Meeting Mark Twain At The Parrish Grove Inn

I’ve always had a soft spot for old historic homes. The allure of a slowed-down life, a place where stories unfolded, lives took shape, and work and play found an inspiring canvas. During home tours, I like to picture the original inhabitants moving through the rooms, rummaging, laughing, cooking meals, making plans.

Most of the time a home tour is the only doorway to these bygone days, but sometimes you get lucky and the sign out front says “Stay. Feast. Gather.” Such was the case with The Parrish Grove Inn, a lovingly restored 1901 home reimagined as a boutique bed and breakfast in Florida’s arts-infused Cocoa Village. 

With our wedding anniversary nudging us to find a fresh way to celebrate, my wife and I brainstormed our options.

Me: “How about dinner at Bonefish Grill.”

Sherry: “We did that last year.”

Me: “How about dinner at Tuscany Grill.”

Sherry: “We did that two years ago.”

Me: “How about king crab legs at home?”

Sherry: “We did that for 10 years in a row. How about booking a room at a cool old-time bed and breakfast in Cocoa Village?”

Me: “We’ve never done anything like that.”

Sherry: “Exactly!”

Forgoing king crab and other fallbacks, we made the reservation and stepped into a world of timeless charm and modern comfort. At the recommendation of our host, Bonny Belle, we chose the Magnolia Room, a spacious retreat complete with a king bed, sitting area, and large ensuite bath.

Sherry was impressed with the spa-inspired bathroom, the plush linens and the champagne on ice left on the dresser for our enjoyment. I, in sharp contrast, was entranced by a book placed casually in the sitting area: The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain. 

What captivated me wasn’t just the appearance of a book featuring a long-gone literary legend – you can order those on Amazon any day of the week. This was something more: A rare first edition of Twain’s collected short stories, published by Doubleday in 1957. That level of nostalgic authenticity doesn’t happen by accident. Fighting the temptation to read a story or two, I respectfully returned the book to its sacred spot on the table and prepared for a night on the town.

 As intended, the evening’s activities were a welcome break from the predictable anniversary rituals of recent years. We walked the village streets like explorers searching for clues to lost civilizations. We ate and drank the food and grog of strangers in a strange land. And long after we had done the occasion justice, we capped it all off with some music, wine and reminiscing back in our room at the Inn.

Hours after we turned in for the night I awoke to a muffled creaking noise downstairs. The sound was soft but persistent and it stirred my curiosity enough to investigate. Tiptoeing down the wooden staircase I caught sight of a man with white hair in a white linen suit sitting in one of the two rocking chairs on the Inn’s front porch. I thought about returning to the certainty of my room upstairs, but something about him made me walk out to the porch and break the solitary silence.

Me: “Good evening, sir. Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Mark Twain?

MT: “Yes, I get that a lot.”

Me: “But, of course, you couldn’t be him since he passed on over 100 years ago.”

MT: “The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

Me: “Ha! That’s so Mark Twain… I mean that’s so you. I mean, you would be over 190 years old by now. That’s impossible.”

MT: “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

Me: “Whoa, it really IS you… or I’m having one doozy of a dream. 

MT: “Both things can be true.”

Me: “Good point. Can I ask what brings you to the Parrish Grove Inn?”

MT: “It reminds me of my home outside Hartford, Connecticut. I loved that old house, did some of my best writing there.”

Me: “Why does this Inn remind you of that?”

MT: “Our old house had a heart and soul, just like this one. It has eyes to see us with, and we live in its grace and peaceful embrace.”

Me: “You know, there’s a first edition copy of your book of short stories in the room my wife and are staying in.”

MT: “I know. The Inn’s stewards, Kristi and Bonny Belle, have done an admirable job of pairing past and present. It’s like I always say: Do the right thing. It will gratify some people and astonish the rest.”

Me: “I’m both gratified and astonished. Hey, before I get out of your hair, can you give this lesser-known humor writer some advice?”

MT: “Sure. Find fresh ways to say routine things. Be a storyteller who appeals to your reader’s emotions, needs and tastes. Make your words crackle with clarity, imagery, and humanity.”

Me: “Wow, thanks. Anything else?”

MT: “I could say more, but that would violate one of my other keys to good writing.”

Me: “What’s that?”

MT: “Don’t be a self-indulgent blowhard.”

Me: “Right! I’ll do my best. Good night, Mr. Twain.”

MT: “Sweet dreams. And happy anniversary.”

###

May I Have A Word With You?

It's over. My one-man crusade to replace the word "awesome" with the word "rousing" has failed. At least it was a sensational experience. Truly thrilling. Fantastic even. Maybe even awe ...... inspiring.

What’s my point, you ask? What an awesome question. I mean… thanks for the astute query into my openly obsessive fascination with words. Let me start over. 

Hello, my name is Alan and I am a word-aholic. My life is fueled, informed and generously flavored with the love of language and playful pursuit of using words in fresh and engaging ways. I don’t always succeed, but somewhere in all the mud is bound to be a golden nugget or two. Allow me to have a word with you…   

* The Word Of The Day is “Dilly-dally.” Don't dilly-dally, DeeDee - I'm done at the deli and ducking into Dunkin' Donuts before my date with Danny downtown.

* Some feel that "sorry" is the hardest word to say. But I've had more trouble with "acetaminophen."

* FUN FACT: I was the originator of the phrases "Stay safe" and "Be safe" and receive 17 cents every time someone posts those words on social media. In the last three days I've made 36 million dollars. Thanks everyone! And be safe.

* And now a word from the National Council On Potato Literacy: Confused about going with a Po-TAY-toe or Po-TOT-toe pronunciation? It's Po-TAY-toe. It's always been Po-TAY-toe. No one in their right mind says Po-TOT-toe.  Are we done here? I think we're done here.

* The Word Of The Day is "Hankering." Example 1: Elmer had a hankering for Helen's homemade sweet potato pie. Example 2: Charlie had a hankering for Helen's homemade banana cream pie. (Editor's Note: Helen makes really good pies that people tend to have a hankering for.)

* I saw a sign outside a Panera Bread that read "Now Hiring - Energetic and Enthusiastic Associates!!!" Lazy, negative candidates take note: The words "energetic" and "enthusiastic" coupled with the three exclamation points means you'll really have to step up your game.

* Life is a mystery, love is a riddle, hi diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle diddle. (Sorry about that, but once you use the word "riddle" in a poem you've pretty much unlocked the door to diddle.)

* The Word Of The Day is “Ping Pong.” Used in a sentence: Ooo eee, ooo ah ah, ping pong, walla walla bing bong.

* Say the word "gown" enough times and it starts to sound really strange. Go ahead and say it out loud several times in quick succession - gown, Gown, GOWN, GOWN. See? It almost sounds like you're speaking a foreign language. What fun!

* A number of words just sound weird. “Overzealous,” for example, sounds bizarre. And “bizarre” sounds goofy, too. Funny thing is, "goofy" sounds fine to me. Are we done here? I think we're done here.

* The other day I caught myself using air quotes in conversations three times, the last time to underscore the words "graham crackers." I have no idea why.

* The Word Of The Day is "Lackadaisical." Alan did not care for the brain surgeon's lackadaisical attitude, but gave him points for his steady cutting technique.

* People use to say "hassle" all the time. "What a huge hassle." "We got hassled by the cops." "She kept hassling me to join her cheese of the month club." I miss hearing hassle pop up in everyday conversation - it was a good all-purpose word for life's numerous aggravations. But it would be a pretty big task to try and revive it. In fact, if you ask me, it's just not worth the hassle.

* The word passion can be used in a wide variety of contexts. "Wes has a passion for backpacking." "Leslie's poems are filled with passion." "Ken and Gwen shared a night of passion." "Alan has a passion for beating a word to death. Case in point: Passion." Are we done here? I think we’re done here.

* While reading an article about fishing I ran across the phrase "fish officials." Maybe it's because I'm a word guy, but the inadvertent wackiness of that phrase gave me a cheap thrill I'll savor for days. (No disrespect to fish officials intended.)

* The Word of the Day is "Fancy-Schmancy." Alan bought a fancy-schmancy $10 bottle of wine to impress his happy hour friends.

* "Waste not, want not" are still wise words to live by. Much better than "Cross the river, eat raw liver."

* Just wanted to mention all the drama and tension at the 35th annual rhyming convention.

* Let my tombstone offer these parting words: "Here lies a man who was quite the kidder and, until now, was not a quitter."

Are we done here? I think we’re done here.

###

Burnt Meadow Boys

Occasionally someone will ask me where I'm from, anticipating a short answer like "Boston," "Denver," or "over by the Dairy Queen."

I wish it were that simple.

To truly understand where I’m from you have to picture a time in America where small towns were everywhere. In the 1960s and 70s, you didn’t have to go too far out of your way to be in the middle of nowhere. 

Welcome to West Milford

West Milford, the rural town I grew up in, sits in the heart of the New Jersey Highlands region, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. It’s home to over 100 miles of hiking trails, nearly 40 lakes, four state parks, and our house on the unpaved, off-the-beaten path Burnt Meadow Road.

My brothers Bob and Jim and I lived on a mountain surrounded by woods and played outside every day from dawn to dusk. It was like we were The Waltons, only without all the sisters and homemade clothes. Despite our remote location, we managed to have a relatively normal childhood consuming seven boxes of cereal a day, playing backyard whiffle ball in the presence of ball-eating horses, and calling each other nonsensical names like “Dinglehiemer” and “Herk-A-Merk." 

Hoops On The Rocks

We would shoot hoops for hours on end in our gravel driveway, stopping only when the ball would carom wildly past the house, down a hill, and into a muddy swamp 50 yards away. 

“It’s your turn to get it,” one brother would say to the other, hoping he would embrace the opportunity to take a romp in the swamp. 

“I quit,” was the other brother’s top comeback. Game called because of ricochet.

For the record, if the NBA played its games on gravel we probably could have turned pro, but hardwood floors ended our hopes of having a Larry Bird-like rise from Hicksville to Hall of Fame.

Whiffle World

When my brothers and I weren’t shooting hoops, we were playing whiffle ball. My dad kept horses in a backyard barn and anything over the corral fence was a homerun. Coincidentally, anything over the corral fence was also our cue to go buy another whiffle ball.  

My brother Jim was the big homerun hitter, earning the nickname “Jumbo Jimbo.” If there was a Whiffle Ball Hall of Fame, he would undoubtedly be enshrined and featured in an exhibit wing entitled “Backyard Fence Busters.” I, on the other hand, took pride in my defensive game, patiently waiting out balls that Jim would hit into trees, eventually catching them before they hit the ground. 

Bob, for his part, was always the designated pitcher, cleverly absolving himself from any share of victory or defeat. His final childhood won-lost record was a perfect 0-0, an incredible achievement considering he pitched in over 400 games.

Story Time

Growing up in a rural town that offered minimal distractions, I was pretty much destined to become a writer. I spent a substantial portion of my adolescence in my room crafting stories of profound insight and starling originality. Just kidding. I mainly directed my efforts at writing stuff goofy enough to get one of my brothers to blow milk out of their nose. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, I knew I was fulfilling my purpose.

While I was busy playing with words, Bob and Jim pursued other passions, from music to motorcycles to the kind of mischief that leaves no serious scars but makes for good stories later. We live different lives in different parts of the country now, but one thing never changes: Whenever we get together we tell the same tales from our childhood and alter certain details to make our respective roles look more attractive.

Who set fire to the woods behind our house? It depends on who you ask.

Who broke mom’s jewelry box and tried to cover it up with a clumsy rearranging of the pieces? Round up the usual suspects.

Who kept putting food in our dog Winky’s dish even after he disappeared for two weeks? There are competing narratives.

Who kept sneaking into the kitchen at night for a snack and leaving only one cookie in the bottom of the bag? Okay, that was me.

Boyhood Unplugged

Looking back, I cherish the way my brothers and I grew up in that simpler, low-tech time. Boyhood was filled to the brim, running and biking and bouncing along, connected to the natural world, each other, and our friends and family. No digital distractions in sight.

Though I've gone on to each new home away from home, part of me will always be that country boy living on Burnt Meadow Road, shooting baskets in the gravel driveway, scribbling ideas and jokes on pads, and wondering where life would take me. 

Today it takes me back, to that time, that town, and the Burnt Meadow boys that I’m glad to call my brothers.

###

Al and Marge

I’m not a big believer in the old adage that opposites attract, but it was certainly true in my parents’ case.

My dad: introverted, outdoorsman, lone wolf cowboy at heart.  My mom: social, spontaneous, quick to make friends and plans.

They met in 1955 in Saddle Brook, New Jersey at a soda fountain called “Gaddy’s.” Soda fountains were at their peak in the 50s, upbeat gathering spots where young people went to enjoy sodas, milkshakes and burgers and listen to the hits of the day on a jukebox. My mom was working as a waitress at Gaddy’s when my dad sauntered in one afternoon, back in town after serving in the Army during the Korean War.

As my mom tells it, she saw this tall, handsome guy with jet black hair walk through the door and she said to herself, “There’s the man I’m going to marry.” Of course, young girls say things like that all the time in a playful, jokey way, but my mom was a woman of her word.

After a lot of milkshakes and a whirlwind courtship, they quietly eloped and got married in June of 1956. I remember it well because I was there. I didn’t want to make a big scene – those were different times – so I kept a low profile. Though just an embryo at the time, I recall thinking “I give this five years tops.” They were young and immature. They had no money. And now they were about to be parents of a newborn who was already questioning their decision making. How wrong I was. 

No one could have predicted the stubborn resilience and plucky perseverance that would propel these polar opposites forward. Like many marriages, theirs became a journey of good times and bad, of peaks and valleys, of sacrifices that they made for each other and for me and my brothers. 

After laboring in some low-paying construction jobs, my dad got his big career break in 1959 when he was hired as a foreman at a chemical plant. It wasn’t a job he ever dreamed about – that would have more likely been rancher, farmer or horse trainer – but it gave he and my mom a reliable income, health insurance, and the foundation to provide for a growing family. 

When I was six, my brother Bob three, and brother Jim a newborn, dad moved the family to a rural New Jersey town called West Milford, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. He converted a ramshackle shed in the backyard into a barn and kept horses throughout my boyhood. We had chickens, grew our own vegetables, and hosted family from the suburbs during yearly summer cookouts and Christmas gatherings. To this day I can conjure up the smell of horse manure just by flashing back to the jobs my brothers and I were assigned as backyard stable hands. It was my dad’s version of paradise, and it suited him perfectly.

My mom was another story. Given her social nature, living in isolation on top of a mountain surrounded by woods wasn’t exactly her fairytale come true. Dad called our place “The Ponderosa” after the family homestead on the TV western Bonanza. Mom might have chosen a less flattering nickname, something more along the lines of “The Boondocks.” To her credit she made the most of it for 30 years, forming close friendships with a few special women who entered her orbit, turning her love of reading into a long-running stint as the town librarian, and eventually going back to school to earn a Master of Library and Information Science degree.

When I was in my early 30s, my parents retired and moved to Florida. For my mom, it was a well-earned release from remote country living and bitter cold winters. For my dad, it was like being tranquilized and removed from an off-the-grid wilderness and plopped down into the middle of a crowded bingo hall. He never completely adapted to living in Florida, but he and my mom spent many good years there, with visits from friends and family, trips back to New Jersey, and periodic pilgrimages to the gambling palaces of Biloxi, Mississippi and Vegas.

Now my dad has been gone for five years and my mom is grappling with some of the challenges that come with time and age. They were married for 65 years, navigating through the decades raising three kids, surviving life’s storms and savoring the rewards of a journey few have the staying power to attain. As Al and Marge, they became a brand name of sorts, loved as a couple and as unique individuals. 

It’s been said that we spend the bulk of our lives in reaction to our parents – whether we strive to follow in their footsteps or vow to chart a course completely different from theirs. As opposite as they were in some ways, my parents shared one singularly important trait that has shaped how I live: decency. They have taught me by example to work hard, act with integrity and honesty, and treat others as I would want to be treated. 

As my life rolls along and the years go drifting by, I’m not as clear-eyed as I once was about many things. But this I know with absolute certainty: I am proud to be the son of Al and Marge Williamson.

###

The King of Small Talk

How are you?

How about this weather we've been having? 

Seen any good movies lately?

Did you lose some weight? 

Any plans for the weekend? 

Don’t mind me. I’m just sharing my gift for small talk. In a world where many don’t look up from their phones enough to converse, I still make the effort. Let’s face it, life is full of far more small moments than big ones, so engaging in small talk is a worthwhile pastime.

“But Alan,” you might say, as we bump into each other at a grocery store, airport or urgent care waiting room. “Walking up to someone and making small talk doesn’t come naturally to me.”

“I feel your pain,” I would reply, conveying a level of sympathy normally reserved for hostage survivors or people who’ve been sitting too long in an urgent care waiting room. During my bashful younger years, taking evasive action at a gathering was my pattern. Give me a drink to nurse and a corner of a room to withdraw to and I was happy to retreat to the sidelines.

Unencumbered by the burden of social interaction, I would unearth fascinating details that would go undetected by other guests. Had they, for instance, read the covers of all 200 CDs in Jan and Gary’s entertainment unit, they would have known that their hosts’ eclectic musical tastes included Mozart Piano Concertos #’s 35 & 41 and Donny Osmond’s Greatest Hits.

The truth is, it took me a long time to build up a comfort level in social situations. Now I welcome them. I’m partial to casually elegant social gatherings at art galleries and museums where I can rub elbows with the cultural elite while nibbling on delicacies like crab cucumber pastries with mustard sauce and mushroom caps stuffed with hummus and yogurt. I’m at my best, I think, when I can share the experience of viewing groundbreaking works of creative genius with others while making insightful comments like the following:

1.) Hmmm .... Such a nicely nuanced interpretation.

2.) So edgy, yet so graceful. 

3.) These nudes speak to me in a way I can't and won't explain.

4.) Towering masterpiece or self-indulgent drivel? I’m on the fence.

My personal awakening came when I discovered that the key to converting social affairs from rituals of torture to opportunities for enrichment is mastering that pivotal moment of first impression: the opening icebreaker. 

After conducting a program of comprehensive, field-tested research (I attended a networking cocktail hour), I have compiled the following list of surefire icebreakers to smooth the way to meaningful connections:

• Hi. My name’s Alan – the oldest of three.

• Hi. I was hit by lightning once. You?

• Hi. Embryo adoptions -- your thoughts?

• Hi. If I knew you were going to undress me with your eyes, I would have worn better underwear.

• Hi. Did you ever have that dream where you're a chain-smoking night clerk at a 24-hour pawn shop and your name is Bernice but your friends call you "Skeeter"?

• Hi. Let’s talk Politics & Religion then tackle the taboo topic of Healthy Holiday Snacks.

• Hi. Excuse me for staring. But you remind me of someone I used to stare at. 

• Hi. I know all the words to Freddie “Boom Boom” Cannon’s 1959 hit “Tallahassee Lassie.” Wanna hear?

• Hi. What a day. First my transmission quits, now I’m told I’ve got a contagious fungal infection.

Go in well-armed with potent conversation-starters like these, and you’re a good bet to blow by social jitters and enjoy a pleasurable give-and-take.

All kidding aside, we each still have a choice. We can take pleasure in living fully in the here and now and open ourselves to each other and the possibilities of the present moment. Or we can spin around and around on an endless racetrack of digital preoccupation and distraction.

In spite of all the fear, paranoia and anti-social gadget-obsessed distraction of this stressed-out, multi-tasking world, there is still value in engaging in our surroundings and being present enough to make a positive connection with other human beings. Even if it’s just a little small talk on our way from here to there.

Well, I better get going. 

It was great talking to you. 

You’re looking good. 

Give my best to the family. 

Let’s keep in touch!

###

Meanwhile Back At The Poetry Reading

In May of 1990 a letter from The New Yorker magazine arrived in my mailbox. I had sent them “Dinner With The Babe,” my poem about a fantasy dinner with baseball legend and big eater Babe Ruth. It began as follows:

I’d serve a lot of hot dogs,

buns and beans and beer.

There’s never too much food around

when Mr. Ruth is here.

He’d come straight from the ballpark,

in uniform and cleats;

we’d talk about his batting stance,

and broads and booze and “eats.”

Naturally, having created such a rare work of nostalgic whimsy, I opened the letter expecting words of praise about my “playful surrealism” and “a marriage of art and life made in baseball heaven.”  Instead, it read as follows:

The Poetry Department will be closed from May 31, 1990 through August 31, 1990. Only topical poems or those scheduled for imminent book publication will be considered during this time. All other manuscripts will be returned unread to the sender. Thanks for your cooperation.

And so began my journey as an unpaid, part-time poet. My early efforts were a mixed bag of pseudo-sensitive pablum, self-indulgent preening, and wordplay gone astray. Take, for instance, this short verse that abruptly dead-ended before hitting its stride:

Life is a mystery, love is a riddle,

hi diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle diddle.

The lesson is a hard one, but when you commit to a rhyming structure, you’ll likely have more losses than wins. In this case, once I used the word “riddle” in my poem, I pretty much unlocked the door to diddle. Similarly, I almost rhymed “Phoenix” with “Kleenex” in an unfinished poem but had to abandon the crusade after weeks of not showering or shaving.

Another pitfall for the aspiring (and sometimes perspiring) poet is the tendency to imitate their heroes. Witness this Dr. Seuss-like verse I wrote to my brother in anticipation of a visit from our mom:

Marge, you’ll find, is a good guest.

She will not say “my way is best.”

She will not squeeze your tube of Crest.

And if you feel you need some rest,

she will not make one more request.

Shameless mimicry aside, I increasingly found poetry to be a potent way to share genuine experiences with clarity, imagery and humanity. My feelings about the menace of a coming hurricane became a piece called “Blow Hard” which ended on a relatable up note about dodging disaster:

In the night it’s hard to slumber,

your house could be a pile of lumber.

You wonder why you’ve been forsaken,

fearing death or endless raking.

Then the danger peaks and passes,

you open doors and nothing crashes.

Slowly, you regain your nerve…

“Yeah, I knew the hurricane would swerve!”

One of the keys to a good poem, I discovered, is to be a storyteller who finds fresh ways to say routine things. The short-form framework of a Japanese haiku – 5 ,7 and 5 syllables on three lines – always got my cut-to-the-chase juices flowing:

Waking up early.

Time to think about the day.

First thought: Get more sleep.

Whistle while you work.

People will love to hear it.

Or they will slap you.

Meet you at midnight?

That’s way beyond my bedtime.

How’s six-thirty sound?

Your secret is safe.

I only told ten people.

They seldom gossip.

Having fun with words is always worth the ride, but the slipperiest slope in poetry may be the love poem. I found that out when I met my wife Sherry and proceeded to try way too hard to flaunt my sensitive nature. Observe:

Rooftop romantics leave no star unturned

for a stroke of luck in the moonlight.

I’ve paid my dues in Sinatra and self-pity, 

unemployed heart, overworked and underfed.

Need I go on or is your gag-reflex fully engaged? 

To this day, sometimes my poetry writing is a series of fits and starts that seems destined to fail in expressing anything of worth. You take words, you stick them together and you see if they convey any meaning – some of them do, some of them don’t. Then there comes a moment in my mind when I see and believe and the words that weren't there keep arriving, whole and true and right. That was the case when I wrote this verse in a poem for my wife: 

Indulge me, dance after dance, 

for I have loitered along the way, 

forfeiting precious time in your arms. 

And my atonement now is to love you 

that

much 

more.

It sums up my feelings perfectly. One might even say “poetically.” I don’t think I could write it any better. Unless, of course, I went for the rhyme: 

Indulge me, dance after dance, 

for I am wearing my best dancing pants.

Okay, not better as a rhyme. Moving on.

###

A Florida Whimp Whines About Winter

Cold enough for you? I’m freezing.

It was so cold this morning, I saw a squirrel wearing a hoodie.

It was so cold, I saw a collie in line at Dunkin' ordering a double expresso.

It was so cold, a raccoon asked me for directions to the Burlington Coat Factory.

Exactly how cold was it, you ask? It was 28 degrees. In Florida. Okay, I’m not expecting anyone to throw a telethon for us. I’m not even expecting an outpouring of sympathy for my discomfort. But after 40 years as a Floridian, I hope you can appreciate the hardship I’m enduring as I face temperatures well below the 75 degrees I’m used to in the winter months.

“Oh, poor baby,” my brother Jim scoffed during an early January phone call. “It’s 14 degrees here in Nebraska and we haven’t seen the sun in six days.”

“But your 14 degrees is the equivalent of our 28 degrees,” I countered lamely, pointing out the blood thinning effect of spending decades in a subtropical steam bath.

“In a few days you’ll be back soaking up the sun,” my brother ventured. “Meanwhile, we’ll be huddled by the fireplace taking swigs from a flask of whiskey and praying our provisions hold out till spring.”

“It was so cold this morning, I saw an egret wearing leg warmers,” I blurted, trying to match melodrama with imaginary wildlife.

Dressing For Distress

One of the first things you notice when the temperature drops is that a Florida cold snap brings out some strange wardrobe adjustments.

While running errands yesterday I saw a woman on a bicycle wearing a heavy winter coat with a hood. She was also wearing shorts. Earlier today I saw a guy wearing sandals, shorts and a heavy knit sweater. In both cases, it's as if their upper and lower bodies came from two different climates and formed an uneasy alliance in search of better weather.

To be honest, I’m not immune to wardrobe confusion either. When you spend the better part of the year in shorts and a t-shirt, assembling an outfit suited for cooler conditions doesn’t come easily. A long sleeve tee and jeans feels like a logical upgrade, but what if the daytime high never gets out of the 50s?

Under the right circumstances, a mid-weight sweater would be a sensible choice, but that depends on if it’s windy or not. Maybe that heavier sweater that feels like wool but is really acrylic needs to be exhumed from the cedar chest. And what of that smell embedded in the garment? Is that the cedar chest scent or the cold sweat ghosts of Christmas’s past?

Whatever ensemble I pick, I’m invariably too warm, too cold, or convinced that the apparel I need was donated to a long-ago clothes drive because “I’ll never need this stuff in Florida.” Think again, Sonny Sockless.

Hunkering Down Until The Temp Goes Up

When the weather got unseasonably cold, my wife and I found ourselves downshifting to a hunker down lifestyle, canceling all plans and priorities that involved leaving the house.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked Sherry, hoping she was as committed to sustaining cozy comfort as I was.

“I’m content just to putz around the house,” Sherry confided, leaving details up in the air.

“Let’s do that,” I agreed. “I think we have our hands full maintaining body temperature. I’d hate to lose focus on that just to feel actively engaged in the world around us. Besides, it was so cold this morning, I saw a sand hill crane wearing flannel pajamas.” (I have a million of them.)

As the chilly days dragged on and the sun kept its distance, we realized that we were no different that most other Floridians: A lucky group of hearty souls who, despite our sun-splash lives, reserve the right to whine about any dip in temperature that makes us reach for a light jacket.

If nothing else, I hope this cold weather commentary raises awareness around the rest of the country that winter's icy assault sometimes effects Florida folks, too.

To my fellow Americans in Northern and Mid-Western States: Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

To my Fellow Frozen-In-Place Floridians: We WILL get through this. Your courage and resilience give me goosebumps.

Of course, that could just be my body’s reaction to the temperature dipping below 60 degrees.

###

My Music Comes With An Echo

I’ve always had a touch of disc jockey in me, much to the bewilderment of a series of ungrateful captive audiences. 

When I got my first record player in the 1960s, I assigned myself the role of family entertainment coordinator, choosing dinner music each night for my parents and brothers. To say my taste were eclectic is a kind way of describing selections that veered jarringly from the Soundtrack to The Exorcist to early Johnny Mathis to the complete collection of the made-for-TV band The Monkees. 

At college in the 70s, I took a late-night shift on the school radio station – a risky move for a morning person who started to fade by 9:30 at night. My solution to the dilemma was to play long cuts from jazz albums so I could duck out of the studio to get some fresh air and strong coffee. This strategy was at odds with my student listeners who hungered for the disco dance sounds of the Bee Gees and Donna Summer. My only regret is that the gig ended before I could spring the Exorcist soundtrack on them.

Cut to ten years ago, when friends of ours bought an Amazon Echo and introduced us to an adopted new family member named Alexa. 

 A voice-activated smart speaker that looks like a pillar candle, you say "Alexa, play 'Traveling Man' by Ricky Nelson" and within seconds you hear the song play. You say "Alexa, play 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' by the Tokens," and on it comes. You say “Alexa, play ‘What A Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong,” and suddenly there’s Louis, as wonderful as ever. 

 I was mesmerized. I was dumbstruck. I was a prehistoric man in a weird new world.

A talking candle that plays music? This strange modern technology confuses and frightens me. For I am but a caveman unfrozen by scientists to experience social media, microwave omelets and the music of Lady GaGa.

My wife and I quickly bought our own Echo. The long-dormant disc jockey in me was back and with millions of songs at my fingertips, I was ready to take a test drive.

I asked for an obscure Burl Ives song from 1952 that my father liked called “One Hour Ahead of The Posse.” Alexa played it.

I asked for a cheesy Elvis Presley cover of “Old MacDonald Had A Farm” from one of his silly movies. Alexa played it.

Thinking she would have to draw the line somewhere, I asked for an old polka tune I learned from my wife’s family called “Who Stole The Keeshka?” Alexa played that, too.

I have to give her credit. Even more impressive than her sweeping musical reach, Alexa never makes me feel self-conscious when I ask to hear songs that are often more than 50 years old. In fact, aside from a slight snickering under her breath, she treats every request with the same instantaneous can-do spirit as the last.

If there are any limitations to the Echo experience, the fault lies with me, the aging disc jockey who has forgotten more than you’ll ever know. Cat Stevens, Sting, Bob Seger, Linda Ronstadt, Paul Simon. These are artists I love but can never seem to think of when I'm standing in front of my Amazon Echo requesting some music. Which is why, on a daily basis, I hear myself say, "Alexa ... play songs by James Taylor." I'm waiting for her to say, "Seriously? Again?"

Now I’ve been to other homes where the Echo is on standby, ready to enhance the lives of its adoptive owners. Strangely, some use its miracle music capacity sparingly, preferring instead to integrate it with various devices for total smart home functionality. 

They say “Alexa, dim the lights to 30%” and suddenly there’s an inviting glow in the family room. They say “Alexa, turn on the fan” and a cool breeze creates convenient comfort without a search for the remote.  “They say “Alexa, set a timer for 20 minutes” and when the final second tics down a pleasant pulsing sound reminds you to take the teriyaki pineapple meatballs out of the oven.

These are all impressive features, to be sure, and definitely worth trying out if you’re looking to have a virtual assistant that does virtually everything around the house you can think of. But for a lifelong wannabe DJ like me, nothing can equal the intensely thrilling ability to say “Alexa, play ‘Under The Boardwalk’ by the Drifters” and be singing along with it seconds later.

The fact that Alexa doesn’t say “Yikes – How old ARE you?” makes it even sweeter.

###

The Wedding Watchers

My wife and I got married 35 years ago this summer and the youngest attendee on the big day was my six-month-old nephew Eric. Flash forward to the summer of 2025 where we watched him and his beautiful bride Julia tie the knot at a church in Nebraska. Talk about a full circle moment.

Back in 1990 at our ceremony, the six-month-old Eric didn’t hold back his emotions, crying openly and unapologetically at the tender ritual enfolding before him. We were touched by his raw expression of joy and silently vowed to return the favor if we were fortunate enough to be invited to his wedding some distant day.

So there we were at St. Thomas More Catholic Church in Omaha, wedding watchers ready to let the waterworks flow. The only hitch was we were feeling much too cheerful to sob. I’ve been to my share of weddings through the years, and for me they generally fall into two categories. There’s the “Good Luck, You’ll Need It” ones, and the “This Looks Like The Real Deal” ones. This was the real deal. 

As I watched the bride and groom exchange vows, I thought back to the first time I saw pictures of Eric and Julia together on social media. They had just started dating and every smiling photo revealed what the passage of time would confirm: these two were madly in love and destined to build a bond that could go the distance. Contrast that with the lifecycle of a typical celebrity marriage:

Week 1: Head over heels.

Week 2: Trouble in paradise.

Week 3: What was I thinking?

Week 4: Drifting apart.

Week 5: I just can't do this anymore.

Week 6: Divorced.

The wedding ceremony and reception were filled with solemn traditions and joyful exuberance, but it’s the little things I’ll remember most, including:

- The bride and groom requesting that there be no cell phones, cameras and other electronic devices at the ceremony so that guests could be fully present in the moment. It was very Amish of them. I loved the low-tech touch.

- Listening to my sister-in-law Sandy read an Old Testament passage during the wedding ceremony that included lines like “Hark! My lover – here he comes springing across the mountains, leaping across the hills!” She brought a quiet dignity to the words that I would have turned into inappropriate comedy.

- Seeing my brothers Jim and Bob looking dapper in suits and ties while remembering our rural boyhood attire of dirty t-shirts and jeans on a par with the cast of The Waltons. Good night JimBob, good night John Boy.

- Discovering the adult versions of my nieces Kristen and Rachel who had grown up to be bright, funny, spirited women. In an uncanny coincidence, Kristen’s husband Scott and Rachel’s fiancé Brent turned out to be bright, funny, spirited men. What are the odds?

- Witnessing my mom embrace her role as the family matriarch posing for photo after photo with guests excited to rub elbows with an historical figure who was also “a hoot.” 

- Looking on from the sidelines while members of the younger generation bounced wildly from one part of the dance floor to the other like human pinballs on energy drinks. When a couple of them fell to the floor near where I was standing, I wasn’t sure if it was a dance move or a dizzy spell. 

- My wife Sherry and I dashing onto the dance floor when we heard the song Tennessee Whiskey, confident we could slow dance our way through it without going into spasmodic gyrations that would risk injury. (We were waiting for a Johnny Mathis tune, but chances are it was not on the playlist.)

- And through it all there was the bride and groom, graceful, gleeful, seemingly everywhere at once and intimately in a world of their own.

So many moments, so many memories. Reflecting on the day, one thing was abundantly clear to me: Eric and Julia are two people who are loved as a couple and unique individuals and who mean a lot to all the people who have shared their journey so far. 

In the eyes of this wedding watcher, it was a truly wonderful day. Here’s to a wonderful life ahead!

###

No Fly Zone

We've all seen the videos. The bear that breaks into a cabin in search of leftovers. The startled deer that takes a detour through a bank lobby. The bull running amok in a china shop. (Okay, I've never seen the bull in a china shop video, but I hear they are rude to the employees and reckless around the breakables.)

Then there’s the case of the uninvited house fly. While videos of this invasive species in action are rare, many can attest to the chaos and trauma they cause. It happened to me last week on what seemed like just another quiet night at home. I was sitting on the sofa watching TV when I felt something on my leg. To my stunned disbelief a fly had landed on my knee and was staring in the general direction of my head as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?” 

Snapping out of my shock, I unleashed a swift and blinding slap to my knee that only a battle-tested house fly could evade. Turns out he was battle tested. He evaded. My adrenalin surged as I stood up and braced for the next encounter.

“We have a fly in the house!” I yelled to my wife in another room.

“Oh no, how’d he get in here?” Sherry shot back.

“I’m guessing a fake ID and help from relatives.”

“Do you think it was when we were bringing in groceries from the garage,” Sherry ventured.

“Or that,” I conceded.

I felt a buzz near my ear and swiped at the sound, smacking myself on the side of the head. Oh, so this is how we’re playing it, you little creep. Go on the aggressive and baffle me with bold assaults to my head and body while I search for the fly swatter. Come to think of it, I don’t think we have a fly swatter anymore. Our old one splintered into pieces after numerous missions in fly-invested territory.

I rolled up a batch of junk mail from our kitchen island and scanned the room. The granite countertop made it hard to detect surface debris or loitering insects, but suddenly I saw him cooling his wings a mere four feet away. Executing the limber lunge of a much younger man, I lifted my arm and struck down with a precision force that only a field-savvy house fly could escape. Turns out he was field savvy. He escaped.

“Any luck?” Sherry asked nervously, looking for signs of property damage.

“Not yet. But my hand-eye coordinating is getting better with every hit,” I boasted. “There will come a moment when he lets his guard down and the last thing he will see is a fistful of junk mail and my victorious glee.”

“Just don’t break anything,” Sherry pleaded.

“You mean like his will to live?

“I mean like the nice things we own.”

An eerie calm fell over our house under siege as several hours drifted by. I searched room by room, ready to take the fight to the fly who entered our private air space and taunted me with a landing on my leg. How had he succeeded in eluding me, time and time again? Did he feel the draft of my attack coming as my hand swept through the air? Should I have distracted him by wiggling an outstretched hand in one direction and coming in for the strike with the other hand? Should I have clapped above him, causing him to become disoriented and fly up toward my hands for an easy capture? So many questions, so little clarity.

That night, as I got ready for bed, I heard a buzz near my ear and knew what I had to do. I slammed the bathroom door shut and grabbed the small roll of paper towels I keep under the sink. 

“It’s just you and me now,” I muttered under my breath. “And only one of us is leaving this bathroom alive.”

I issued a series of rapid-fire wallops as he skirted along the vanity counter and mirror. A couple grazed his wings, sapping his propulsion. He retreated into the shadowy corners of the shower with me and my paper towels in hot pursuit. A clever reverse flight move gave him a last hurrah as I got tangled in the shower curtain, but there was no way out. I finished the job and flushed away my vanquished foe.

“We are finally fly free,” I announced to Sherry as I climbed into bed a few minutes later.

“Oh, wonderful!” She gushed. “Thank you for taking care of that.”

“It was a knock-down, drag-out fight, but I wasn’t letting that little bloodsucker win,” I asserted. 

“Wait… did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That buzzing sound – something just whizzed by my head,” Sherry pointed out. “Fly number two?”

“Oh crap, I hope they’re not related,” I sighed. 

“Let’s buy a fly swatter in the morning,” Sherry suggested.

“Good idea. In the meantime, try not to sleep with your mouth open.”

###

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

How did you sleep last night? Did you get the recommended 7 to 9 hours? Did you wake up refreshed? Did you greet the day in a sleep-deprived fog? Did you toss and turn and wish you could unplug your brain until morning? 

So many questions, so little rest for the weary. For me, almost anything can upset my chances to go deep sleep diving at the end of the day. Cases in point:

Rousing Sporting Events or Movies. What I watch on TV before turning in for the night can either lull or enliven me. Win or lose, a close game that goes down to the final seconds will have me replaying the key moments long after the players have showered and gone home. 

Same thing with a riveting movie that stirs me up, yanks me around, and then leaves me scratching my head about an ending I didn’t see coming. The antidote to this problem is to only watch Hallmark movies where the happy ending is predictable, or sporting events where I don’t care who wins, but that could lead to too much sleep before bedtime and not enough during the night.

Song Lyrics That Live In My Head Rent-Free. Being a word guy, I love the rhythms and flavors of language and how it can make us think, feel, relate and connect. When it comes to lyrics, this is a dangerous attraction that can lead to having a song get stuck on continuous play in your head. 

Take the quirky “Oo-De-Lally” by Roger Miller. It was first featured in the 1973 Disney animated movie Robin Hood and was more recently part of a TV spot for Google Android. It goes like this:

Robin Hood and Little John walking through the forest, laughing back and forth at what the other had to say. Reminiscing this and that and having such a good time, oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, golly, what a day. 

Sounds harmless, right? A simple little ditty unworthy of further reflection or repetition. Tell that to my brain where “Oo-De-Lally” has played on multiple nights this week when I’m trying to fall back asleep after a trip to the bathroom.  

Unfinished Projects. Not getting closure on a project opens the door for some dead of night deliberations. A recent caulking job for a leaking shower stall is a prime example. I bought the caulk, watched 10 to 12 YouTube videos on how to do the job, cleaned out the old, moldy caulk and left the installation of the new stuff for the next day. Big mistake. Being a home handyman of limited ability, I spent half the night replaying snippets of the YouTube videos I had seen and asking myself a series of unanswerable questions, such as:

- Did I buy the right caulk?

- Did I clean out all the old caulk?

- Is one tube of caulk enough?

- Do I have a utility knife to cut the tip off the caulk tube? 

- How do I keep the pressure, speed and angle of the caulk line consistent? Should I practice first on a piece of scrap wood? Do I have any scrap wood?

- Is there a handyman I can call?

All toll, I lost three hours sleep on a project that took me 20 minutes to complete the next day.

Dream Interpretation. Dreams can be fascinating, provocative, perplexing or ridiculous – often all at the same time. This can spark futile attempts to make sense of the senseless at the expense of the shuteye I so desperately need. For example:

I dreamt I was a former child star living in a Winnebago outside of Forest City, Iowa with a small battery-powered TV and a collection of cabbage patch dolls. Interpretation: You’re better off being a late bloomer.

I dreamt my wife and I were contestants on the Amazing Race and got beaten in every event by a bickering lesbian couple from Santa Fe. Interpretation: Sometimes when you lose you win.

I dreamt I was a 400 lb. contestant on The Biggest Loser and tearfully told a trainer "I want to live to see my kids graduate college." The trainer slapped a giant chocolate chip cookie out of my hand and yelled, "Then let's get to work!" Interpretation: Relax, you don’t have kids.

I dreamt I was about to make a game-winning field goal in a big football game, but instead of kicking the ball my shoe flied off and sailed through the goal post. In the ensuing confusion, the refs count it as a goal and I’m carried off the field a hero. Interpretation: There’s a fine line between hero and zero.

Look, sleeping is a natural process essential to the restoration and recovery of vital bodily and mental functions. But “natural” and “automatic” are two different things and achieving the state of mind that produces eight uninterrupted hours of unconsciousness is a fragile pursuit. 

To keep things in perspective and improve your chances of drifting off without a struggle, I suggest reciting the following nursery rhyme each night before hitting the sack:

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray I don’t have thoughts too deep. 

If I should wake with brain waves flowing, I’ll just roll over and say “Not going.”

###

Mr. Radio Breaks His Silence

Throughout my life, I’ve had complete strangers who, upon hearing me speak, ask if I work in radio. I’m always caught off guard by the question, because any time I’ve heard my voice on recordings I cringe at what sounds to me like a nasally camp counselor struggling to convince the rowdy teenagers that I’m in charge. 

“In about five seconds I’m going to start taking away miniature golf privileges. Do not test me!”

My reservations notwithstanding, the comments keep coming. While making small talk at the dentist the other day, the hygienist said, "You have a great radio voice." 

"Actually," I told her, "I sit silently for big stretches of time writing. I might not say a single word for hours" 

"That's ironic," she said.

I suppose she had a point as I look back on years of quietly tapping the keyboard. When I’m thinking things through, my so-called radio voice is reduced to the murmurs and mutters that come with the process of herding words into something worth reading. Ironic indeed.

This whole quirk of nature is truly a mystery to me. My father had a normal speaking voice. My mother does, too. In fact, as far as I know, no other member of my family has been mistaken for an announcer or radio personality, though several have been confused with certified meteorologists.

At times, I’d felt a twinge of guilt about wasting a natural resource like a broadcast-quality voice.  Give the people what they want, I would chide myself. Break your silence and share the gift! Go out and earn the title of “Mr. Radio” instead of disappointing those who already think you are. 

I pictured my enormous face plastered on the sides of buses, all air-brushed and slaphappy like local on-air celebs in every American city. Honk if you love Big Head! I would change my name, of course – something flashy and fade-resistant, with a back story to match. Something like…

Kip Caramia. Bilingual in English and Gobbledegook, Kip is hailed as “the coffee addict’s voice of choice” for his popular morning radio show “Sip a Cup With Kip.” In addition to his on-air impact, he has earned a reputation for speaking eloquently in front of large crowds at business functions without prior knowledge of the function's purpose or the makeup of his audience. His specialty: Winning over audiences by addressing them frequently as "a fine group of buckeroos" and limiting his speeches to exactly 11 minutes. 

Or maybe more like…

Lee Largo. A radio legend renowned for his ability to pronounce difficult words like “incalculable” and “Timothee Chalamet,” Lee is also a Unitarian Universalist minister. His best-selling book, Knock, Knock – Anyone Home?,  became the springboard for a speaking career that has taken him on nationwide tours of second-rate amphitheaters, dilapidated band shells and flea market food courts. 

Or possibly…

Connor Bradley. Beloved by radio listeners for practical pointers like the importance of grunting while lifting heavy objects, Connor’s speaking tours keep him on the road 200 days out of the year, sharing the personal wisdom behind his wildly popular podcasts and seminars. His many nuggets of inspiration include such penetrating insights as:

“Happiness is a choice you make when you feed your subconscious the nutrition of yes.”

“You prepare for greatness by maximizing your must-ness.” And, most profoundly…

“Dare to embrace your inner hero and your worries will surrender to the odor of your aura.”

The dirty little truth behind these absurd sayings is that if you come equipped with a voice that sounds microphone-ready, people will lap them up and label you brilliant. How can I make such a bold statement, you ask? It’s because as Mr. Radio I’ve walked the walk and talked the talk. 

But alas, that’s not the road I’ve traveled. Except for some late-night deejaying in college and the occasional voiceover gig during my time in advertising, I’ve been mostly radio silent. So when people compliment me on my voice, I simply tell them that my secret is to drink plenty of warm water with honey and lemon. Also, that I'm the bastard child of iconic game show host Wink Martindale. (Wink, wink.)

Reporting live from a quiet corner of my home, this is Mr. Radio signing off.

The Art of Aging Gratefully

As each passing year has snuck up and shoved me a little further into senior citizenship, I am struck by how my view of the world and myself keeps changing. Consider these revealing signs of age-related evolution:

• I refer to people who drive any faster than I do as “maniacs.”

• My idea of hitting the club scene is shopping at Costco.

• I moved to a 55 Plus community so that when I use bygone words like “transistor radio,” “Mickey Mantle,” or “the Sears catalog” people know what I'm talking about.

• I divide my life into two periods: “The Agricultural Age” when I could eat everything in sight and not gain weight, and “The Information Age” where I read everything in sight about eating better to lose weight. 

• I say things like “Be careful, it’s a jungle out there” and “Can someone please explain to me why a baseball player is worth $10 million a year while a teacher only makes $35,000?”

• When I pull a muscle, twist an ankle, or otherwise injure myself in even a minor way, I know from experience that my recovery time may parallel the duration and comfort level of hiking cross country while pushing a barbecue grill. 

After another year rushed by and propelled me forward, I decided to launch an all-out search for the deeper meaning of my life. Conveniently, I found it on a celebrity website where I read that Rod Stewart, George Foreman and Frank Sinatra Jr. were all born on the same day as me. This is a truly fascinating piece of trivia since I’ve always thought that if you could somehow genetically combine those three men, you’d wind up with me. 

Okay, I haven’t always thought that, or even thought it once prior to seeing their names linked together by a random date on the calendar, but trivia always make me take a serious look at things.

Take the gray hairs that are appearing on my head in growing numbers. I tell myself that the gray I’ll be seeing in the mirror from here on out will come so gradually that almost nobody will notice. Oh sure, kids can be cruel (“Look mommy, it’s Wolf Blitzer!”) but most people will be too busy staring at their phones to separate the salt from the pepper.

Besides, I have come to see the significance of things like gray hairs as symbolizing the seasons of life. In case you hadn’t thought about it before, in your teens and 20s you’re in the springtime of your years. By the time you hit your 30s and 40s you are in summer. I’m in my late 60s. It’s mid-October from where I’m standing and I’m not in any hurry for the autumn leaves to fall.

Hey, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Well, not my whole life. But part of the fall and all of winter. With daily walks, a good multi-vitamin, proper colon care and afternoon naps, I should be able to keep that youthful spark that makes life worthwhile for us aging boomers.

One thing I know for sure at this stage of the game: It’s a nice place to get to in life where nothing much dazzles you but you have a quiet appreciation for many things. I’m there and I do.

Life is precious and tomorrow isn’t promised. So enjoy every sunset. Every sandwich. Every song. Every laugh. Every hug. Every new morning. Every old friend.

I think Oliver Wendell Holmes put aging in the best perspective when he said, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” In my case, I’ve discovered that what lies within is a nine-year-old boy who, in spite of evidence to the contrary, thinks if he runs across the lawn fast enough and jumps in just the right way, he can one day fly. 

Aging gratefully? You bet I am.

###

My Wild Lake Life

Let me confess something right up front: My vision for a happy retirement was to live on a golf course in Central Florida. It has nothing to do with my love of golf or my desire to awaken a dormant gift for the game in my golden years. 

Truth be told, I’ve never played golf and don’t know if I ever will. It’s just that after years of being surrounded by houses on zero lot lines, my wife Sherry and I longed for the scenic buffer the green space of golf would give us.

So how did we wind up living on a lake? I guess you could say some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted but getting something unexpectedly exceptional instead. 

With close to a year of swinging and missing in our golf villa search, we decided to expand our criteria. I let our realtor know that in addition to a golf course, our next home could back up to a preserve, park, lake or pond. When a lake house turned up shortly thereafter, we pounced like a Great Egret plucking a passing fish from the shallow water.

Egrets and Heron and Deer – Oh My!

Thanks to its tropical climate and numerous wetland habitats, Florida is home to over 500 native and migratory birds. Many of these diverse species have thoughtfully given me a chance to improve my bird knowledge by frolicking in full view outside my screened patio.

“Look – it’s a suburban butternut stork,” I excitedly alert my wife, hiding my limited avian expertise behind a façade of feathery wordplay. “They’re unapologetically omnivorous and feed on frogs, lizards, small rodents, and pan-fried crab cakes.”

“That’s a Great Blue Heron,” Sherry corrects me, having Googled “Florida birds” and given herself the aura of an Audubon Ambassador. “They’re actually skilled predators that feed on fish, rodents, frogs, reptiles and small birds.”

“It’s good to be at the top of the food chain with them around,” I joke, grateful for the unearned advantage.

The egrets and herons are almost daily guests in our well-attended lake show, along with periodic visits from pelicans, ibis, sandhill cranes, ducks and Roseate spoonbills – a bizarrely-conceived creature that looks like a cross between a flamingo and a kitchen gadget.

My favorite tourists are a mama deer and her fawn, who occasionally make their way slowly from yard to yard, foraging on leaves, twigs, stems, and plants. It’s a hard way to eat more salad, but they seem to manage it. 

The fawn is rambunctious, often leaving the mother’s side to explore some curiosity a few houses away. I sense the protective instinct kicking in, and in echoes of mothers everywhere I can imagine her yelling, “Hey, what did I tell you about running off? Now get your tail back here before you wind up missing like your cousin Venison!”

Later Gator

Once in a while we’ll spot an alligator quietly floating along. Some people say that living by a lake where there are alligators is dangerous. But I say driving a car is much more dangerous. Especially if there’s an alligator hiding in the backseat.

One day I noticed a gator uncomfortably close to the water’s edge eyeing an ibis that was pacing back and forth a few feet away. I hurriedly grabbed my binoculars anticipating a deadly encounter between predator and prey. After several minutes of tension-filled inactivity, I asked myself a practical question: Do I really want to witness an act of swift and brutal violence that will stay tattooed on my brain forever? The answer was no. That’s what R-rated movies are for.

Fortunately the ibis flew away, the gator moved on, and I made a mental note to avoid scenes of horrific mayhem. I haven’t watched the news in three weeks.

Going Deep

When friends come to visit they sometimes ask what goes on out on the lake.

“Can you swim in it?” No, I say.

“Boating?” Again, no.

“Can you kayak, snorkel, waterboard?” Not a chance.

When the questions run their course, I patiently explain that our lake is one just for looking at – a haven for wonderful wildlife, a magnificent mirror to the sun and moon, and a peaceful source of reflection and inspiration.

For those who crave a murkier portrayal, I tell them I’m working on a new mystery novel entitled “Looking In The Lake.”

What’s in the lake? Who is looking? How deep is the water? Are there weird fish? Is a pretty town girl missing?

I fear I’ve said too much already.

###

What's New At The Zoo

I read somewhere that 80% of the Earth's species have yet to be discovered. Or as one of the undiscovered species likes to put it, "I'll be waiting next time you take the garbage out at night, home boy."

After a recent trip to Central Florida’s Brevard Zoo, I’ve got good news: the missing species search can be cancelled. They’re here. Okay, maybe not every single one of them, but excluding Big Foot and the Loc Ness Monster, the zoo is teeming with obscure and exotic creatures. Skeptical? Let me introduce you to a few.

White-Nosed Coati. Resembling a cross between a raccoon and a opossum, these omnivores have long supple snouts well suited for foraging in crevices, holes and, if given access, couch cushions. Female coati band together in groups while the males live solitary lives, except during breeding season when they can be found hanging out at bars reeking of cologne and waving their tails seductively.

Black-Crowned Cranes. Hailing from West Africa, these rare birds are known to form loving, exclusive relationships with a partner. Royal and Goose, the Brevard Zoo’s resident black-crowned fun couple, can often be seen dancing and flirting with each other. When their habitat wanderings leave them temporarily separated, they let out loud squawking sounds to make sure the other is still nearby. Once reunited, they taper off to a soft clucking noise and downplay their previous panic saying things like “just playing” and “I really had you going there.”

Two-Toed Sloth. There’s slow and then there’s sloth slow. These laid-back mammals spend most of their lives in trees, and because their metabolism is so sluggish, they don’t come down for days on end before needing to eat or relieve themselves. During our visit, a zoo worker told us that an 18-year-old sloth named Sammy we were looking at was pregnant. “Pregnant!?” I blurted in mock disbelief. “I didn’t even know she was dating!”

Alligator Snapping Turtle. Look, it’s an alligator! No, it’s a snapping turtle! Wait – is there such a thing as an alligator snapping turtle? The answer is yes, his name is Capone and he’s swimming right toward you with his bone-crushing jaws and dinosaur-like tail. Good thing he’s incased in his aquatic habitat and you’re on the outside wondering how you could get a selfie with him and live to tell about it. According to one of the animal caregivers at the zoo, Capone is “smart, engaging and silly,” much like a reptile Ellen Degeneres.

While getting to know all the zoo’s colorful creatures, it’s required that visitors follow a few basic rules of the wild.

-  Do not make animal sounds that mimic wildlife in an insensitive way. (In my defense, I thought my orangutang impression was spirited but respectful.)

- No feeding the animals unauthorized food. Translation: Spare them the disgusting slop you shove down your pie hole on a daily basis.

- Leave your pet at home. The zoo’s animal population has plenty of diversity without adding your cockapoo or blue tick hunting hound.

- No shirt, no shoes, no zoo admission. Unless there’s a Tarzan lookalike contest that day, then a tasteful loincloth and body oil is permissible.

- When petting a female kangaroo, refrain from saying things like “is that a baby in your pouch or are you just packing on the pounds.” (They won’t get a kick out of it, but you will. A nasty bite, too.)

- Visitors who carry a journal with them to take notes should guard it closely around the spider monkeys. They will snatch it and read embarrassing entries out loud, such as: “My Dearest Darling, Oh how I ache for your tender touch, your hairless face against my tattooed neck.” (Real funny, Coco. Hope you never have a journal go missing.)

- If you think an animal has whispered the words “get me out of here” to you, you may be experiencing a heat exhaustion hallucination. Seek shade and hydration immediately, preferably away from the alleged disgruntled animal. They are either a figment of your imagination or an ungrateful troublemaker – either way, your best move is to sever ties.

Keeping these sensible guidelines in mind, you owe it to yourself to plan an outing at the zoo soon. The confining cages of the past have given way to energizing open-air habitats where wildlife of all kinds can thrive.

Chances are, you will discover some animals you never even knew existed. And trust me, it’s better to meet them at the zoo than the next time you take the garbage out at night.