Month: March 2020

Coping with a Pandemic

A week ago, we drove home from Florida in somewhat strange circumstances. Our plans had changed dramatically since we first embarked on an extended vacation. Our planned stop at a casino in Mississippi was cancelled due to the closing of all casinos. Everywhere we stopped for food, we were told we could carry food out, but not sit down in the dining room. In Huntsville, our plans for two days of basketball excess during the NCAA Tournament with Kristin and Kevin transformed into card games at home, since there was no tournament. Our anticipation of the opening of baseball season was cut short abruptly.

Perhaps the most surreal moment came in Illinois when we were staying in a hotel. We stopped in a local Walmart near the hotel to pick up a few things, and it was like the circus had come to town. We had been pretty isolated for two weeks and had avoided all crowds, but this place was jammed. Some had masks on, while others had grubby T-shirts pulled up over their mouths (Yeah, that will help). I saw several Amish people shopping there, for TVs and I-Phones, I presume. People waited in line with carts full of toilet paper. In the parking lot as we headed out to our car, we saw a man with a surgical mask. That’s fine, except that his mask was pulled down to his chin, and he had a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. At least his chin was protected.

We have been pressed into extra duty taking care of the grandkids while Ben and Amber, both doctors, work at the clinic. We worry about them and what could happen if they are exposed to the virus repeatedly. They are being extremely cautious, however, and have not yet had to deal with any cases of Covid-19. The weather has warmed up, and the last of the snow finally melted away, so I have been taking the kids on hikes through the woods that border the golf course near us. We have collected bags full of lost golf balls and recyclable trash that we have found. We also taught them how to play Hearts and Spades, and they are getting pretty good. Lucas, the six-year-old, can’t read yet, and he can’t fan out 13 cards in his tiny hands, but he sure knows how to make an accurate bid on a Spades hand. This week was actually their spring break, so we have let them relax and play most of the time. Next week, though, our classes begin. I hope they are ready for AP-level history classes and some intense PE workouts. Their other grandparents just returned from a cruise, so Amber has had them in quarantine for two weeks. They will finally get to see the kids on Sunday.

The number of people that have lost their jobs nationally is staggering. Something like 3.3 million new jobless claims were filed last week, six times the old one-week record from 1982. You can’t imagine what a gut-punch that is for individuals and families that have done everything right, but now have to wonder what they will do in the future. I distinctly remember the 1982 event, because I was laid off from my factory job. That economic slump was what economists call the “Reagan Recession” when drastic cutbacks in government spending caused many businesses to shut down or reduce their workforces. I remember that Monday morning after the layoffs, waiting in a long line at the unemployment office with my dad and my brother, Dan. Dan and I were young and single, we lived together, and we figured we’d get by. But my dad was in his mid-fifties, with an 8th-grade education, few skills, and with several children still living at home. As we waited in the cold, I looked at his face and saw fear there for the only time in my life. I recall that look today and imagine it on 3.3 million faces.

Yesterday morning, it was in the forties and sunny, so I took a long walk down the river and along Main Street. I didn’t encounter a single other walker, biker, or jogger, despite the magnificent weather. Downtown was deserted, with all restaurants forced convert to carry-out business in order to stay alive. I recently saw an interview with a guy who hosts one of those cooking shows on TV. He predicted that 75% of all independent restaurants will never re-open, explaining that most of those businesses barely survive in the best of times. If he is right, all of those jobs associated with small businesses will also disappear. Those thoughts ran through my head as I walked past a restaurant called the Copper Kettle near the university. We had eaten there once and found it to be a warm, friendly, family sort of place. As I wondered if they’d be able to weather this storm, I noticed the marquee above the door and got chills. It said, “Building for Sale” with a phone number. It has already started. If you read any of my early blogs, you know that I have been completely charmed by this wonderful little town. One of its most attractive features is that small, family-owned businesses have thrived here, while few corporate entities operate in town. I am saddened as I wonder how long that situation will continue and what that might mean for the character of this terrific place.

As a feeling of disbelief and helplessness enters each of my virus-related conversations with Kathleen, we ask ourselves what we can do. All I can suggest is do something. If you can, donate money to some local charity. We have sent a check to our food bank in town. They normally accept non-perishable food items, but because of fears about the virus, they are requesting money instead. Support a local business. We have decided that at least twice a week, we will order take-out from a local restaurant. This will be a little inconvenient, and it will cost more than cooking our own meals, but, if enough people do this, it might help other businesses from going the way of the Copper Kettle. Reach out to your elderly neighbors who might be afraid to venture into stores. They might need supplies of food, and you can make a shopping run for them. These are small things, but this is the time for us to help each other. Please use the comments space if you have further suggestions on what we can do to help.

Finally, stay safe and take care of your families. Conversations with Ben and Amber have impressed upon me the danger of this thing. Listen to the actual scientists such as Dr. Fauci and the doctors and nurses on television. Our President, who is primarily interested in posturing and boasting about his imaginary achievements, has actually made things worse by denying the truth and giving statements that are dangerously misleading at best, outright lies at worst. Practice social distancing, hand-washing, and all of those other things that seemed so silly a few weeks ago. We’ll get through this crisis, but we’ll have to lean on each other in order to do so.

Watering Holes

Since we left Wisconsin, the coronavirus situation took a bad turn in a hurry. We were lucky enough to attend a spring-training baseball game (Cardinals vs. Red Sox) in Fort Myers just before all such games were cancelled. Also our plans to watch the SEC basketball tournament here, and the NCAA tourney in Huntsville with Kristin and Kevin came to a screeching halt as those events were called off. Suddenly we were scrambling for things to do on this trip. We also wanted to avoid crowds, as everyone was warning us to “socially distance” ourselves. I had never before heard the term used as a verb, but we tend to stay to ourselves anyway. Kathleen said it best when she commented, “We practice social distancing as a lifestyle.” With our life savings having disappeared over the past week, I also thought that this might be our last vacation for a while. The first thing that occurred to me was that we could explore the various bars, pubs, and restaurants in the area, and I could call it “research.” After all, no academic worth his salt would go on a two-week vacation without including at least one research component. So, I decided that we would study the bars in and around this resort town.

The first thing we noticed was that there was no shortage of such places around here. So many bars and so little time! We arrived in Punta Gorda on Monday afternoon hungry and in need of a late lunch. Our wonderful hostess sent us a set of instructions for the house, but also included some recommendations for eating and drinking establishments. When we saw an Irish pub on her list, we headed for the Celtic Ray in the downtown area. They had a clever t-shirt that read, “Authentic Irish Pubs in Punta Gorda,” with nine boxes for the names of such pubs. One read Celtic Ray—the rest were blank. We had a couple of Irish beers and ate some fish and chips in the outdoor garden. That started a pattern for us, and we wound up eating outdoors in nearly every place at which we stopped. I have decided that eating al fresco is one of life’s great pleasures, weather permitting, and this area offers plenty of opportunities for such activities.

As you might guess, many of the places around here are built around nautical, fishing, or pirate themes. The Blue Turtle, Harpoon Harry’s, TT’s Tiki Bar, Nav-A-Gator, Hurricane Charlie’s, the Portside Tavern, Manatee Pizza, and the Low-Key Tiki, are just a few examples of food and drink establishments in the area. One place that specialized in craft beers is called the Belgian Monk and used the slogan, “Beer, Food, and Absolution.” I like that idea. Another one I enjoyed is called Shorty’s Place. It was definitely a dive and had the feel of a biker bar, complete with a gravel parking lot, despite being located in the upscale, downtown area of the city. I was attracted by the sign out front which read, “Today’s Special: Drinking Lessons.” The food and drinks were cheaper there than most places, but I think I liked it more than Kathleen did. Too many guys at the bar reminded her of my brother Gary.

Many of these bars had live music, and I was struck by the number “Tribute Bands” listed in the local papers. Some of these bands covered songs from the usual suspects, Elvis, the Beatles, Jimmy Buffett, and the Rolling Stones. Other bands surprised me, though, such as those featuring performers imitating the Eagles, Linda Ronstadt, John Denver, and even Simon and Garfunkle. After observing the age of the people we saw in the restaurants, I guess the bar owners know their clientele. It is also telling that many of these places close at nine or ten o’clock.

As we checked out these watering holes, we kind of used a sliding scale of who we knew that would enjoy that particular place. On one end of the scale was our son, Ben, and his wife, Amber. They are the youngest people on the scale, but also the most sedate. They are both doctors and rarely have more than one drink in an evening. The places they would enjoy would score well on the respectability spectrum. The Blue Turtle would definitely appeal to them—even the slightly disturbing purple mashed potatoes. Near the other end of the scale are our daughter, Kristin, and her husband, Kevin. Let’s just say that they like a good time. A bar that has a pool table or a dart board would rank high on their list. We found such a bar just a few hundred yards from our house as the crow flies. Because of the convoluted nature of the rivers, creeks, and canals around here, however, it takes about ten minutes to drive there over a serpentine route. You take a side road off of the Tamiami Trail, and turn left onto a side road off of that side road, then follow it around until the pavement ends at a seedy-looking marina. There you will find the Alligator Creek Bar and Grill. It is a friendly place with daily food specials, cheap margaritas at all times, and half-priced beer, wine, and cocktails from 5:00 on. The last time we went there, we met the owner at a table doing the books, his wife behind the bar serving drinks, and their daughter waiting on our table. There are only about eight parking spots out front, though, because most of their traffic arrives via boats on Alligator Creek. They just tie up to the pier and have some lunch or get liquored up before continuing on their journey. After eating dinner there, Kathleen and I played darts for an hour. Kristin and Kevin would approve.

At the very far end of our scale are places that my brother, Dan, and his wife, Esther, would enjoy. In his younger days, Dan not only enjoyed a cocktail, but he might also welcome a good brawl to top off the evening. Like all of us, he has mellowed (a little, anyway) as he has aged, but some of my fondest memories involved evenings with him in bars that had a little danger or adventure connected with them. The Dollar Bill Bar on Cabbage Key island practically reeks of adventure. I first came across this place in a scene in one of those fictional books I read on our drive south. The author of the other book I read, Randy Wayne White, frequently pulls his boat up to the dock and enjoys a beer at this bar. In fact, an autographed picture of him rests on the piano. It was easy to get to Cabbage Key. We simply drove south and west for 45 minutes, took a boat from Island Girl Charters to North Captiva Island, and finally, after about an hour on the water, we got dropped off on the dock in front of The Cabbage Key Inn and Restaurant (the official name). Cabbage Key is a beautiful, tropical island with no connection by road or bridge to the mainland. It consists primarily of an inn, several cottages, and the aforementioned restaurant and bar. The island was purchased for $2500 in the 1920s and the quaint inn was built as a second home by the family of author Mary Roberts Rineholt (sort of the American version of Agatha Christie). When we arrived, we first took a short walk on the nature trail. Kathleen made it past the alligator warning signs, but the pictures of native snakes did her in, so we headed to the bar.

The bar is legendary. It is a tiny place, but it spills into the surrounding rooms making the restaurant something of a labyrinth that goes in all directions. The story goes that a local fisherman came in one day after an unusually successful catch. He was flush with money at the moment, but he taped a couple of dollar bills with his name on them to the wall. He said he knew he would run through his money quickly, and he wanted to leave a buck or two so he could still get a beer during the inevitable lean times. A tradition and a new nickname for the saloon were born that day. Today, amidst the mounted fish, faded photos, and other odd paraphernalia decorating the walls, are decades’ worth of signed dollar bills left by visitors. It is estimated that there are 75,000 of them. As the tape wears out and the bills fall to the floor, they are collected and donated to a nearby children’s charity. They give about $14,000 a year to the charity in this way. Among the celebrities who have bent an elbow at this famous bar are Ernest Hemingway, Katherine Hepburn, Jimmy Buffett, Kevin Costner, Ted Koppel, and Julia Roberts.

We were among the first people in the bar at about 10:45, and we moved into the restaurant for lunch a short time later for the first sitting. I ordered a cheeseburger just so I could say I had eaten a cheeseburger in paradise. By the time we finished our burgers and key lime pie, however, every seat was filled, a line stretched out the door and down the hill, and the dock was a chaotic mess with dozens of boats and yachts jockeying for the few spaces available to tie up. Apparently, lunch is a big deal on Cabbage Key, and this sleepy little island turns into a boating Mecca for several hours a day on weekends.  It is overrun with tourists and boaters for a while, but by evening, it transforms back into an idyllic island paradise without most of the trappings of the modern world. The trip to Cabbage Key was expensive and relatively lengthy, but it was also fascinating, and I’m glad we took the trouble to go.

Well, I have to stop this prolonged research report: happy hour at Alligator Creek begins in a few minutes.

Floridays

Most of the people who retire to Florida are wrinkled and they lean on a crutch;

And mobile homes are smothering the Keys; I hate those bastards so much.

I wish a summer squall would blow them all, way up to Fantasy Land;

They’re ugly and square, they don’t belong here, they looked a lot better as beer cans.

            –Jimmy Buffett, Migration

I have always had mixed feelings about Florida. Growing up in Chicago, the state always had a magical appeal as a place where it was always warm, and it never snowed. Then I lived in Florida for eight years starting in 1989, and Kathleen joined me when we married in 1991. I was studying and teaching at the University of Florida at the time, and we thoroughly enjoyed our time there. Gainesville is different than most of the rest of the state, however, as it is not on water, and it is not a tourist destination for most people. On this recent trip, as we drove south through the state, traffic became steadily more congested, and most of the coastal areas we could see were heavily developed with expensive homes and high-rise hotels and condos. Usually, the building of new residential or commercial areas in Florida comes at the expense of the natural environment and endangers a fragile ecosystem. In many ways, this has been the story of Florida since 1912, when Henry Flagler’s railroad first stretched down the east coast of the state to Key West and opened south Florida to development by wealthy northerners who wanted winter homes in a warm climate.

We are staying in the home of a friend in a subdivision called Burnt Store Isles. The area and the twenty-mile-long road that gives it its name come from a story that is shrouded in mystery and legend. Apparently, there was a trading-post store near here in the 1840s that was damaged by a hurricane and a fire. Whether the fire was from a natural (e.g. lightning) or intentional source (e.g. angry Seminole natives) is part of the mystery, but I love those place names that result from historical events in the distant past. This home is gorgeous, with most of the living space in an open, high-ceilinged room that contains the kitchen, living room, and two dining areas. The large room faces a great screened patio with another dining area, a small, heated pool and hot-tub, and a comfortable deck. To top it off, the home sits on a canal that winds its way to Alligator Creek and, eventually, to the Gulf of Mexico. This morning, I sipped coffee on the dock while watching 12-16-inch fish go airborne pursuing insects and seeing a family of alligators circling nearby in search of breakfast.

While walking in the mornings, I have been confronted by my conflicted feelings about Florida. Most days, I walked along a bike path that parallels Highway 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail (A contraction of “Tampa-to Miami”). Regarded as an engineering marvel when it was built in the 1920s, the road traversed a 275-mile route that included “America’s Last Frontier,” the Everglades. Walking next to mangrove swamps just after dawn reminded me that, no matter where you are in the state, you are never far from nature in a raw form. Let’s just say that “pest control” people around here earn their keep. Whether it is native species such as alligators, crocodiles (there are still a few remaining in brackish areas), and bobcats, or invasive critters like wild boars, you are usually within a stone’s throw of some animal that would love to prey on your pet or destroy your backyard garden. Most disruptive of all are the Burmese Pythons that grow to over 20 feet and can kill full-grown gators. Native to SE Asia, the first of these pythons were spotted in the Everglades in 1980. Their population is growing rapidly, however, and today it is estimated that over 300,000 of them live in Florida. And don’t even get me started on the insects. Needless to say, I kept a wary eye to my right as I walked each day.

Then I returned to the subdivision in which we are staying, and some startling contradictions slapped me in the face. The homes in Burnt Store Isles are beautiful and well-maintained. As the sun rises each morning, a small army of gardeners and landscapers flood into the area in the never-ending struggle to tame nature and keep it at bay. As the day unfolds, the cacophony of new construction can be heard over the soothing sounds of the natural environment. I have discovered that this sub-division was a wilderness of mangrove swamps just 25 years ago. Developers dredged out a regular pattern of canals so that every home here sits on the water and the owners can be close to nature. This all reminded me of the irony that, fifty years ago, Walt Disney clear-cut an actual jungle near Orlando in order to build an artificial one for the Jungle Cruise ride in Fantasyland. These thoughts are intended to be observations, not judgments. I don’t have any answers—after all, what the hell do I know? Lots of questions occur to me, though, and the obvious one is, How much development is too much?

Yesterday, we purchased a local newspaper and two front-page stories jumped out at me. In both cases, once-thriving communities of rental properties, small houses, and mobile homes had been bought out by developers. Now the inhabitants, many of them Vietnam vets, retired folks, or elderly people on limited, fixed incomes, have been ordered to leave so that more new, high-end homes could be built. Like the native animals and Seminoles before them, these people were being forced to move so that someone else could make more money.

I know I sound like the classic outsider criticizing the people who actually live here all the time. After all, I am staying in a wonderful house in a wonderful subdivision, and we are grateful for every minute of it.  I also need to stress the fact that, despite my jaundiced view on some aspects of this state, there is still something intriguing and appealing about Florida, and I can’t help but think it’s an incredible place. The warm air and sunshine certainly feels good after a River Falls winter. The tropical breeze carries flowery scents that I haven’t enjoyed for a long time. The numerous bars around here have exotic drinks and live music, and they generate a festive atmosphere at all times. (More on this in the next installment) And no matter where you are in the state, you can drive to the ocean or the Gulf of Mexico in an hour or less. Hell, I’d like to live here all the time, despite Florida’s flaws.

So, I’d like to finish with another quote from that same Jimmy Buffett song. He was speaking of the Caribbean in general, but the idea certainly applies to my feelings about Florida.

If I ever live to be an old man, I’m gonna sail down to Martinique.

I’m gonna buy me a sweat-stained, Bogart suit and an African parakeet.

And then I’ll set him on my shoulder, and open up my trusty old mind.

I’m gonna teach him how to cuss, teach him how to fuss,

And pull the cork out of a bottle of wine.

On the Road

In the early 1950s, Jack Kerouac left his home in New York City and took a little trip. He traveled across the country while driving with or meeting some of the most prominent writers of that era, including William S. Burroughs, Alan Ginsberg, and Neal Cassady. When he finished his vacation and began to write, referring to stacks of notebooks he had filled during the epic journey, he found traditional typing too slow to keep up with the racing thoughts in his brain. So, he taped stacks of tracing paper together into one, continuous, 120-feet-long piece of paper, fed one end into his typewriter, and filled it with stream-of-consciousness thoughts without punctuation, paragraph breaks, or margins. It took his editor four years to turn the mess into a publishable book. The end result, however, became the classic novel of the “Beat Generation.” That 1957 book, On the Road, chronicled his frenzied travel adventures fueled by jazz music, manic energy, and mind-expanding drugs; it became a key document for the counter culture during the decade that followed.

Kathleen and I recently embarked on a more sedate version of Kerouac’s odyssey, minus, of course, the jazz, the energy, or the drugs (unless you count Kathleen’s blood-pressure medicine). We traveled down to Florida for a week’s stay in Punta Gorda, stopping along the way in Champaign, Marion, Illinois, Huntsville, Alabama, and Perry, Florida to visit with friends and relatives.  We had some great visits as we meandered south and enjoyed watching the temperatures rise, the grass turn green, and the daffodils appear in the woods along the road. Kathleen handled the driving, so I was able to start and finish two books, both set in the area of southwest Florida where we would be staying. One was written by Randy Wayne White, whose Marine Biologist-slash-private detective named Doc Ford operates out of a sleepy fishing village on Sanibel Island. The other, a novel called Electric Barracuda by Tim Dorsey, follows the continuing misadventures of Serge Storms, a native Floridian who loves arcane historical landmarks and hates those who damage them or the fragile tropical environment of his home state. He leaves a string of bodies in his wake, with all of the victims murdered in some painful and creative manner. I hope we are able to visit some of the places he mentions in this and other hilarious books featuring Serge.

Another thing we tried to do on the trip down here was to get off of the interstates as we drove. Twenty-five years after Kerouac’s novel, William Least Heat-Moon wrote another book about travels across the country. In his 1982 non-fiction, best-seller, Blue Highways, the author lost his job and his wife and set off on a soul-searching journey. His theory was that the interstate highways gave travelers the impression that all of the US was a never-ending parade of sameness, with similar chain restaurants and gas stations at every exit. Thus, he chose to drive along the back roads, marked in blue on the old Rand McNally maps, feeling that only there would he see the true America. He met with interesting characters and reached some intriguing philosophical conclusions along those roads less-traveled by. I read and was inspired by that book when it first came out, but I never had the free time to apply its main premise to my own travels. Now I do! Kathleen and I set out on our trip determined to get off of the interstates whenever possible. We have the 2020 version of the Rand-McNally Road Atlas, although it was not easy to find. Apparently, we are the last people in America to use actual maps, rather than the GPS app on their phones.

We avoided congested Nashville completely, leaving I-24 at Clarksville and winding our way down to Huntsville. We stayed off I-65 when we continued south from there and drifted through some scenic areas of hills and lakes in western Alabama. When we crossed into southern Georgia, however, the scenery ended—along with pretty much everything else. For 150 miles, from Columbus, Georgia to the Florida state line, there was a complete lack of humans or anything of interest. A couple of tiny towns were bypassed by the road we were on, leaving nothing to see but scrub pine, rusted and crumbling shacks, and scary-looking mobile home parks. There were no gas stations, restaurants, fast-food places, or any other businesses. One billboard we saw read simply “Trump” on one half, while the other half advertised a store where automatic assault weapons were available. At one point, we turned off of our road in search of food. While we slowly rolled through a depressed-looking, sleepy town called Cuthbert, no actual people were out and about. I suddenly remembered that every horror movie involving forced imprisonment and torture started with the words, “Hey! Let’s check out this little town and see if we can find something to eat.” We circled back to our main road and eventually stumbled onto a Huddle House restaurant. I’m glad we did, because we didn’t see another business of any sort until we reached Florida. In that state, we continued to drive on side roads whenever possible until we reached Punta Gorda.

So, was our Blue Highways experiment a success or a failure? On the one hand, we decided that it was a relaxing drive, with much less traffic or stress than on the interstates. Most of the roads we found were divided, four-lane roads that allowed speeds of 65 MPH except when passing through an occasional town. Therefore, we discovered that we didn’t lose any time by taking the more-direct, diversionary routes.

On the other hand—southwestern Georgia. When you can drive for several hours without seeing an actual town or a gas station, your mind immediately goes into worse-case-scenario mode. If we ran out of gas or had mechanical problems, it might take hours until a AAA tow-truck could arrive from the nearest city. That is, if you can even get cell phone reception in such out-of-the-way places. I’m sure I’ll be having recurring nightmares about having to walk up to one of those decaying homes and knocking on the door to ask for help while a toothless kid plays his banjo on the porch swing.

In the next installment, I’ll talk about our wonderful house in Punta Gorda and Florida in general.