I realize I've left you hanging re the long sad condo story. So, to set the record straight, here's an update:
We didn't buy the condo we fell in love with because:
a) the Florida seller wanted to close June 1; and
b) we didn't have a firm date on the closing date of our own sale in Ottawa; and
c) we didn't want to take on bridge financing as that could have potentially had us on the hook for 3 places: the condo we're selling, the condo we were trying to buy and our own home in Ontario.
As you know, God opens a window when he closes a door. We met Mrs. L. who is trying to swap her upper condo (in the same Florida project) for the lower condo underneath her's. We suggested that rather than do a swap with her lower neighbour (he'd been reluctant to do the swap then try to sell her upper - confused yet?), we would offer to buy her upper so she could buy her neighbour's lower unit. So, long story short: now we wait to find out if Mrs. L. is successful. Her unit is lovely, in great shape and has water view from both front and back. Plus it'll come partially furnished!
If Mrs. L. isn't successful, no worries. We hope this fall we can re-rent the unit we had. Time will tell. In the meantime, it's so nice to be home although our backs are aching as we weed, weed, weed! Once the weeding is done, then the spring planting starts, then the spring spruce up begins (painting, painting, painting) then back to a little golf...that is: if we remember how and our bodies cooperate! Hubby better get that hot tub up and running soon!
So, no. We are NOT the owners of a new condo but ya never know....
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
I was missed!
Now I know why people so love dogs. It’s because the dogs so love them.
I learned this upon our return from the south. One of my first visits was to the owners of the dog I walk: Spencer’s people. I was a little disappointed. Spencer, himself, was out being walked by Mrs. C’s daughter so we sat and chatted, awaiting his return.
Eventually, in comes Himself, feeling happy and cocky after a satisfying walk. Ever polite, he trots up to acknowledge his master, nudges his mistress then he sits and looks at me. There’s a little pause, maybe 3 seconds. Then…he explodes! He’s like a dog with an interior firecracker! He jumps, and barks, and sniffs, and spits, and licks, and wags, and wiggles and wildly cavorts on me, off me, at me! We laugh just as wildly at his antics.
To put it in Mrs. C’s words: “Well, I guess he knows who you are!”
It was nice to be missed if only by my little four-footed friend and wonderful to see how a dog can show you how much you were missed.
I learned this upon our return from the south. One of my first visits was to the owners of the dog I walk: Spencer’s people. I was a little disappointed. Spencer, himself, was out being walked by Mrs. C’s daughter so we sat and chatted, awaiting his return.
Eventually, in comes Himself, feeling happy and cocky after a satisfying walk. Ever polite, he trots up to acknowledge his master, nudges his mistress then he sits and looks at me. There’s a little pause, maybe 3 seconds. Then…he explodes! He’s like a dog with an interior firecracker! He jumps, and barks, and sniffs, and spits, and licks, and wags, and wiggles and wildly cavorts on me, off me, at me! We laugh just as wildly at his antics.
To put it in Mrs. C’s words: “Well, I guess he knows who you are!”
It was nice to be missed if only by my little four-footed friend and wonderful to see how a dog can show you how much you were missed.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Mother Nature at Work...
We are welcomed home by a new arrival: a spring robin has made her nest over the living room window which also faces our deck. So, to enter the house, we’re disturbing the robin. I promptly put up a sign: Ssh! Robin on nest. Use garage entry.
Everyone is very respectful.
Ms Robin sits dutifully on a clutch of who knows how many eggs. Periodically, she flies off but always faithfully returns. One day we are rewarded with the view of not one, not two but FOUR bald little heads -- beaks open wide, on scrawny bare-skinned necks -- wobbling to and fro they look for all the world like little flowers swaying in unison in the breeze.
It amazes me Mother Robin is so diligent. What is it drives her to feed those hungry, demanding mouths? How does she remember where the babies are? Sometimes we worry when she stays away too long but sure enough, one more look and there she is. Standing on the nest edge, filling beak after beak, with still wriggling worms.
The nest is very full and we wonder how everyone will fit in once they grow a little. Someone might have to move out on the ledge. The good news is, once they try flying, the deck isn’t too far a fall.
We hope as we shiver under our own covers on cold nights, that mother is keeping them warm under her rusty feather breast.Mother Robin’s steadfastness and the babies’ fragility touch me. Watching Mother Nature at work, I can only hope She’ll let this little mother succeed so these four little robins survive and thrive.
Friday, May 8, 2009
We're no longer in Florida, Toto
Leaving any place is hard for me. I’m the type of person who is usually always in the present: I am where I am. But Friday morning sees us up early, packing last minute things, moving odds ‘n sods upstairs to our wonderful American neighbours who have graciously offered to store things for us for the summer. We do last minute cleaning, turn off the water, snap off the power to the hot water tank. Lock up. Squeeze in a few more last minute good-byes, then head up Hwy 19 to find the Shelter, where our donation of foodstuffs from the fridge is gratefully received.
We head north, then east across the top of Florida, then north again, our car so loaded we feel like a two-headed turtle, our house on our back. The divides between the highways here are filled with masses of fuschia pink flowers, miles of them. We see a poor little armadillo – lying on his back in a pose of total submission, feet up – his armour not strong enough to save him from the car that hit him. We pass stall after stall of boiled peanut sellers. They’re irresistible to me but hubby keeps driving. No room in the car, he says. Plenty of room in my stomach, I think. Then through farmland – peanut farmers. Past the Goethe State Park whose tall looming trees remind us of a park we’d seen in south western Australia.
Into Georgia, we follow the 26 into Columbia where we decide to spend the night. We pass an accident - a snatch of a scene – a young lady rubbing her hands up and down the arms of a small boy, his chin on his chest; a white car roof just visible down a ravine, people milling about. Soon, ambulances pass us going to their aid. It’s a sombre reminder how quickly things can go wrong.
Registered at the Days Inn, we walk down the street for the exercise to dins at Chick-Fil-A, a fast food franchise we’ve never been to before. Their advertising campaign is what tickles me: a cow in business-man attire holding a placard that says “Eat chikin”. Hubby tips the order taker (it’s like a McDo’s). She doesn’t notice until we’re seated. She comes to our table, money in hand: “You forgot your change.” She’s pleased when we say “It’s for you.” We surmise people don’t tip in these places.
We can’t get wi-fi in our hotel room but no matter. A little tv, a hot shower and a delightfully soft bed and we’re off to dreamland. In the morning, I notice hubby has stashed the camera under the tv stand (ever security conscious); I stash it in my purse.
Breakfast is at Shoney’s across the street, a buffet of different southern foods: crispy pork rinds, grits, strawberry-glazed bananas, the ubiquitous (tea) biscuits, a strange breaded hamburger thing, chicken nuggets, salads, and the usual other brekkie foods. We are the racial minority in this Shoney’s we notice. We can hardly understand our waitress but we are well served and leave stuffed.
The geography shifts as we enter South Carolina on the I-77. Gone are Georgia’s tidal flats and rivers, replaced by mountainous ridges and vertiginous valleys. The flowers in the highway divides are just as multitudinous as Florida’s but now they appear to be bright red poppies waving us along. Spring has definitely sprung here: I see lilacs, wild cherry and other flowering shrubs in full bloom – purples, pinks and whites. Winter’s dead grasses are turning emerald green and the trees, leaves unfurling in the warm spring sun, are a steady mural of every green under the sun. Seen from afar they look like a coverlet of densely-packed broccoli, softening the contours of the mountain ridges.
This be deer country; we see the odd warning sign not to mention carcasses. The temp has dropped from 30 to 20 – it’s cooler in the mountains and cloudy. But the vistas make us rubber-neck: black and white Jerseys ly peacefullydotting lush meadows; tiny farms interspersed on massive green fields, the odd one littered with old junkers; whole counties spread like real live google maps before us, tiny hamlets like toy villages. We’ve definitely left the tropical feel behind. No palm trees here.
I ask hubby about the camera; did he pick it up? No answer. Either he didn’t hear me or he’s trying to remember. An hour later, he confesses quietly: “I left the camera under the tv; we better turn around.” I can’t help but laugh out loud as I in turn make my confession, “It’s in my purse.” Such are the moments in a marriage.
The state of Virginia has an interesting sign that says: Buckle up, Virginia. It’s a law we can live with. I like that!
Two mountain ranges keep us company on either side of us for a long distance. We enter the Shenandoah Valley, Pennsylvania, looking for both an Econolodge and an Applebee’s but when we find them in proximity, it seems too early to stop. We carry on to a little hole in the wall place: Pine Grove but it has an Econolodge and a restaurant with good home cookin’ called Gooseberry’s.
Our night isn’t the best however: we have amourous neighbours. In all our travels, we’ve never encountered this problem but a problem it is. There’s a locked connecting door between our rooms – perhaps that’s why their ardour is so audible. We keep the volume up on the tv but eventually must turn it off to sleep. We consider changing rooms but thinking they’ll stop eventually, fall asleep to the sounds of their obviously intense coupling. 4:09 am, they’re at it again. Hard to believe. Ever analytical, the variety of ohhs, and ahhhhs, lead me to believe there must be two couples or maybe two women, one man. Whoever it is has the stamina of athletes as they are not soon silent. We’re glad to be quit of that place but as we drive away, we conclude maybe our neighbours were watching pornos with the sound up too loud! We'll never know.
We drive along under grey skies and rain. The temp is 50 degrees. Gradually, the fauna changes as we travel. It’s like going back in time or experiencing a season reversal: in Florida, it was summery, like July, flowers and greenery everywhere. In the middle states, it’s like June with blossoms everywhere, little spots of white, pink or purple amongst the unfolding green leaves. Here in Pennsylvania, it’s truly May. The trees have not yet budded, some still wear last year’s rusty leaves. The grass is greening but winter’s wear is still evident.
We discuss stopping to golf at Malone but the weather and the cost doesn’t encourage us so we opt to head directly home, checking via internet first to see what value we’re permitted to declare to Canada Border Services. Yes, with any thought of entering Canada, one must first think of the government and maintaining good relations. We breeze through after confessing to spending most of our money on golf. I think the young CBS agent has a soft spot for us after that confession, seeing as how he's confined to his little box questioning returning holidayers. Must be an awful job.
And now we’re home! Yeah, Canada!!!!!
We head north, then east across the top of Florida, then north again, our car so loaded we feel like a two-headed turtle, our house on our back. The divides between the highways here are filled with masses of fuschia pink flowers, miles of them. We see a poor little armadillo – lying on his back in a pose of total submission, feet up – his armour not strong enough to save him from the car that hit him. We pass stall after stall of boiled peanut sellers. They’re irresistible to me but hubby keeps driving. No room in the car, he says. Plenty of room in my stomach, I think. Then through farmland – peanut farmers. Past the Goethe State Park whose tall looming trees remind us of a park we’d seen in south western Australia.
Into Georgia, we follow the 26 into Columbia where we decide to spend the night. We pass an accident - a snatch of a scene – a young lady rubbing her hands up and down the arms of a small boy, his chin on his chest; a white car roof just visible down a ravine, people milling about. Soon, ambulances pass us going to their aid. It’s a sombre reminder how quickly things can go wrong.
Registered at the Days Inn, we walk down the street for the exercise to dins at Chick-Fil-A, a fast food franchise we’ve never been to before. Their advertising campaign is what tickles me: a cow in business-man attire holding a placard that says “Eat chikin”. Hubby tips the order taker (it’s like a McDo’s). She doesn’t notice until we’re seated. She comes to our table, money in hand: “You forgot your change.” She’s pleased when we say “It’s for you.” We surmise people don’t tip in these places.
We can’t get wi-fi in our hotel room but no matter. A little tv, a hot shower and a delightfully soft bed and we’re off to dreamland. In the morning, I notice hubby has stashed the camera under the tv stand (ever security conscious); I stash it in my purse.
Breakfast is at Shoney’s across the street, a buffet of different southern foods: crispy pork rinds, grits, strawberry-glazed bananas, the ubiquitous (tea) biscuits, a strange breaded hamburger thing, chicken nuggets, salads, and the usual other brekkie foods. We are the racial minority in this Shoney’s we notice. We can hardly understand our waitress but we are well served and leave stuffed.
The geography shifts as we enter South Carolina on the I-77. Gone are Georgia’s tidal flats and rivers, replaced by mountainous ridges and vertiginous valleys. The flowers in the highway divides are just as multitudinous as Florida’s but now they appear to be bright red poppies waving us along. Spring has definitely sprung here: I see lilacs, wild cherry and other flowering shrubs in full bloom – purples, pinks and whites. Winter’s dead grasses are turning emerald green and the trees, leaves unfurling in the warm spring sun, are a steady mural of every green under the sun. Seen from afar they look like a coverlet of densely-packed broccoli, softening the contours of the mountain ridges.
This be deer country; we see the odd warning sign not to mention carcasses. The temp has dropped from 30 to 20 – it’s cooler in the mountains and cloudy. But the vistas make us rubber-neck: black and white Jerseys ly peacefullydotting lush meadows; tiny farms interspersed on massive green fields, the odd one littered with old junkers; whole counties spread like real live google maps before us, tiny hamlets like toy villages. We’ve definitely left the tropical feel behind. No palm trees here.
I ask hubby about the camera; did he pick it up? No answer. Either he didn’t hear me or he’s trying to remember. An hour later, he confesses quietly: “I left the camera under the tv; we better turn around.” I can’t help but laugh out loud as I in turn make my confession, “It’s in my purse.” Such are the moments in a marriage.
The state of Virginia has an interesting sign that says: Buckle up, Virginia. It’s a law we can live with. I like that!
Two mountain ranges keep us company on either side of us for a long distance. We enter the Shenandoah Valley, Pennsylvania, looking for both an Econolodge and an Applebee’s but when we find them in proximity, it seems too early to stop. We carry on to a little hole in the wall place: Pine Grove but it has an Econolodge and a restaurant with good home cookin’ called Gooseberry’s.
Our night isn’t the best however: we have amourous neighbours. In all our travels, we’ve never encountered this problem but a problem it is. There’s a locked connecting door between our rooms – perhaps that’s why their ardour is so audible. We keep the volume up on the tv but eventually must turn it off to sleep. We consider changing rooms but thinking they’ll stop eventually, fall asleep to the sounds of their obviously intense coupling. 4:09 am, they’re at it again. Hard to believe. Ever analytical, the variety of ohhs, and ahhhhs, lead me to believe there must be two couples or maybe two women, one man. Whoever it is has the stamina of athletes as they are not soon silent. We’re glad to be quit of that place but as we drive away, we conclude maybe our neighbours were watching pornos with the sound up too loud! We'll never know.
We drive along under grey skies and rain. The temp is 50 degrees. Gradually, the fauna changes as we travel. It’s like going back in time or experiencing a season reversal: in Florida, it was summery, like July, flowers and greenery everywhere. In the middle states, it’s like June with blossoms everywhere, little spots of white, pink or purple amongst the unfolding green leaves. Here in Pennsylvania, it’s truly May. The trees have not yet budded, some still wear last year’s rusty leaves. The grass is greening but winter’s wear is still evident.
We discuss stopping to golf at Malone but the weather and the cost doesn’t encourage us so we opt to head directly home, checking via internet first to see what value we’re permitted to declare to Canada Border Services. Yes, with any thought of entering Canada, one must first think of the government and maintaining good relations. We breeze through after confessing to spending most of our money on golf. I think the young CBS agent has a soft spot for us after that confession, seeing as how he's confined to his little box questioning returning holidayers. Must be an awful job.
And now we’re home! Yeah, Canada!!!!!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Last Night
It’s our last night; we repose in the hot tub at dusk. We have the pool area totally to ourselves. The sky is pink, no stars out yet. The birds on the point are doing their dusk toilette, each group separately splunking their heads and bodies in the water, fluttering their wings, then settling down to groom their feathers.
We spy 3 little boys scooching under the large gazebo party room that protrudes into the lagoon. They all look younger than 11, dressed in sloppy tees, shorts and sneakers, the uniform of kids everywhere. They remind me of the boys in Stephen Kings “Stand by Me.” They’re sneaking along the grassy bank when one strawberry blonde head pops up; he makes eye contact with hubby, ducks, then slowly stands, knowing he’s been made. “Hello,” he says. “We’re just lookin’ for shells,” he says apologetically, shyly. I think to myself, he’s been caught at this before. I also know there’s no shells to be found around this lagoon; clam shells, maybe. His bigger dark-haired friend asks enthusiastically, making good eye contact (not shy, this one) “Can we hot tub too?” The third, the littlest blond, says nothing replying on the first speaker who looks to be his older brother.
In that instant, we’re faced with choices all “for their own good”:
· Reprimand them and send them on their way, remind them this is private property and they’re not supposed to be here. (We’re well aware the condo board is contemplating gating the entire community, a move we are against should we ever own here.)
· Tell them no children are allowed in the pool or hot tub without their parents.
· Warn them to stay away from the water; there might be alligators in there that would find a little boy a tasty morsel.
· Do nothing.
I well remember what it’s like to be a kid, to be in a place you’re not supposed or allowed to be, the fear of adults, of being caught. I well remember looking for stuff along the river’s edge, the adventure of it all. And that is my undoing. I don’t do the responsible adult thing, nor does my husband. We all pretend they might actually belong in the complex when I say “You can’t come into the hot tub without your parents. Are your parents around?” Knowing full well their parents are likely many blocks away and totally unaware of these kids’ whereabouts. “Nahhh,” says the biggest boy, and they slowly edge away toward a fence overwhelmed in white honeysuckle, where they stop, remove their sneakers and duck through a boy-sized hole in the fence barely visible through the honeysuckle camouflage. We watch them meander around the lagoon, round the point and go out of sight.
Hubby says, “I’ll bet those kids have done that a thousand times.” I worry that I’ve failed them. I should have done the adult thing: walked them safely out through the gate. What if something happens to them? Too late now.
Once home, we’re busy cleaning out cupboards, packing. It’s now dark but through the open door I hear boys’ voices. “Hey guys!” I shout out the screened patio door. I go out. Not a boy to be seen. But they’ve heard me. They reappear around the corner of the carport. Quietly,“Yes, ma’am?”
I usher them into the kitchen. Can your families use some groceries, I ask. More scuffling of feet and shy replies. I show them what’s in the bags I’ve filled. Rice, Gatorade mix, Quik, jello, rice, spaghetti and so on. The biggest boy takes the two bags, hefts them. I could take the Gatorade and the Quik he says, his self-interest obvious. Couldn’t you use it all? I persist wanting to unload these goods, thinking times are tough and anyone would be glad of a few free groceries but of course of our own self-interest: it’s shameful to waste. But, ma’am. Do you know where Wendy’s is? (I don’t.) Well, I gotta walk all that way home. These bags are too heavy. But my mom’s on foodstamps...his voice dies away.
I briefly consider driving them home. Not a wise move – I’ve made enough mistakes for one night. Well, I tell him, you guys take what you can carry, ok? Ok. One spots the golf balls hubby has accumulated in an egg tray. “Golfballs!” he oogles them like he’s spotted gold. I give him some making him promise not to throw them at anyone or anything, particularly windows, wondering at the same time if I’m contributing to juvenile delinquency. I’m such a worry wart. He solemnly promises.
They shuffle out the door, laden with their bags, into the darkening night. Hubby misses this whole exchange as, wonderful husband that he is, he was vacuuming the bedroom rug.
I feel relieved. Relieved that they’re all ok. That they’re on their way home. That everything turned out ok. That we didn’t fail them after all.
************************************************************
But back to the gator thing. It’s a very real consideration down here. People have often told us of the gator that used to live in the lagoon. It got so big, they had to call the gator handlers (whoever they are). A. Tells me they arrived in a boat, put a dead chicken on a line into the water and before long, along comes Mr Gator looking for his chicken dinner. They noosed him, hauled him into the boat, duct taped his dangerous jaw, then hog-tied (well, gator-tied) him, and boom, they were gone. Whole thing took 15 minutes, A. said. She didn’t know what the handlers did with him after that. A gator farm? The abbatoir (for one can order gator steaks down here)? She didn’t know.
The Lady Lakers (the condo’s group of women golfers) also told me of a big ole gator who resided at Forest Hill Golf Course where they golfed. Ya never had to worry about him, they said. Biggest gator they’d ever seen, they said. He’d been a resident of the golf course for years when someone up and killed him. Everyone was sorry for his loss. They still talk about him; I think they miss him.
Shortly before we leave, the talk around the condo project is the 8-foot gator found sleeping under a demo car at the Toyoto dealership which is just one street over from us. Turns out a lady went to take a spin on a car only to find the gator taking a snooze. Coulda been a real ankle-biter, I thought, imagining the lady’s foot and ankle from the gator’s perspective. I hope he was facing the other way. Anyway, she discovered him before he discovered her, thank Heavens! The Toyota dealership got some free publicity – good or bad – it’s still good publicity when your dealership name is plastered across the news. I guess the gator got rustled up by the gator handlers, and the lady, no doubt, needed a valium. And I can’t speak for others in the condo project, but I’m a lot more careful when we trot down to the hot tub at night. You just never know....
Now I'm sorry I've written this as I'll never get my dear gator-fearing sister-in-law to come down to visit again!
We spy 3 little boys scooching under the large gazebo party room that protrudes into the lagoon. They all look younger than 11, dressed in sloppy tees, shorts and sneakers, the uniform of kids everywhere. They remind me of the boys in Stephen Kings “Stand by Me.” They’re sneaking along the grassy bank when one strawberry blonde head pops up; he makes eye contact with hubby, ducks, then slowly stands, knowing he’s been made. “Hello,” he says. “We’re just lookin’ for shells,” he says apologetically, shyly. I think to myself, he’s been caught at this before. I also know there’s no shells to be found around this lagoon; clam shells, maybe. His bigger dark-haired friend asks enthusiastically, making good eye contact (not shy, this one) “Can we hot tub too?” The third, the littlest blond, says nothing replying on the first speaker who looks to be his older brother.
In that instant, we’re faced with choices all “for their own good”:
· Reprimand them and send them on their way, remind them this is private property and they’re not supposed to be here. (We’re well aware the condo board is contemplating gating the entire community, a move we are against should we ever own here.)
· Tell them no children are allowed in the pool or hot tub without their parents.
· Warn them to stay away from the water; there might be alligators in there that would find a little boy a tasty morsel.
· Do nothing.
I well remember what it’s like to be a kid, to be in a place you’re not supposed or allowed to be, the fear of adults, of being caught. I well remember looking for stuff along the river’s edge, the adventure of it all. And that is my undoing. I don’t do the responsible adult thing, nor does my husband. We all pretend they might actually belong in the complex when I say “You can’t come into the hot tub without your parents. Are your parents around?” Knowing full well their parents are likely many blocks away and totally unaware of these kids’ whereabouts. “Nahhh,” says the biggest boy, and they slowly edge away toward a fence overwhelmed in white honeysuckle, where they stop, remove their sneakers and duck through a boy-sized hole in the fence barely visible through the honeysuckle camouflage. We watch them meander around the lagoon, round the point and go out of sight.
Hubby says, “I’ll bet those kids have done that a thousand times.” I worry that I’ve failed them. I should have done the adult thing: walked them safely out through the gate. What if something happens to them? Too late now.
Once home, we’re busy cleaning out cupboards, packing. It’s now dark but through the open door I hear boys’ voices. “Hey guys!” I shout out the screened patio door. I go out. Not a boy to be seen. But they’ve heard me. They reappear around the corner of the carport. Quietly,“Yes, ma’am?”
I usher them into the kitchen. Can your families use some groceries, I ask. More scuffling of feet and shy replies. I show them what’s in the bags I’ve filled. Rice, Gatorade mix, Quik, jello, rice, spaghetti and so on. The biggest boy takes the two bags, hefts them. I could take the Gatorade and the Quik he says, his self-interest obvious. Couldn’t you use it all? I persist wanting to unload these goods, thinking times are tough and anyone would be glad of a few free groceries but of course of our own self-interest: it’s shameful to waste. But, ma’am. Do you know where Wendy’s is? (I don’t.) Well, I gotta walk all that way home. These bags are too heavy. But my mom’s on foodstamps...his voice dies away.
I briefly consider driving them home. Not a wise move – I’ve made enough mistakes for one night. Well, I tell him, you guys take what you can carry, ok? Ok. One spots the golf balls hubby has accumulated in an egg tray. “Golfballs!” he oogles them like he’s spotted gold. I give him some making him promise not to throw them at anyone or anything, particularly windows, wondering at the same time if I’m contributing to juvenile delinquency. I’m such a worry wart. He solemnly promises.
They shuffle out the door, laden with their bags, into the darkening night. Hubby misses this whole exchange as, wonderful husband that he is, he was vacuuming the bedroom rug.
I feel relieved. Relieved that they’re all ok. That they’re on their way home. That everything turned out ok. That we didn’t fail them after all.
************************************************************
But back to the gator thing. It’s a very real consideration down here. People have often told us of the gator that used to live in the lagoon. It got so big, they had to call the gator handlers (whoever they are). A. Tells me they arrived in a boat, put a dead chicken on a line into the water and before long, along comes Mr Gator looking for his chicken dinner. They noosed him, hauled him into the boat, duct taped his dangerous jaw, then hog-tied (well, gator-tied) him, and boom, they were gone. Whole thing took 15 minutes, A. said. She didn’t know what the handlers did with him after that. A gator farm? The abbatoir (for one can order gator steaks down here)? She didn’t know.
The Lady Lakers (the condo’s group of women golfers) also told me of a big ole gator who resided at Forest Hill Golf Course where they golfed. Ya never had to worry about him, they said. Biggest gator they’d ever seen, they said. He’d been a resident of the golf course for years when someone up and killed him. Everyone was sorry for his loss. They still talk about him; I think they miss him.
Shortly before we leave, the talk around the condo project is the 8-foot gator found sleeping under a demo car at the Toyoto dealership which is just one street over from us. Turns out a lady went to take a spin on a car only to find the gator taking a snooze. Coulda been a real ankle-biter, I thought, imagining the lady’s foot and ankle from the gator’s perspective. I hope he was facing the other way. Anyway, she discovered him before he discovered her, thank Heavens! The Toyota dealership got some free publicity – good or bad – it’s still good publicity when your dealership name is plastered across the news. I guess the gator got rustled up by the gator handlers, and the lady, no doubt, needed a valium. And I can’t speak for others in the condo project, but I’m a lot more careful when we trot down to the hot tub at night. You just never know....
Now I'm sorry I've written this as I'll never get my dear gator-fearing sister-in-law to come down to visit again!
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