy had grown up a scalloper on the Long Island Sound until there were no more so I guess it was his way of conservation.
Back at camp at dusk we would pick crab until my hands hurt while my mom made crab cakes to fill the freezer for the off season.
Needing a good dose of air conditioning we went out to eat. The restaurant had all the trappings~ ship wheels, fishing nets, pirates and mermaids. I asked what the locals did year round.
" They are poor, Nini, they don't have the ability to make money like we do in the city"
I didn't care about money, just wanted to sit in the sun, beach comb and live the good life year round not just a couple of weeks a year.
I decided that I wanted to be a beach bum at an early age one summer on the Outer Banks. We had spent our days sitting on the pier with chicken necks tied to strings, crabbing in the morning and digging for oysters with our toes in the afternoon. I wasn't allowed back for lunch until I had caught at least a half a bushel. It wasn't until I was an adult that I found out that people ate she crabs, I had thought it was illegal because we always threw the females back to reproduce. Daddy had grown up a scalloper on the Long Island Sound until there were no more so I guess it was his way of conservation.
Back at camp at dusk we would pick crab until my hands hurt while my mom made crab cakes to fill the freezer for the off season.
Needing a good dose of air conditioning we went out to eat. The restaurant had all the trappings~ ship wheels, fishing nets, pirates and mermaids. I asked what the locals did year round.
" They are poor, Nini, they don't have the ability to make money like we do in the city"
I didn't care about money, just wanted to sit in the sun, beach comb and live the good life year round not just a couple of weeks a year.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Beginning
My life has an underlying Jimmy Buffet theme, like the soundtrack of a muddled dream.
I remember singing "Pencil Thin Moustache" as a kid in Florida, loving the happy go lucky sound.
My mom, a Rolling Stones junkie from "The City" (there's only one city~ New York with it's five boroughs and it's sixth, Miami Beach) expressed her disapproval. Chin dropped down to her neck, tiny eyes peering straight ahead almost through her eyebrows, elbow bent on the table, arm upright with her hand, which reminded me of a windshield wiper, moving a Marlboro back and forth from her lips, assured me that I was about to hear an opinion on the matter.
"He's for the squares, he has no soul, he's so Middle America"
Middle America was foulest curse in my mom's vocabulary. My love of Doris Day movies, wanton desire of Barbies, gender specified clothing and junk food all fell into this category. Mom wanted to change the world, I just wanted to be part of the collective reality of other kids my age.
I remember singing "Pencil Thin Moustache" as a kid in Florida, loving the happy go lucky sound.
My mom, a Rolling Stones junkie from "The City" (there's only one city~ New York with it's five boroughs and it's sixth, Miami Beach) expressed her disapproval. Chin dropped down to her neck, tiny eyes peering straight ahead almost through her eyebrows, elbow bent on the table, arm upright with her hand, which reminded me of a windshield wiper, moving a Marlboro back and forth from her lips, assured me that I was about to hear an opinion on the matter.
"He's for the squares, he has no soul, he's so Middle America"
Middle America was foulest curse in my mom's vocabulary. My love of Doris Day movies, wanton desire of Barbies, gender specified clothing and junk food all fell into this category. Mom wanted to change the world, I just wanted to be part of the collective reality of other kids my age.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
test 123 testing 123 test
It's late at night and I am insecure, Idon't have a grasp for the english language or spelling but have a story to tell~
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