Allergies in the Air - Spring Break is Here!

This is 'Gator country!
Not just for the the University of Florida's Gainesville-based football team, but the original occupants of the land - ALLIGATORS!

This beaut was catching a few rays one March a couple years back when I cruised Dunn's Creek, a tributary off of the "upside-down" north-flowing St. Johns River. The unusual body of water runs "uphill" from a marshy section of central Florida, deepens to a depth which allowed a Civil War Naval Battle to take place near Sanford (North-West of Cape Canaveral)and enters the Atlantic Ocean near the Georgia state border.

College kids from around the country usually flock to Florida for a Spring Break, round about now, after going cabin-crazy on snow-bound campuses throughout the rest of the USA - Canada and few European. For years, Daytona Beach was a partying mecca, with white white-sand solid beaches where cars can be drive.

But for those who headed into the state's wilderness areas in search of sport - or on a "funny" mushroom hunt - could bump into one of Florida's living symbols, catching a few rays.

Always, with one eye cocked for any pale snacks which might splash his way!

Another Day In Paradise

Nothing quite spices up the morning when, stooping to retrieve the paper from the driveway, a succession of pistol shots are fired nearby.

Pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop-pop, pop-pop, pop.

The possibility of one's neighborhood being featured as the headline in the next day's newspaper, suddenly becomes very real.

It happened in my neighborhood yesterday, shortly before 7am when the steady thrum of rubber tires on asphalt from the nearby four-lane highway, drowned out the sounds of bird-song and cockerels crowing. Yellow school bus diesel engines purred in concert, collected in a convoy as they neared the small community's single traffic light at the cross-roads, readying to turn toward the Middle and High Schools.

Dogs of all varieties, in, out and under a cluster of mobile-homes scattered within sandy and wooded lots bordering washboard dusty roads, yelped and barked.
Not a soul was to be seen except a cluster of scared-looking parents and children gathered, waiting for the later Bible School bus. Safety and curiosity tugged, briefly, before caution overruled and retreat to the comparative safety of the cedar-frame and tin-roofed Victorian house, won out.

The 911 Emergency Operator said she was already aware of the gun-shots, thank you very much, click!

Its very unsettling knowing one's active imagination has NOT transformed the backfiring of an old clunker, somewhere in the distance, to the reality of lethal gunfire nearby.

The instincts of a lifetime on the front lines of police reporting, pen and camera pushing toward the greatest source of activity to determine who did what to whom, when and why, were strong. However, as a “civilian” one has the right to pay pay taxes, call on the law when necessary, but otherwise, stay below the radar. Also, with maturity comes a realization of personal vulnerability and likelihood of becoming an innocent-bystander victim caught in a collateral collisions between good and evil. The certainty of invincibility dissipated along with hair and original teeth.

Dozens of scenarios race through ones mind: a domestic dispute, a drug-deal gone sour, feuding neighbors or an early celebration of an unknown Latino holiday. That last was cruel but real. Seems there can be no event, whether its the birth of a newborn, the outcome of a football/soccer game, or heralding the New Year, without fireworks and gun-shots.

As any student of Newton's Law of Gravity knows, what goes up must come down. And bullets, after peaking at their trajectory, have a return rate to earth of 32-feet per second per second.

There was nothing about the shoot-out on any of the area television newscasts. Apart from bickering, babbling and preening for the cameras – always a a split-second after the angle changed – the studio clowns joshed their way between an avalanche of commercials, weather reports, traffic updates and canned network newscasts,

No sense calling the local newspapers during the current economic crunch to get a recoded message stating: “You have reached an unoccupied desk. If you wish to leave a message call...” following by a string of gabbled numbers no one unfamiliar with could possible retain.

A day housebound, at least until the sound of sirens in the distance; patrol cruisers, emergency vehicles, fire-trucks fade away for good.

The laundry, file sorting, bill paying, tasks set aside for a rainy day loom as an immediate time filler until its deemed safe to venture out to the bank, post-office and grocery store.

All doors and windows closed and locked, while the mighty-mouth AM radio jockey babbling in the background, just in case a listener with a police monitors calls in an up-date.

The Middle-East is in turmoil, there are two wars being waged overseas, airports are combat zones with frisk and squeeze security scans, terrorists with bombs in their skivvies fly the friendly skies overhead, and some nutter is firing shots in the neighborhood.

And, as someone with the ear of the nation was wont to say as he signed off his newscast: “That's the way it is.”

Can't wait to pick up tomorrows newspaper and find out what happened – but not holding my breath of any explanation.

Ends...

How Cold Is It? DON'T Ask!

That angled water in the bird-bath - an inch thick - is showing no signs of melting at 2 pm in time for tonight's hard-freeze warning. Brass monkeys, real or mythical, had better watch out. It's definately going to be a high-shrinkage night!

The "Good News" is, clients attending our impromptu "Bird, Bath & Spa" facilities appear to be mixing well, amicably sharing the dining facilities without to much squawking and joining forces to fend off agressive interlopers. Rabbits and squirrels are also being kept at bay by Basher, who's presence on deck is a useful deterrent, asleep or awake.

While hawks, and an occassional eagle, circle within eyesight, they have not moved in on the small-fry - yet!

So far the "dripping-tap" ploy seems to have worked, in preventing stilled water in pipes, from freezing and bursting.

And it isn't even Winter (officially) until Next WEEK!

Freezing in Florida - Foraging For Food: Original Snowbirds

Long before man set foot in Florida, the early snowbirds flocked here to escape the killer cold up north.

Man might have hacked through forest and prairie to create routes between communities, bringing concrete and blacktop in his wake. But in the process the shallow run-off ponds created new habitates for all manner of wildlife.

So a flood solution for some, becomes a snowbird smorgasbord for others.

Nice!

Florida Does Too Have Fall!

Folks who only ever see sand, sea and palm trees don't believe the seasonal changes Floridians experience. But, facing half-an-acre of fallen leaves scheduled to be raked up, I'm a believer!

A Rat (Island) Race Awaits Beyond The Morning Mist

A misty morning on the marsh - a portend of the morning.

It is written, in the book of "Murphy's Law".

The wind shall desist on the date of the annual Decanter Challenge Regatta -- organized by the Palatka, Rat Island Yacht Club -- and, preferably, competitors will face an incoming tide the length of the 24-mile course before dropping the hook for a dutch treat dinner, a crystal decanter and a handshake.

And so it came to pass, Saturday, October 23, 2010 as 18 sailboats maneuvered for position near the starting line between market #48 and the committee-boat.
Yachts tacked and turned, spilling what wind their was from their sails to avoid a false start, before the sequence of colored flags and air-horn warnings marked the moment...they were off!


Slightly faster than the speed of growing grass, with more hot air passing between kamikaze crews (as hulls passed each other with barely a gel-coat thickness between them) than the apparent breeze, they headed for the unseen finish line.

The St. Johns River has the distinction of being the only north-flowing river in Florida. People in this hemisphere seem to think going South is downhill (tourist drivers heading North after their vacation, tend to lean forward). However, the St. John's connection to the Atlantic Ocean near Jacksonville, a major US Navy seaport city, allows for a tidal-flow which influences the waters more than fifty miles up/downstream.

“Stink-Pot” and “Rag-Bag” are some of the kinder words exchanged between power boat operators and sailors, especially when fishermen pick up the scent of a fish kill and pour on the coals to get to where they want to go – while a white-knuckle yacht-helmsman who has strategically placed his crew to achieve a delicate balance to maintain a wind-slot and make his rhumb line, blocks his way – and a rooster-tail followed by a mountainous wake throws everything akimbo.

At those times, the air can match the blue of the sky!

There's nothing quite like messing about in boats.

Especially, on a weekend.

Ends..

Shuttle's Last Launch Sparks Many Memories

Sometime soon the last shuttle launch into space will fire off from Cape Canaveral, a couple of hundred miles south of here.

I'll wave as it goes my backyard just before the separation of booster tanks from rocket in a sequence we all, now, think of as being routine.




An earlier daytime launch seen from my backyard


But back in the days building up to its first launch of Columbia more than a quarter of a century ago, (April 12, 1981) the World was still excited about the race into space. A decade earlier (1969) Neil Armstrong became the first man in (known) history to step onto the moon's surface. I'm willing to bet, very few Floridians will forget where they were when THAT happened. One of the better “I remember when...” memory moments.

Due to its proximity and frequency of flights over the years, we became blase about launches from the Cape, until that dreadful crisp October morning in 1986 when Challenger exploded killing all seven astronauts aboard..

I was at a West Palm Beach marina helping a good friend (now departed) and skipper of a 54-foot corporate yacht top up his tanks when there was a commotion on a nearby boat.

“The goddamn shuttle just blew up!”

A guy hurled himself from the cabin of the sleek Rybovich sports fishing boat on the next dock, scrabbling for his binoculars.

He didn't need them.

Seemingly just north of overhead the bright clear blue sky was marred by a cluster of white vapor trails expanding outward from a dark central cloud. Miniscule black objects rained down, leaving faint trails behind, like the world's largest Fourth of July rocket exploding in daylight.

It was the world's largest rocket – to carry human beings on its back into space.

Disasters before and after that date have marred the unbelievable 20th Century exploration of outer space during my lifetime. No doubt further progress will leave more memorable milestones behind.

Hopefully the final launch of Discovery and recovery will merely be a sigh of relief at safely marking its date in history.

http://www.nasa.gov/missions/highlights/schedule.html

Ends...

Monday Morning Awakening

Monday Morning Awakening

A Florida fog shrouds pine trees and live-oaks with their clumps of tangled Spanish moss, in a moist post-dawn grip as a result of yesterday's thunder and lightening drenching.

Good.

We'll be spared the direct rays of the climbing sun, blanketed somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean 50 miles away, and its searing heat waves for an extra hour or so.
No need for the air-conditioner to crank up into its expensive-sounding
rattle as it fights the heat and humidity of mid-September's last gasp of summer.

The wiseacre pundits, scoring points in their endless morning television banter, will hoot derisively when the ex-surfer turned forecaster comedically assumes the position emulating Igor, from a multitude of late-night Frankenstein skits, to announce the position of our seventh hurricane of the season.

Dripping beads of air-born moisture splash into the new pine deck, retarded by a weather-proofing solution which will probably prove fatal to humans in a few years. A game yellow blossom shows itself on the wilting potted tomato plant. Maybe one last tasty red morsel before biting into a waxen version from the supermarket, later. Purple wild Lantana cascades from its Terra-cotta pot, perched on the white-painted wrought-iron which now supports a wobbly metal side-table makeshift base for the bird-feeder.

Brilliant red cardinal families squabble in a pecking-order of their own making, scattered by the arrival of a blue-jay or interference from mourning doves who prefer its safer climes than nearby fields and alert hunters seeking something for the pot.

Seems to me there's been an added volume of shots, in or out of hunting season, during the past year or so of unemployment, lowered wages and foreclosures. Impatient fishermen, with families to feed, are as likely to clamber up a tree and shoot the shadows schooling in the stream below, as biat a hook and cast a line.

A scratching of nails on glass heralds the return of Basher, mostly spaniel with a splash of chow based on the black spot marking his pink tongue. He will have completed his morning rounds, touring his territorial half-acre boundaries hemmed in by chain-link fence. He's already had his breakfast but it won't stop him clanging the bowl with his collection of metal tags cluttering up his collar, before turning those hopeful dark brown eyes in beg-mode. Passively he'll sit when I dose him with anti-epilepsy pills, knowing there's a dog biscuit reward. It won't stop him emulating the squirrels.

(Ooops...shouldn't have said that out loud – his ears twitched and he tensed to dash out the glass sliding doors.)

Squirrels (soto voce), cats and the occasional rabbit, stimulate his exercise regimen. The tiny town of Interlachen, midway between touristy St. Augustine with its legendary Fountain of Youth and Gainesville, its University campus and Gator football team dominating the city, is a one-traffic-light community which just acquired a four-lane commuter highway divided by a median strip and, a second traffic light.

The heat, unleashed marauder dogs, rustling and rattling in the undergrowth all combine to limit safe spaces to walk the dog. There's a mile or so of ancient-growth live-oaks still intact after the Department of Transportation swept through with bulldozers, front-end loaders and tarmac to transform green swards into blacktop highways, The shaded arch of trees provide a concrete path, past homesteads with grape-vines held-shoulder-high off the ground in organized rows, and cattle clustered around a sink-hole pond of white blooming wild hyacinths.

That route, plus a circuit of a nearby supermarket plaza front and back, where the tantalizing odours of dumpsters tinge the air, are good walking spots for us. I get my daily dose of exercise, and Basher gets his nails “clipped” in an environmentally Green way, on the concrete, at no cost to me.

The first hour of Monday has slipped away. Tea gone, Basher itching to go.

Time to move into the new week before the sun burns through, shades come down and outside activities are dashed for the day.

When the cold snaps arrive I may look back at today with feelings of warm nostalgia.

But to echo Scarlet O'Hara's sentiment, I'll think about that – tomorrow.

Ends...