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

The Nostalgia Tour

In the great film "Field of Dreams," the James Earl Jones character delivers a beautiful speech about the nostalgic power of baseball. He says, "Baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and could be again...People will come, Ray. People will most definitely come." As I get older and the balance between "good old days" from the past and great days that await me in the future is tipping noticeably toward the former, I find that there are places from all of my former lives that are particularly rife with the sweet sadness of nostalgia.

The photo above is one of them.

It is the beach at "X" Street in Hull, MA. I visited a fine old friend there recently during my travels in New England. Admittedly, this tiny piece of the North Atlantic is not much as far as beaches go. The water is cold, usually right up to Labor Day, the rocks make walking difficult, the water color and clarity are frankly not the measure of my beautiful Navarre Beach in Florida (at least they weren't until the BP disaster); nevertheless, the memories that enveloped me when I walked up to that beach and visited the old house just before it were thick and warm, like a perfect handmade quilt.

Ada and I spent many wonderful days and nights at that house and on that beach. We were 15 or 16, in love or what passes for love at that age, surrounded by friends and The Friedmans, the very welcoming and wonderful family who "took us in" for several summers when we were finishing up high school and getting ready to go off to college.

Ada was good friends with the Friedmans' daughter, Harrie. Harrie's wonderful younger sister, Marcy, was also living there as were Pearl and Dave, Harrie's remarkable parents. Imagine having the patience, to say nothing of the generosity, to host a group of know-it-all, wiseguy teenagers day after day for several summers. The food bill alone would be enough to make you want to board the place up and never come back. But Pearl and Dave welcomed us and, even more remarkably, valued us, engaged us in conversation, sought our opinions, challenged us to think, laughed with and at us, provided me with huge quantities of aged salami, and, most of all, taught us by their wonderful example. Idyllic doesn't even come close to describing how I feel when I think back to those summer days at X Street. Marcy, a magnificent singer and musician who is based in New York City, has kept the house up all these years and manages to spend some time there with Harrie and family each summer, renting it out the rest of the year. When I approached the house recently to catch up with Marcy, I could literally feel 45 years slip away. I was sitting in a place that FORMED me. I am who and what I am partly because of that house, that beach, and that family. It was a powerful moment, especially because the person I shared those days with is no longer by my side. Bittersweet for sure.

Here is a partial list of some of the stuff that happened at that wonderful old house:

1. Ada, under the tutelage of Pearl, became one of the world's most vicious Scrabble players. She almost never lost and took great pride in her ability to make me crazy with her defensive tactics.

2. Also under Pearl's gentle coaxing, I discovered the remarkable beauty in a Louis Armstrong solo or an Ella Fitzgerald ballad. There was always music in that house and it was beautiful, powerful music. I have loved it ever since. I am happy to say that I have passed this love on to my children and grandchildren.

3. I found out I could make adults laugh. Pearl and Dave helped me develop and tweak my sense of humor to the point where I was not afraid to throw my two cents into adult conversations. My ideas and thoughts, no matter how lame, were always treated with respect. I'm quite sure that this remarkable example served me in very good stead during my 31 years in a junior high classroom.

As is the custom, when I visit Ada's grave for the unveiling, I will be placing several stones on her marker. One of them will come from the beach at X Street, a place where we grew up, loved each other, and became who we were.

Some day in the near future I hope Kate and I can visit this and other New England places that provide me with such warm feelings of nostalgia. I hope she likes who I was.

Ain't life grand?

Love to you all,
J

An Unveiling

As I prepare to undertake a 3500 mile road trip back to Massachusetts, children, grandchildren, my family, Ada's family, great friends, and a small, beautiful Jewish cemetery in Lebanon, NH, I realize how far I've come emotionally these past three months or so.

Previously I would have labeled this trip "Going Home" but now, frankly, it feels like I'm leaving home. I live on the Florida Panhandle, not on the South Shore, not in the beautiful community of Eastman in Grantham, NH. I'm a Floridian now. That much is clear to me.

In just a few short months I've settled into this magnificent part of the country. I find myself caring about SEC football. How's 'Bama gonna be this year? Roll Tide! Think we can repeat? What about them Gators? Auburn and Ole' Miss can just go to hell! Go Dawgs!

I'm devastated by what's taking place on the Gulf. It will affect the livelihoods of thousands of people for years to come. I feel their pain not as an onlooker or a vacationer but as a neighbor.

I'm starting to expand my diet to include more seafood. A grouper po' boy sounds good to me, not too exotic or too country, just good. I'm looking forward to trying etouffee.

At my golf club I'm beginning to be known. I've got some "regulars" with whom I look forward to playing. I'm comfortable enough around them that I can bust their chops in the age-old golfer's fashion. I enjoy it when they give it back to me, which they certainly do...often!

I'm a three-hour's drive from New Orleans and will undoubtedly tour that fine old city one day as many residents of The Panhandle do. I'm established with a local doctor and a local dentist, both of whom are terrific, easy going professionals. Neither went to Harvard or Tufts but, evidently, there are other institutions that offer medical and dental degrees. Who knew?

When Kate and I head over to the bar of the Acme Oyster House near Kate's Sandestin home, the bartender already knows our order. A dozen grilled Apalachicola oysters, some crusty bread to sop up the juices, and a chardonnay and we're good to go.

Of course I haven't entirely abandoned everything I was before I landed here. Nor should I. I still live and die with all the Boston sports teams, and I always will. I read the Globe online each morning to see which Massachusetts legislator is about to be indicted, (although usually not on murder charges as was one of the county commissioners down here recently) I watch MSNBC regularly in the evenings and find Rachel Maddow to be particularly excellent. I seriously doubt there are many other "Panhandlers" tuned to that channel in the evening: Kate and I, an army of two! My friends will always be my friends. You know who you are.

There can be no doubt that having Kate in my life has made this transition much easier than it would have been otherwise. While Kate has spent a good part of her adult life in other parts of Florida, she is a relative newcomer to this part of the state. Family ties brought her to the area and it didn't take long for her to learn what The Panhandle has to offer. She's eager to share some of her "hidden gems" with me and I am a very willing student.

The title of this blog refers to the primary reason for my journey back to New England. As is customary in Jewish tradition, Ada's grave marker will be unveiled. Ada's brother, Bob, has prepared a beautiful service, and he will officiate. This will happen at noon on Sunday, June 20, at the Upper Valley Jewish Cemetery in Lebanon, NH. Some people view these unveilings as difficult ceremonies that force the loved ones to relive the funeral and all the grief that went with it.

I don't feel that way. Ada's unveiling is an opportunity for me and our family to take stock of where we are nine months after our dear Ada passed and to remind ourselves about what a wonderful person we lost.

Any opportunity to do both of those activities is fine with me.

Ada, Kate, and The Opera

I recently purchased 2 season tickets to the Pensacola Opera Company. Lest you think that extravagant, you must understand that this company only performs two operas a season. This year they are performing "Little Women" in January and Puccini's remarkable "Turandot" in March.

There was a method to my madness.

Kate had said that she was a fan of opera and if the opportunity presented itself, she would love to attend a performance. While I am not a total opera buff per se, I am completely mesmerized by "Turandot". I've listened to the entire opera countless times and have even tried to sing the classic aria "Nessun Dorma" (in Pavarotti's key no less) in the shower. Without being overly graphic, let's just say that this was not a good idea and one shouldn't try this at home. I received a not so gentle reminder that Pavarotti is Pavarotti for a reason and, even though I was a star tenor in the Boston Latin School Glee Club, there are certain limitations to my vocal range.

I walked with a limp for a month!

But I digress. When I called Kate to tell her that I had ordered the tickets for these two operas, she was thrilled. So was I because it meant that we had to remain a "couple" at least until March 11, the "Turandot" performance. I told her that on March 12 she can leave me by the side of the road, but not until then. Kate was kind enough to tell me that she didn't envision that happening, and that these tickets could serve as her March birthday present. Sweet!

Come to think of it, I wish they had had the 2012 season for sale.

I'm excited about this for another more personal reason. During much of our wonderful marriage, Ada and I took in all the live music we could. When we lived in Massachusetts, we took full advantage of the Boston concert scene, especially at the great jazz club The Regattabar in Cambridge. We saw all the jazz greats there over the years and had many wonderful evenings out with friends. We also attended numerous symphonic concerts and live plays. In New Hampshire we subscribed each year to the Hopkins Center concert series at Dartmouth. Again, we would take in seven or eight great concerts a year by world class jazz and classical performers. However, the last couple of years were difficult in many ways. We would have purchased tickets ahead of time for a particular concert and then would not be able to go for one reason or another. We certainly didn't mind giving the tickets away when that happened, but it was a source of frustration to be under the "control" of the disease to that extent. Eventually, we stopped buying tickets figuring it was better to not plan to go in the first place than to plan to go and have to cancel. It breaks my heart when I remember how hard Ada tried to rally in those circumstances and how disappointed she was when she had to cancel.

I know it pleases Ada to see me buying tickets for live performances again. It's just one more obstacle overcome. When Kate and I take our seats at Pensacola's Saenger Theater in January and again in March, Ada will be standing off to the side smiling and we'll all be on our feet cheering after Nessun Dorma.

No more cancellations.

Much love,
J

...and now, the rest of the story

For the benefit of those of you who live north of the Suwanee River, the photograph above is a photo of grits. The photograph was taken on Wednesday, May 12 at Caroline's Restaurant in Apalachicola, Florida.

I didn't order them. I wouldn't order them.

Kate would and did.

The photo above was followed quickly by another photo: a photo of me sampling the grits. It is a disturbing image and, owing to the requirements of good taste, was not included in this blog.

You see, there is a reason that grits are called grits. They are gritty. If they were not gritty, they would be called "little pieces of velvet" or "puffy clouds that have descended to Earth" or some such. But they are not called either of these. They are called grits and they are just nasty.

Why am I using this valuable space to proclaim my distaste for grits? Because I wanted all of you to know how far Kate and I have come in our relationship.

She got me to try grits.

I would have even swallowed them if she had insisted. That's huge, people!

I mentioned that we were in Apalachicola, Florida during grit-gate. The trip was mostly Kate's idea. She said that this sleepy town was a charming piece of a beautiful section of Florida known as The Forgotten Coast. She was right. The town is located where the Apalachicola River empties into the Gulf of Mexico. It's not a pretty town by most standards. It's a working town. Shrimpers and oyster gatherers work hard up and down the river and in the bay. Farther upriver beekeepers gather their famous Tupelo Honey. Mingling with this hard-bitten crowd are tourists like us who want to go someplace in Florida that's REAL and not at all Disney-fied.

The Apalachicola River Inn sits directly on the bank of the river and, if you're lucky enough to get an upstairs room, you can sit on your private balcony with a bottle of wine and watch the shrimpers lower or raise their massive nets as they pass by.

If you walk along the main street, you might wander into a gift shop where you will meet Mr. John Lee who will regale you with wonderful stories about the area and tell you how the excellent movie "Ulee's Gold" was filmed in and around the town. He'll happily educate you on the differences between the three grades of honey he sells, and give you a very honest assessment of the local restaurants.

If you follow Mr. Lee's recommendation and decide to go to Papa Joe's for dinner, you will be dining in an unpretentious marina restaurant where sitting at the bar will guarantee that you are engaged in friendly conversation with both the bartender and other patrons. The fisherman's platter will prove to be more than enough for two, and the homemade cole slaw will be as good as it gets.

When you leave Apalachicola, you can drive north toward Tallahassee and stop at Wakulla Springs State Park to see the famous spring, the largest in the country, and travel downriver on a guide boat to an area where a major part of the 1954 classic "The Creature from the Black Lagoon" was filmed. I was anxious to make this little side trip because that movie played a significant part in my childhood. I saw it at the Franklin Park Theater in Dorchester when I was seven years old. After seeing this film, I wasn't able to get a really good night's sleep until 1986. The scaly, webbed creature with the bizarre head haunted most of my thoughts for 32 years. Not bad for a 25 cent admission.

Traveling down that river with Kate, listening to the park ranger point out the areas of stunning natural beauty, I could feel my fear of the creature melt away.

Now the only thing that causes me to lose sleep is fear of grits.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J