Welcome to Sunny Florida

Welcome to “Sunny Florida”...where the blue striped, disability parking spaces compete with those who can still shuffle. Where the recently retired executive is so proud of his new sports car, one he’s wanted for much of his business career and now has time on his hands to use. He’ll have it for a little over two years then realize maybe, just maybe, it’s too small and uncomfortable. Last time he’d driven it was, he reckoned, around three months ago. Reality closer to six. Soon after purchase he’d managed to convince his wife to go for a ride with him. Clear she wasn’t overly enthusiastic. Ride was on a Wednesday afternoon, Wednesday being her “hair day.” Month or two later she agreed to another ride. This one to the beach, when they’d piled chairs and umbrellas, towels and beach bags into the back seat. Both towels had blown out somewhere on the way.

The exec, who’d spent some 45 years living in a Manhattan apartment where pets were a “NON-ITEM” and then moved to the suburbs, had wasted no time finding a pet store. He’d purchased a small yapping dog. Dog, of course, loves to ride in the sports car. Loves to stick it’s nose out the side window or ride in the miniscule “passenger area,” feet on back seat, nose to airstream. Exec knows he can sell the toy car but he’ll be stuck with the yapper.

And then there’s the issue of “Spring Break.” Manhattan apartment had been generous by New York City standards: 3 bedroom, two bath, kitchen, living room, and his small office/studio. Family came on occasion: Thanksgiving or Christmas. Now that he and mother have moved for the winters to the sunny climes of Florida, they’ve recently discovered an unbounded love their children, grandchildren and two children with their children, have for them. And there’s spring break, when the three of college age would just love to see Gramp and Gram and perhaps bring a few friends along who are just dying to meet them as well. What a wonderous state for re-acquaintance with families…and friends…and friends of friends of family.

Exec and wife played little golf in New York. Difficult living in the city. Here in Florida they’ve now unlimited time since they decided a “golf community” would be their new winter home. Great opportunity to meet new friends, golfers like themselves. Lovely clubhouse, only have to spend (after club fees), $1200/month at the bar and restaurant with food on the “iffy” side. They’ve met some wonderful friends and see them several times a week at other homes in the community and the clubhouse. Lately though, exec is realizing majority of conversation is centered around golf. How many stroked balls for this or that hole, what difficulty there’d been on the back nine with it’s atrocious sand traps and challenging double-sloped green on the 13th. Numbers of inconvenient lies or confused approaches pepper most conversations.

He’d like to try some fishing. Thought about buying a boat. Looked into it with another like-minded in the development. Found it was against development rules to keep a boat in the driveway. Only golf carts. Have to leave it in a stackable boat storage marina or storage yard on trailer. Couldn’t go out any evening and putz with it or just wipe it down. No adding a piece of equipment, that was the marina’s rice bowl (and a hearty bowl it is).

Fishing was still on his mind, however, so he thought perhaps deep sea fishing occasionally might work out until he’d talked with a few other guys down at the dock. Being on the west coast, “Deep” sea fishing is a bit of a misnomer. Go out 50 miles you might find eighty feet of water. All bottom fishing where Captain runs at high speed from “hotspot” to “hotspot,” and weighted gear is dropped immediately to bottom, raised inches…and then wait for a passing sniffer. Great, if your a meat fisherman and playing the catch is secondary with a 5# sinker involved.

The exec and his wife in prior life had spent many evenings out with business associates, clients, or by themselves for something to do, find a place to unwind after a high pressure day. Here in Sunny Florida they find there’s not a whole lot to unwind from. Stressful round of golf, heavy traffic to and from the beach, perhaps one of the ground crew has neglected to trim the shrubs or mowed over again the two small lemon trees he’d planted in the fall. There’s nothing he’d wish to get away from, so he convinces wife he should perhaps run for a committee, keep his mind sharpened a bit. She finally agrees. He’s elected to of all things, the golf committee: only to realize too late he’s stepped into a hornet’s nest and the critters never stop buzzing.

Committee meets once a week for what would seem to be an hour’s agenda. Thursdays. Night of the meetings he often gets home by eleven. Finds that he and the wife aren’t invited to as many cocktail parties or lunches now. And, when they do go out, he’d better steer clear of any golf related conversations. Also finds his foursomes are pretty much with the same partners who are on the various golf committees. He seriously considers resigning before his term is up but then he’d likely lose his foursome. Artistic hobbies might become an answer.

For all the minor problems, the exec and his wife are enjoying “Sunny Florida.” They’re now coming down in early fall, unlike many other aficionados whose cars clog the North/South highways after January One. It’s much quieter. Fewer players at the new golf course he’s joined. Restaurants are glad to see them. Less traffic. Getting to meet a few of the “locals,” the year-rounders who leave in August only because the heat is simply “too humid” and go to the mountains of Georgia.

Last year, while the college offspring were visiting and wife needed a break from feeding half dozen bottomless stomachs, exec goes to local deli, has a light supper packed along with two cold bottles of goodly vintaged white wines and convinces good wife tonight was theirs for a twosome at the beach. Sun in March takes it’s own schedule for settling below western horizon and that evening was no exception. He’d forgotten a corkscrew and by time he’d met two other couples in his quest for a loaner, one couple being from their home town, they’d been invited to “stop over” anytime and realized this was another world they hadn’t explored…

This “winter” is somewhere in vicinity of AJ’s and my 20th. We both love Maine dearly. Love the scenery, our people, our heritage. Yet when the thermo needs be nudged ever higher on an early morning in October, when sweaters and jeans replace shorts and tees, I notice a suitcase being readied, relatives or friends along the route being called and we both agree it’s time for the elders (of which we may be one day) to “pahk the cah,” hide the key in the tree, set the compass and autopilot at 180 deg. And go back to the sun.