We round up.

It was a moonless night and I could not get into the house fast enough as the wad of keys tumble between my fingers.  I felt for the one with the three gemstones at the top which would open my front door, balancing the items which belonged at home, that had somehow migrated up to the office.  As always, I left the house in the early morning, forgetting to turn on the outside light; knowing I wouldn’t return until long after dark.  Someday we’ll get that motion light, I thought to myself as I turned the key, pushed open the door, and dropped everything I was carrying into the foyer .

It was an exhausting holiday weekend and there was still one more day to go before the majority of campers would pack up and head home.  I nearly tumbled down the steps to the family room, making a beeline for my newest best friend- the nespresso c-100, with its companion, the aerocino plus.

The shiny piano black surface twinkled as I flipped on the overhead light.  It drew me to it like a moth to flames and I opened the wooden black box which held the 16 grand crus coffee capsules hot with anticipation.  Hmmm, ristretto, espresso, lungo or cappuccino….which will it be…?  The small cardboard carton of vanilla milk made the decision for me as I poured it into the aerocino and hit the button.   The hum of the nespresso and the aroma of the dark liquid expressing through the  gold colored capsule marked livanto dispelled all the tension that had accumulated from dealing with the public all day. In cantrast, the aerocino frothed the milk in total silence and anonymity.

Holiday weekends seem to bring out large groups of people rather than the individual families that take the weekend jaunts into the great outdoors.  Each holiday we get the same scenario.  Groups waiting til a day or two before, calling for several sites and flabbergasted when they find out we are full and have no space left.  Looking down the list of reservations, matching names to site numbers, the map of the campground is transformed into a microcosm of world cultures. I find it fascinating how members of the same cultures develop similar attributes and we unconsciously brace ourselves accordingly.  Politically incorrect? No doubt.  There are some cultures who do not feel they should be subject to the same rules as everyone else.  Others, no matter how hard they try, or how often you may remind them of quiet hours, seem to be genetically incapable of speaking  in  a quiet tone of  voice.  Another group of persons, may be so accustomed to European beaches where clothing is optional, they simply cannot understand our insistence on wearing the top to their bikini while at our swimming pond.  

And then there are those who do not count children as people.  The discussions and court battles we have in America over the abortion issue and when a fetus is considered a viable person is amazing.  Is it at the moment of conception? First trimester?  This weekend, I received a phone call from a man who wanted to reserve a tent site. I knew by the name and accent what the sticking point in reserving would be. We allow a maximum of six persons per site, no more than four of which can be adults 18years or older.   Even though the man knew the terms, he insisted he only needed one site, explaining that he only had four adults and 2 and ½ children.  “So you have seven people, I said, you will need two sites.  No, he insisted, I only have six people, 4 adults and 2 ½ children, I only want one site; the other child is very small.  At what age do young children become humans in his culture?  After several minutes of disagreeing as to the definition of a person, I finally put it to him in my most polite but firm end of discussion tone replying “Is it out of the womb and breathing on its own?  Then it’s person, you need two sites.  Hanging up the phone I thought perhaps I should have told him in the case of a half a child,  we round up!

Looking back on the phone call now as I sip my cappuccino, I realized that there was probably a better way to handle the situation, although even with the second sip I couldn’t think of one at the moment. I simply shrugged my shoulders and kicked of my shoes as I settled back into the deep leather chair.  I made a mental note to perhaps ask one of the seminar hosts on hospitality for a suggestion the next time I have someone of that nationality call for a reservation.  Meanwhile, I was contemplating what color capsule I’d treat myself to next.

My Big Fish Story

   

My friend Carol was generous enough to invite us to spend time this winter at her house on Summerland Key, Florida.  Being from NJ, oceans and waves go hand in hand, so the first time I visited the Keys, I was surprised that there were no waves.  It almost seemed like her house was lakefront instead of ocean front.  The water was calm and there was a slight breeze.  

I’m going to take a short kayak ride” Carol said, “why don’t you come with me.” I shot her a doubtful look.  I’ve never kayaked before.   I peered over the edge of the dock trying to gauge the distance down to the kayak that was waiting for a rider.  The idea of maneuvering myself down the ladder of her dock and stepping onto the floating kayak was laying the groundwork for an anxiety attack. I slowly sucked in some air and insisted that Carol go first. I wanted to watch how she boarded the boat that was bobbing in the water below.  But I also wanted her down there ahead of me so she can help when I fell out of mine. There was no doubt in my mind that even if I managed to get into the boat, I was  going to be in the water at some point, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I’d be able to get back on in deep water!  I watched as Carol climbed down the ladder and boarded her kayak without a problem.  She paddled out of the way and pushed the second kayak into position and I started my decent. 

As I reached the bottom rung of the ladder, I had to point my right foot and drag the kayak closer with my toes.  I took a deep breath and started to lower myself down toward the seat while still trying to cling to the ladder.  “You know, Carol, this would be much easier if you added another rung or two to the ladder”.  With that said, my hand slipped off the bottom rung and I plopped onto the seat.  The kayak responded with a quick shudder.  I made a fast adjustment and the kayak proved to be more stable than I had expected.

 It was then that I realized I was holding my breath the whole time in anticipation of what I thought would be an inevitable plunge into the water.  We chose to kayak across the “flats” where the water was shallow and I’d be able to stand up and re-board after I flipped the boat, which I was still waiting for.  We went about a half mile then turned around and came back.  I made it to the dock feeling very proud of myself.  Though this was never on my bucket list, I decided to add it, so that I could have something to check off!

It did not take a lot of cajoling to get me back in the kayak later that day.  I actually enjoyed it and was feeling much more confident.  So much so, that we stayed in the deep channel, and I removed my life vest for comfort.  We were commenting on the various homes and gardens as we passed and were heading for the mangroves. 

“There’s a whole school of fish that just raced past me” Carol called back to me.  I glanced around me but saw nothing. As I put my paddle onto the water on the right side of my kayak, something hit hard on the left side, level with my thigh, and I felt the boat start to tip.  I shifted my weight. As the left side of my brain told me to jump out of the boat before whatever it was landed in my lap, something big splashed down hard into the water. 

“Was that you?  Did you fall in?” Carol called back to me, as she heard the thump and splash.

 But at that moment, the right brain screamed “NO! You’ll never get back in the boat and then you’ll be stuck in the water with it… and it may be a  them!” 

“BIG F-ING FISH!” I answered Carol.  My right brain continued yelling at me for pushing my luck and taking another trip out...for removing my life vest... for forgetting that this was not a lake but an ocean that had sharks and barracudas and God only knows what else!  I wondered at the whereabouts of the Portuguese man ‘o war we were looking at the morning before from the dock…. 

Carol manage to turn her kayak around and face me as the cold water from the splash rained down on me.

“BIG F-ING FISH!”  I repeated-- relieved I was still in the boat and hadn’t listened to the left brain and thanking God that the fish arched left instead of right when it jumped.    We both nearly rolled our kayaks from laughter. We paddled a little further before turning to go home, commenting that my big f-ing fish was probably the reason Carol saw all the smaller fish swimming so fast.

 I’m sure the entire Summerland Key heard me, as sound amplifies across the water.  I suppose I could have apologized for the language that escaped my lips, but at that point I didn’t care about anything but returning to land.  The adrenaline rush got me back across the flats in half the time it took to go out.  I kept looking back for Carol.  She was trying to keep up, “you’re like a horse heading for the barn! she yelled laughing, commenting on my speed.

But there was nothing that would have distracted me from my focus point of that ladder on the dock!  .

Before leaving the Keys, we met with another friend who lives there full time and kayaks quite often.  She too laughed at my reaction, but also told us of an incident that occurred a few months earlier.  A woman kayaking was speared in the back by a needle fish that jumped from the water and punctured her lung.  Luckily, her fiancé was with her and had a cell phone to call for help. 

I only saw a part of the fish that struck my boat and couldn’t identify it.   I just know that it hit so hard it nearly tipped the boat and made a loud enough noise that Carol heard it - even though she was several yards ahead of me.  The resulting splash rose above my head, and the part I did see was fat and meaty.

Yes, I went kayaking again with my husband that same afternoon.  All things considered, it was a good time.  I plan on buying a kayak for home to use on the lake or river next week.   However, I may stick to the flats next time I’m in the keys and will probably keep the life vest on. No sense in tempting fate!

  

"Name, Address and License Plate"

Being stuck in the office and store doing the same jobs day in and day out 7 days per week can become monotonous.  In fact, the routine becomes so ingrained on you that you sometimes forget what day of the week it is, because one day is exactly like the next.  Unless something so out of the ordinary happens like it did one beautiful summer day…

Because we are a campground, all cars must be registered.  We also require adults to sign a walking waiver that states they are walking at their own risk and will not hold us responsible if they trip or fall.  We were signing in wolf watchers as we do every day, indicating where on the page we need their name, address and license plate number.  The words become a mindless repetition, almost a mantra as we point and repeat “name, address, license plate and signatures of anyone 18 years and older”. 

 A large percentage of the general public do not memorize their license plate numbers and thus have to go out to the parking lot to check.  When I pointed to the book and repeated for the umpteenth time that day “name, address, license plate and signature”, it did not surprise me when the man set the pencil back down and said, “I’ll be right back”.   He returned about five minutes later and tried to hand me the metal rectangle he had just removed from the back of his car. When he saw the expression on my face followed by the burst of laughter, I could almost see the cartoon light bulb over his head when he realized his error.

  “Uh, you didn’t mean you needed the actual plate did you”, he asked with a sheepish smile.

  No, but you have just made my day” I said laughing, as I copied the number into the requisite space.  The rest of the day sailed by with intermittent giggles from staff members. 

 Are there any of us who can say we haven’t had those moments that did not give the impression of having the intelligence we’d like others to credit us with?  Wouldn’t it be nice if we could freeze frame and rewind time to take back something we said or did before anyone would notice?  Personally, I’ve had more of those dim witted moments than I’d care to admit to.  In fact, there are enough expressions out there to suggest it’s not all that uncommon to have had those moments when our own boat may have been in the water without the oars.

 Not the sharpest knife in the drawer…, not the brightest bulb in the pack…, dumber than a stump…, playing with an incomplete deck…a few fries short of a happy meal…not the brightest crayon in the box…a few planks short of a bridge…all foam and no beer…a few screws short of a hardware store…elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor…,couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel…too much yardage between the goal posts…half a bubble off plumb…no lifeguard in the gene pool… an so on. 

How do we recoup some dignity after saying or doing something to spawn a new colloquialism?  Humor.  We have to be able to be the first to laugh at ourselves. Sadly, many people today have lost their sense of humor.  We are wrapped so tight in our own egos that we are unable to accept even constructive criticism.  Mockery and name calling was just as prevalent when I was young as it is today.  What makes it different than what goes on presently is the manner in which the mocking was handled.  There was not a physical or legal retaliation.  There were two simple phrases that raised the protective shield up around us “sticks and stones may break my bones but names can never hurt me” as well as “I’m rubber you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you”.  It’s cheaper than lawyers, and less hazardous than physical attacks.  Sounds stupid or foolish?  Most certainly, but isn’t that what all of us have most in common?  Didn’t Shakespeare sum it up with “all the world’s a stage and the people in it merely players. I'm thinking life is a comedy, and we're a long way from winning the "Oscar".

I suggest you board the midnight TRAIN to Georgia !

I am always looking for new and unique items to sell in my gift shop.  Attending various gift shows whenever possible, I’ve wanted to attend the Atlanta Buyer’s Mart for several years now. This year I was determined to make it happen.  Since I firmly believe that if God wanted me to fly He’d have made me lighter, I opted to drive the fifteen plus hours to get there.  Accompanied by my sister we left a day earlier than planned due to the forecast of snow

We drove through several snow squalls, but nothing much until we were in South Carolina.  Apparently the snow had begun further south several hours earlier.  More than ten hours into the trip we passed several accidents, abandoned cars and detours.  At one point, we were stopped on the interstate for nearly a half hour without moving an inch while an accident was cleared away.  I was overwhelmed with joy when the familiar pink and orange lettering that defined dunkin donuts caught my eye.  I needed coffee like an addict needs drugs.  When the girl cautioned us that there was seven inches of snow less than an hour ahead of us, the stress eating commenced and we broke out the grapes and snacks we had brought along for the trip.    We decided after a few hours of driving in the heavier snow that we were pushing our luck and needed to stop for the night.  At 3 am, twenty miles short of Columbia, South Carolina, we gave in and got a room for the remainder of the night.   As it happened, the most stressful and frightening part of our trip thus far was walking from the car into the hotel. Apparently, plows and shovels are in short supply down south since no attempt had been made to shovel the sidewalks or plow the parking lot! Driving in and listening to the radio, and then watching TV in the motel room, an episode of the twilight zone came to mind.  As the reporter droned on about abandoned cars along the interstate, various school closings, warnings to keep off the roads etcetera, I was prompted to get out of bed and look out the window again to see if there had been a sudden increase in the intensity of the snowstorm which we thought had ended as we were pulling off the highway.  There had not.  At that moment, I decided that all the weather reporters in SC and GA had to most certainly be men, because in actuality, if the seven inches were measured with a ruler, they’d find it was more like 4 inches! A side note to women everywhere, if a man from down south tells you something is 6 inches, you’re in for a small disappointment!
 

By 10am, it was obvious to us that driving conditions would not be improving as the day wore on so we decided to take our life in our hands again and make our way out to the car.  No, they still did not bother to shovel the sidewalk! We could not fathom why this little bit of snow was affecting the entire city.  This would barely cause a delayed opening for schools at home.  Georgia may not get snow that often, but this wasn’t the first snow they’ve ever had. I thought there was no excuse for the roads being in such terrible shape, until we almost reached our destination.   During the last leg of our journey, the interstate was closed completely.  We presumed a horrific accident occurred ahead of us, because we were detoured off the highway.     I couldn’t resist the temptation of becoming the proverbial rubber-necker as we came parallel to the cause of the delay.  It was not an accident at all.  They actually closed the interstate for the plows to drive through, and it became very clear to me why the roads were in the condition that they were.  It was not because an event such as this is rare and they did not have enough plows as broadcasters kept reporting.  Anyone from the north would have been able to see the problem right there…in front of me at that very moment.  The first truck was salting and sanding while the plow followed not five feet behind plowing away the salt and sand he had just spread!      Apparently road crews are native Georgians who have never been north in winter and were never offered any training for this type of weather.  They simply wait for the sun to melt everything away. On the drive in, we wondered what became of the inhabitants of all the abandoned cars along the road, many of which were not in accidents, but merely parked on the shoulder on remote stretches of highway.  Where did the people go? It was as if they were beamed out of the vehicles by an extraterrestrial force.  There was nothing within walking distance of where they stopped. 

We were happy to arrive at the hotel and contacted our uncle who lived  50 minutes away, suggesting if the weather cleared in the next four days, we meet for dinner.  He chided us for not staying with him, but we felt commuting on these icy roads would be foolish and declined his offer.  We regretted that decision the moment we walked into our room.   The black and gray décor was uninviting, and aside from the $182/night there was an additional $30/night parking fee with no in and out privileges.  We were being held captive.   The room had no coffee pot, but came equipped with various built in temptations aimed at getting the maximum amount of money from you as possible.  I was appalled at the prices of the snacks offered for my convenience… A can of soda that would cost 30 cents in the grocery store was $4.00   12 oz. Bottled water $5,  Two small bags of m&m’s… $5, mini bottle of wine… $21 and so on. A cup of coffee in the room was $5. What caught my eye was a small white box with a picture of a large screw on the front.  The label identified it as a “get lucky kit.”  Reading further, it contained a condom, gel, and two breath mints for a mere 11 dollars.     I remember laughing hysterically and stating this may be the only bargain offered by this hotel… two screws for the price of one… one physical and the other financial!  I decided I had to record this by taking a photo with my cell phone.  I propped the box against the wall on the desk to take a better picture.  Then it happened.  The box fell behind the desk! The space was so narrow I couldn’t get it back out.  I panicked!  How would I explain an $11 charge for a get lucky kit on my hotel bill to my husband?  My efforts to move the desk away from the wall were futile. The desk, huge and heavy wouldn’t budge. Struggling for 10 minutes, my sister and I managed to drag the desk about 2 inches from the wall and using a clothes hanger, moved the box close enough to the edge to accomplish the retrieval.  Relieved and physically spent,  I picked up my cell phone, dialed my uncle, and told him we’d be staying with him for the next 4 nights! 

Georgia on my mind...

I walked admiringly around the monument of the waving girl posted along the Savannah riverbank.  The talent of the artist was evident, and it was easy to imagine her mortal likeness running out to the river’s edge. Depicted waving her towel enthusiastically to greet the ships, her dress billowed in the breeze as her dog stood loyally at her side.  This was her claim to fame… it is why she’s immortalized in bronze… she simply ran along the bank waving her towel in greeting as the ships went by.  Was it the size of the ships that traversed this part of the river that spurred her excitement? Or was she really trying to flag them down in hopes that they’d take her away with them to ports unknown, a place that, in her mind’s eye, would be more exciting than here.  After dark, she’d exchange the towel for a lantern.  I’d call that persistence.  Perhaps she just wanted to attract a man…any man!  As the story goes, one day she met a sailor and fell in love; his promise to return to her was never fulfilled.  She never married; forever waiting for her true love’s return… dying years later of a broken heart.  And here she was… preserved after death, waving at ships and still waiting for what would never be.  A shrine to romance or stupidity, I’m not sure.

 Growing up further north, I can recall children stopped playing when a tractor trailer was approaching, and ran to the side of the road pumping their fists in the air until the driver responded with a tug on his air horn.  Yet, no one felt the need to commission a statue to record their actions.  More likely they were yanked back away from the roadside and scolded by their parents for safety’s sake.

I have to wonder… where were the waving girl’s parents?  Did they not tell her that attracting strange men sailing by could be dangerous?  At the very least they could have warned her that some men may be inclined to take advantage of a willing young girl, easily infatuated by the lure of a sailors stories, Especially when they were only passing through, and leaving town unlikely to ever be seen again.  And is this not the south?  What about all the books and movies that depict southern women as anything but free spirits running in wild abandon, greeting any man who sails past them? Is it possible the locals knowingly romanticized the story of a flirtatious young girl, who inadvertently fell in love while looking for a way out?  Perhaps it is why Ray Charles sings of being unable to get peace of mind in Georgia.  And, think of the lyrics of that song (what little there are).  Could he not come up with anything worth singing about?  How did it become so famous?  It makes me wonder if folks here are simplistic or just plain simple.

All things aside, this second trip to Georgia in as many months contrasts with the one previous, in that I would kill for the breeze depicted in the statue standing before me.  It is hot.  And although the faces and demeanor of those around me  are  joyous in the heat now radiating from the sun, rather than the bitter cold and ice that was the weather last time I ventured south of the Border, I was beginning to second guess my choice to  vacation in the Florida Keys.  Georgia is almost half way, and I am feeling a little like Lucifer must have felt as he progressed from the heavenly climate that composed his comfort zone, and was plummeting into hell.  Right now, I am guessing I’m somewhere around purgatory!