Simple Pleasures and Tiny Foes
After two months of recuperation from hip replacement, Judy and I were given the green light by my surgeon to travel to Florida to see our daughter, son-in-law and their two of our four grandchildren. I don’t particularly enjoy flying but I endure it a couple of times a year to see them. It’s not the flying part I’m adverse to, that part I enjoy. It’s the cattle herding atmosphere, the rushing from point to point, and the overpriced airport pabulum passed off as food are the parts of flying, I loathe. Not to mention a cocktail in an airport will chew away most, if not all, of a twenty-dollar bill.
It’s been a custom of previous Florida trips that the trip and subsequent stay and activities are worked out and planned by my wife and daughter well ahead of the flight down. I’m along for the ride and time with family. This time was no different.
One of the simple pleasures I always look forward to, while there, is having my morning coffee under the rear deck roof in the small back lot of my daughter and son-in-law’s home while watching the squirrels scurry back and forth on the power lines overhead. The yard is surrounded by trees and power lines intertwine with them and connect them like a one lane expressway for the squirrels.
I have witnessed many jousting matches between two of the furry rodents over right-of-way supremacy to the expressway when they meet traveling in opposite directions. Tails will flick and chirps and squeaks will sound out in what can only be imagined as squirrel cussing. This show of power only lasts a few minutes before the more intimidated of the two combatants submits and either jumps to the nearest tree or hangs upside down while the victor passes. I can literally sit there for hours with a beverage in hand watching the antics.
But I found out that my furry rodent amusement was not to be this visit. Though my daughter’s home was spared the ravages of the recent hurricane Helene, the rains it produced made for a breeding ground Valhalla for the blood sucking insects.
My first morning there I poured my cup of eye opener and headed for the back deck in anticipation of the morning slapstick at sunrise. I settled on one of the outdoor swivel rockers and prepared to be amused by the first squirrel I saw scurrying down the wire.
I hadn’t been there more than a sip or two of my coffee when a cloud rose around me and attacked in what could only be described as Kamikaze. After a few minutes my kill count was being far outnumbered by the strikes of the little blood suckers and I had to surrender and retreat to the inside least I become hypovolemic.
Beaten and wounded I lamented my situation of not being able to enjoy the comical antics of the squirrels and came up with an alternative way to waste time while there.
A trip to the front porch and a test of the mosquito population there proved that it would be a better alternative to inhabit that side of the house. I would be targeted far less and though I wouldn’t have the entertainment value of the back deck, I could guard the section of the neighborhood surrounding the house from any mischief or suspicious activity.
Fortunately, the neighborhood my daughter and son-in-law reside in is quiet and peaceful. It’s one of those neighborhoods where the homes are of similar single-story design and made of concrete block. The streets are usually quiet and lined with the occasional palm and oak and on some streets, more than others, they are laden with Spanish moss. Their home is just far enough in the boundaries of Orlando to be part of the mailing address but out of the hustle and bustle just a few blocks away. So, for the remainder of our stay, I set up my encampment and enjoyed my beverages on the front porch. It was there I discovered another simple pleasure.
It was on the second or third night of our stay, the sun had gone down, and I was sitting guard with my son-in-law discussing various things and topics when a faint jingling accompanied by circus music was heading our way but out of sight. As the music grew louder and closer Josh said that the ice cream truck was coming. I had thought they were a thing of the past and a fond memory of many years ago.
Josh assured me they were still in the area and with that we flagged down the confectionary wagon in a way that says sometimes it doesn’t pay to grow up. We were eagerly escorted by the rest of the family to the truck, and I ordered them all to get whatever they wanted. Papa’s treat.
After everyone else had gotten their frozen treats of cones, sundaes, and forms of ice cream on a stick, I ordered my own chocolate sundae with chocolate ice cream, chocolate syrup, and topped with chocolate sprinkles. Everyone was either licking, spooning, or dripping ice cream. Ya just can’t get better than that.
Another simple pleasure of our visit was escorting the grandkids and family trick-or-treating on Halloween. The neighborhood there does it the old-fashioned way, the right way.
Shortly after dusk many of the neighborhood families will gather in preparation for coming goblins, witches, and ghosts and all sorts of costumed munchkins of all ages. Grills are fired up and the smell of burgers, hot dogs and all other forms of carnivorous culinary delights permeate the entire neighborhood.
Many homes are lavishly decorated for the occasion in graveyards, skeletons, and monsters of all kinds. The visitors that seek sugary treats are happily greeted by equally adorned goblins who are more than generous with the rewards and even a few of us older kids are given treats. It’s Halloween as Halloween should be.
In case you are wondering, I was dressed as the cranky old biker grandpa. It’s a role many are convinced I fit perfectly.
Then there’s always the simple pleasure of going out to eat together. Usually, when we visit, we go out a couple times per visit but this time it was just once. A place called “The Porch” was our targeted point of drink and fare on our last night’s stay. Burgers and wraps were consumed as well as a couple of kids meals by the grandchildren and of course some adult beverages for the grownups.
Hang in there…
Long Lonesome Highway 