We recently returned from “wintering” in South Florida.
We’ve been staying for several years in Deerfield Beach right next to Boca (as we part-time Floridians call Boca Raton) and we are snowbirds crowding the roadways (as full-time Floridians call us).
In some ways, visiting that area is like going back to the 50s – loud mufflers (or no muffler, I never could tell) on cars, loud motorcycles (like the Rat Pack in my hometown used to ride – and, yes, they called themselves the Rat Pack), dogs in baby (or doggie) carriages rolling in front of their owners who were taking a walk (used to be you took your dog for a walk for exercise and/or to relieve itself. Now he/she rides in comfort while you do (most of) the work.) Oh, and nearly all dogs in Florida are tiny so they fit comfortably in the apartments/condos folks reside in.
Every morning we went for a three- or four-mile walk (and I lost five pounds to prove it!) and nearly every morning we would walk by, or behind, the doggy carriages, see younger folks walking yet looking down at their phones and texting while ignoring the beautiful Atlantic Ocean just a few yards away.
There also were men and women sitting in their cars, engines running, in the parking spaces by the Atlantic listening to the radio or reading the newspaper (and that was before AND after the gas price increases people were/are complaining about). I mean, I could never understand that but every morning there were regulars and a few some-timers sitting in their running cars reading the paper or staring out at the ocean. In. Their. Cars. With. Engines. Running. At about $4 a gallon in those days.
Even at 8 or 9 a.m. when we’d take our walks (OK, not early morning but, gimme a break, we’re retired!) cars would drive past on the narrow streets near the water with their radios blasting. These were not teenagers, or at least not chronologically.
These were, typically, grown men blasting the radios like teens did when we would hang out at the (fill in the blank) Burger Joint when we were in high school.
Most often the choice of morning music would be loud rap music. I don’t once remember hearing Mel Torme blaring from a car.
When we arrived in Florida, it was the Number One state in the country in Covid problems that, briefly, wasn’t. But was becoming so again as we departed for the colder clime of New England.
Let having the luxury of spending winter months in warm climes be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I’m not a big Florida fan, though.
It’s definitely far warmer than the home state of Massachusetts, and I am (again) NOT complaining about being able to go to Florida to escape winter.
Still, as Dorothy said so eloquently – there’s no place like home.
We’ve been staying for several years in Deerfield Beach right next to Boca (as we part-time Floridians call Boca Raton) and we are snowbirds crowding the roadways (as full-time Floridians call us).
In some ways, visiting that area is like going back to the 50s – loud mufflers (or no muffler, I never could tell) on cars, loud motorcycles (like the Rat Pack in my hometown used to ride – and, yes, they called themselves the Rat Pack), dogs in baby (or doggie) carriages rolling in front of their owners who were taking a walk (used to be you took your dog for a walk for exercise and/or to relieve itself. Now he/she rides in comfort while you do (most of) the work.) Oh, and nearly all dogs in Florida are tiny so they fit comfortably in the apartments/condos folks reside in.
Every morning we went for a three- or four-mile walk (and I lost five pounds to prove it!) and nearly every morning we would walk by, or behind, the doggy carriages, see younger folks walking yet looking down at their phones and texting while ignoring the beautiful Atlantic Ocean just a few yards away.
There also were men and women sitting in their cars, engines running, in the parking spaces by the Atlantic listening to the radio or reading the newspaper (and that was before AND after the gas price increases people were/are complaining about). I mean, I could never understand that but every morning there were regulars and a few some-timers sitting in their running cars reading the paper or staring out at the ocean. In. Their. Cars. With. Engines. Running. At about $4 a gallon in those days.
Even at 8 or 9 a.m. when we’d take our walks (OK, not early morning but, gimme a break, we’re retired!) cars would drive past on the narrow streets near the water with their radios blasting. These were not teenagers, or at least not chronologically.
These were, typically, grown men blasting the radios like teens did when we would hang out at the (fill in the blank) Burger Joint when we were in high school.
Most often the choice of morning music would be loud rap music. I don’t once remember hearing Mel Torme blaring from a car.
When we arrived in Florida, it was the Number One state in the country in Covid problems that, briefly, wasn’t. But was becoming so again as we departed for the colder clime of New England.
Let having the luxury of spending winter months in warm climes be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I’m not a big Florida fan, though.
It’s definitely far warmer than the home state of Massachusetts, and I am (again) NOT complaining about being able to go to Florida to escape winter.
Still, as Dorothy said so eloquently – there’s no place like home.
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