The Heat

Late breaking news: this part of Florida is hot.

It's hot at 11 pm and it's hot at 6 am.

I don't have any direct knowledge about 2 am, but I bet it's hot then too.

I'm told by some veteran Panhandlers that I ain't seen nothing yet. August and even September are usually hotter than hot.

Back in April, when some well-meaning Panhandlers were warning me about the inevitable heat assault I was about to experience, I scoffed and said "Bring it on!"

I thought, "Here is one Yankee who can take it. I've experienced 95 degrees and I've experienced minus 20 degrees and I'll take 95 every time."

Talk about hubris! What was I thinking? Sure I've experienced 95 degrees. A day here or a day there, but never for months at a time with no let up.

It sucks the life out of you.

And I'm chafed. I'm powdering much more than I ever used to. Not to be any more disgusting than I have to be, but there are portions of my nether-world that could use a couple of crisp New England fall days! I hope that doesn't make me a bad person!

I prefer to walk when I play golf, but in this heat it's a real challenge. If I don't start my round by 8 am, there is no way I can walk the course and stay upright after 18 holes. On a couple of occasions, I have been putting and trying to decide which one of the three balls I was staring at was the genuine article. Then I had to decide which of the two holes looming before me was the actual one. There is plenty of drinking water available on my course, Hidden Creek, and I bet I drink ten or twelve containers of water during a typical round.

Luckily, there are several bathrooms placed on the course, but that may be more than many of you wanted to know.

Not to mention the chafing issue!

The intense heat combined with the heavy humidity tends to rob me of my desire to get anything done. A trip to the grocery store seems like an Everest expedition. Even climbing up the three flights of stairs to my condo takes all the energy I can muster. Who lived here before air conditioning and why?

I saw some roofers the other day putting the finishing touches on a new house. How they can function on top of a hot roof in weather like this is beyond my ability to understand, like the speed of light or the theory of relativity.

I bet they're chafed.

Tonight after dinner, about an hour before sunset, I decided to head down to the Gulf (a couple of blocks from my condo) and grab a swim. The Gulf waters were as warm as a baby's bath, but when I stood up in the roiling surf, the late afternoon breezes caught me and, for just a brief moment, I was....cold.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

My Acting Career

I'm an actor.

Many of you have known that for years but it was never official.

It is now.

I was chosen from a tremendous throng of auditioners to play the coveted role of Farmer Mark in the blockbuster hit, "Cooking It", scheduled to open in an Escambia County (Pensacola) elementary school this fall.

OK, it wasn't a throng of auditioners, it was more of a mob.

OK, it wasn't a mob, it was very similar to a group.

Fine. There were two of us and we both got the gig. We'll alternate. (But take my word for it, I'm better.)

Nevertheless, it's very exciting for me to resume my acting career at age 63. I say resume because my very promising acting career was cut short sometime around 1962 when the long-awaited production of "West Side Story" scheduled to open at the Hecht House Jewish Community Center was canceled due to the inability of any of the primary actors or actresses to become Puerto Rican. I was going to play Officer Krupke, so don't blame me.

Undaunted by the cancellation, I diligently honed my acting craft at Temple University where for four years I played the role of "someone who was glad to be in Philadelphia." Very challenging!

As a teacher, I worked on my "method" when I took on the role of "someone who cared whether you did your homework." In actuality, I didn't. That's called acting, friends.

There were other roles over the years. Perhaps the most challenging was that of an overweight, bald, middle-age Jewish man. With all the fanatical dedication of a De Niro, I gained 40 pounds and willed myself bald. I was already Jewish, so that part was a breeze. Unfortunately, the part was given to Wilford Brimley and Dom DeLouise, who eventually passed it on to Abe Vigoda. I kept the weight on just in case I was needed to fill in. Acting is in my blood; what can I say?

All of which brings us to the role of Farmer Mark in "Cooking It!" There is no question that this will be my most challenging role to date. The point of the play, which is being underwritten by a grant, is to teach children the benefits of good nutrition and healthy eating habits. My character has a produce wagon and is trying to convince the students to eat fruits and vegetables. Another character, a sexy female named Sugar, tempts the students with donuts, candy, etc. In the end, with the help of a couple of vegetable puppets named Sprout and Broc, good nutrition triumphs over Sugar, and my Rainbow Produce Farm is open for business.

Obviously, it will take an Olivier-esque effort to convince a group of fifth graders that I've ever even been in the same room as a vegetable. If any of the little bas--rds have read this blog, the entire suspension of disbelief will have been suspended.

To prepare for this role, I am going to spend an hour each day in the produce section of my local Winn-Dixie. If that raises any eyebrows, I may be forced to buy something. When I visit Kate, I am only going to bring one donut from Destin's famous Donut Hole Restaurant. Hopefully, she won't notice the powdered sugar residue from the one I ate in the car. I'm going to study the fine art of makeup and costuming to see if I can look like I've lost 40 pounds.

Of course the bane of any actor's existence is the need to memorize lines. While there is no one who respects the written word more than I, (Hey, I'm a blogger for goodness sake) there is very little chance that what I say during a performance will have any connection to the lines as written by the playwrights.

The most I can promise is I'll be in the ballpark.

We call that improvising.

I've been doing it full time since October 1, 2009.

Break a leg and much love,
J

A Fish Called Wanda

The excellent relationship Kate and I have developed has progressed to the point where she recently asked me to care for her fish, Wanda.

I reluctantly agreed.

I don't have the greatest track record with pets.

This request was necessitated by the fact that Kate was leaving the area for about a week to visit family in Jacksonville and Atlanta. She had made arrangements to board her wonderfully neurotic Shitzu, Coco; however, there were no takers for Wanda so I became the best of a bad set of options.

"Kate," I said, "I'll do my best, but you have to understand that there is every chance that when you return in a week or so, Wanda will be 'sleeping with the fishes'."

"Are you going to deliberately slay Wanda?" she asked.

"No. I love Wanda with all my heart, or at least that portion of my heart dedicated to slimy, nasty creatures who live in bowls. It's just that..."

I then proceeded to tell Kate about my family's pet history. I told her about our first pet, Mouse, an incredibly muscular and intensely stupid Alaskan Malamute who allowed us to live with him in our homes in Weymouth and Hanover. I think if our pet history had begun and ended with Mouse it would have been a much better history then it turned out to be. Mouse loved Josh, Matt, and Ada, but wasn't all that fond of me. Walking Mouse was like trying to harness a tornado. And like a tornado, there was much destruction and devastation. Rather than show remorse for the chaos and heartache he caused on a daily basis, Mouse just smiled. That's right, the crazy Malamute would smile! To this day I've never seen anything like it. You know how most dogs get that heart-wrenching sad look on their faces when you scold them? Not good ol' Mouse. He would just smile at you as if he were saying, "Yes, I just wrecked your formerly screened in porch...and I'll do it again!" Still, Mouse hung in there with us for about 14 years. His quiet end was met with tears from Josh, Matt, and Ada. I was busy repairing the screens.

It's our family's post-Mouse pet period that is...questionable...to say the least. We went through a series of dogs, each of whom met a mysterious end. First there was Sally the Pally, a nondescript mutt whom we rescued from the local humane society. I don't have many memories of Sally either good or bad because she just upped and disappeared one day. The strange thing is, I don't think anyone in the family really noticed. I don't remember any frantic searches in the neighborhood or calls to the police or handmade posters on telephone poles. Sally just didn't make any impression on us. She probably sensed that which would explain her disappearance. Sally, we hardly knew ye!

Undaunted after the Sally episode, we returned to the humane society to take stewardship of Homer, another mutt of questionable character and ancestry. We dubbed him "Homer the Hose Hound" because of his charming propensity to urinate anywhere and at any time he pleased. We kept a carpet cleaning company on retainer during the brief but exciting Homer period. Homer had another interesting quirk. He loved to bite anyone crazy enough to deliver the newspaper to our home. There are at least three members of one newspaper-delivering family who sport ankle scars to this day thanks to Homer-the-Newspaper-Delivery-Person-Bitin'-Hose-Hound. After the third incident we had to make a decision: cancel the newspaper or cancel Homer. We chose the latter. I packed him in the car for his final walk down the green mile. Dead dog walkin'. Euthanasia seemed like the kindest option for Homer. Certainly it was the kindest option for the newspaper delivery family! However, the vet mentioned that he might be able to farm Homer out to a rural family that works with troubled pets. That sounded good to me. I didn't ask Homer's opinion. He was busy urinating.

After the Homer fiasco, there was a gap in our pet stewardship. We would make occasional attempts at the humane society, but, somehow, the dogs there had heard about us and were reluctant to be adopted. Instead of that sad, "Please take me home" look, they would affect a blank stare. It was as if they were trying to become invisible, like students in my English classes who didn't want to be called upon.

Eventually we did find a pup who evidently hadn't gotten the word on us. This was Panda, an incredibly cute and loving black and white something or other. Panda was a return to pet normalcy for us. She loved Matt and Josh. She was playful and perky, cute and cuddly. She was also dead within six months. She ran under the wheels of a car that was circling our cul de sac. The car was going about two miles an hour so there is only one sad conclusion: a clear case of puppy-cide. We'll never know why Panda felt that this was a better alternative to living with the Getmans. She didn't leave a note.

What a tragedy it would have been if our pet life had ended with Panda's sad demise. Happily, I can report that E.B., a border collie mix from East Bank, West Virginia (hence the name) was just about the best pooch anyone ever had the privilege of sharing a house with. E.B. came to us though the Willett family. Bob was the long time principal of my school and one of his daughters had rescued the infant E.B. from a tough family situation in Appalachia. When Bob asked if we'd be willing to adopt E.B., we reluctantly agreed. What a fortunate decision that was! For the next 12 years, E.B. delighted us with her love, her keen sense of herding, and her distaste for sheep. Her classic border collie looks prompted us to learn about this remarkable breed and to attend several border collie trials. What remarkable creatures they are! Anyone who has seen the movie "Babe" knows what these fine dogs are capable of. And while not pure bred, E.B. demonstrated many of the stellar qualities of the border collie line. Probably the only area she came up a little short on was intelligence. But, hey, we weren't a family of geniuses either!

Cancer took E.B. as it did her beloved mistress. Two very sad days for all concerned.

So maybe now you can understand why I was a little reluctant to take on the responsibility of caring for Wanda. God forbid Kate ever asks me to care for neurotic Coco!

Of course, it would make for a pretty good blog!

Love your pets,
J