Never Miss An Opportunity To Meet Someone New

Today I spied someone anchored off the edge of the property, just over on the neighbor's side. They fished for at least an hour, which was unusual, because most lake fishermen drift by the lakefront quietly, tossing their lines into the lake grass.  But this person anchored and was casting with a small rod out toward the center of the lake.  I was curious and walked down to meet Ralph, a black man, who was catching brim.  Most were too small and he was throwing them back.  But every cast brought back a fish, almost immediately.  

Ralph, who was acquainted with a lakefront property owner on the other side of the lake, was obviously having a good time.  He said he was catching fish to feed the homeless.  I’m going to assume that did not include him, since he had a nice aluminum john-boat with a small, electric kicker on the back.  We talked for a few minutes, about his technique, his bait (red worms), and our preferences for salt- vs. freshwater fishing.  I grew up in South Tampa, off the Bay, and knew only about dropping a line in water that was salt.  Now, living on a lake north of Tampa, I wish I knew more about freshwater fishing.  

I shared with him Beth’s story about releasing a big freshwater catfish in the lake. Interestingly, Ralph said he had never caught a catfish in this lake.  Apparently he fishes the lake often, although I’ve not seen him -- but I may have.  He wears a floppy hat with a cover over the back of his neck.  I have a vague feeling that I’ve seen him out on the lake.  We exchanged first names and Ralph offered to take me out on the lake any time I should see him. In parting, he offered to do any odd jobs around the house, saying he wasn’t afraid to do some hard work.  

I’m glad I took the time to walk down to the lakefront and meet Ralph.  You never know what opportunities you may miss to connect with others if you stay holed up, never opening yourself up to new experiences.  

Just like the other day -- when I walked up to the road-front to get the mail.  There, again, was someone I had only briefly talked to, walking his big, old Great Dane.  We had a great conversation about power outages and … Vietnam.  Turns out we were both there -- he just ahead of me, and during some of the worst fighting.  He’s a retired Master Chief in the Navy, and as a result of our newfound friendship, he offered to loan us his very cool generator the next time our power goes out and he’s not needing it.  

Sometimes I just love being an extrovert, although it’s at times painful.  But what I learned long ago as a newspaper reporter was that everyone IS interesting, has a story to tell, and loves to talk about themselves (me included, as you might notice.)

The Spider In The Nightlight

My friend appears to be doing well.

He lives inside the clear shade of the bathroom nightlight.  I think I named him Ralphie.  But that's because I name all my bugs "Ralphie."  I guess he's a guy, but I'm not sure.  Goes with the name.

I'm not sure how long ago it was when I first realized I always was accompanied when I used the bathroom.  I first noticed small, dark "droppings" on the countertop next to the wall.  They had to be bugs -- dead bugs -- or bug poop.  They would appear, even after I swept them up, directly below an outlet where the LED nightlight is plugged in.  It's one of those with the sensor that switches on at dusk.

Ralphie has hit on something good.  His cool-bulb nightlight guarantees bugs will come around at night.  And there are no shortage of bugs, apparently.  We live in the country and even the new, hurricane-proof windows have gaps around the screens.

At first I didn't think anything was alive inside the shade.  But there were, as I learned later, carcasses in there, some hung up in Raphie's little web.  I was not pleased with the bits of black inside the light, so I unplugged it and looked inside.

Nothing moved.

I was going to dump it -- clean it out with a wet wipe.  But, I thought, what if there were a live spider in there?  I honestly can cohabitate with a small spider -- as long as they stick to their territory.  I have learned this attitude from Beth, who convinced me some time ago to let a rather large garden spider run loose in the bathroom.  So if he were alive, I'd just let him harvest what stray flying insects should wind up in the web.

So, to be sure, I poked the butt-end of a toothbrush in there.  Immediately there was a furious amount of activity inside the shade.  Ralphie virtually vibrated back and forth, his little body whipping to and fro, up and down, sideways.  He was obviously agitated -- but he did not run away.  No.  Not Ralphie.  He froze.  All movement stopped.  I poked again and the agitation began again.  He is so small you can hardly distinguish him from all the little black carcasses.  But he was the only spot moving.

And still he stayed.

Someone -- or something this dedicated to protecting their franchise should not be removed.  Ralphie showed a real determination to stay where he was at any cost.  And so Ralphie the nightlight spider remains on the wall, behind his little clear-plastic enclosure, not far from my ear when I look in the mirror.

When I remember that he's there, I look over and see him (and clean up his mess).  But I'm happy that he gets to live on and enjoy his decision to be the spider in the nightlight.

Update: 6/15/17  I'm sad to report that Ralphie is with me no longer.  Hopefully, he moved on to more fertile grounds.  Realistically, he had a long and prosperous life.  Now I often glance at the empty nightlight and think fondly of my friend.

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

As I approach my 70th birthday, I am aware that I am aware.

I am aware that I am -- old.  Worse yet, I am aware that my time on this earth is limited.  For me, the light at the end of the tunnel is red.  It's a stop light.  And I am in no hurry to, as they say, "go toward the light."

It distresses me to be thinking this way, to have these thoughts.  Although it's been coming on slowly, the awareness that there is so little time left has been nagging at me for the the last year.

There are several things that are bringing my mortality into sharp focus.

First, there are the funerals.  I retired in 2008 after seeing co-workers, some years younger than me, die of horrible diseases.  I wanted to live life -- what was left of it -- and not regret having worked right up to the day I experience a debilitating heart attack or stroke.  Recently I attended back-to-back funerals.  The first day, the funeral was for a man just a few months older than me.  Believe me, that got me thinking.  The next day I attended the funeral for the father of one of my oldest friends, a friend who is just about my age.  His father had lived to be 95 years old.  Although he was physically frail, his mind was wonderfully sharp.  I was actually jealous because -- given my frame of mind -- I couldn't see me living that long.  And I wanted to.  I still want to.

But recent medical events in my life have me question my own viability.  I won't go into all the details.  Oh, sure, I have the normal aches and pains that I imagine someone my age has.  I ruined both knees long ago playing tennis.  I tore one shoulder decades ago, falling backward in a slimy parking lot.  I tore the other shoulder -- my right shoulder -- playing ping pong.  That's right.  You read that correctly.  I literally threw my arm out of its socket.  The worst part of all this is that I am a shoulder sleeper and go back and forth, from one shoulder to the other, all night long -- waking each time I turn.

The fact that I continuously test anemic is more than worrisome.  The doctors at the VA have all but given up trying to find out why.  My primary physician back in Texas duly noted it, would mention it each time I had blood tests, and then we would not talk about it anymore.  And the fact that my father died of a blood disorder -- the swift onset of chronic leukemia -- does not give me confidence.

For most of my life I've been deadline oriented.  As a newspaper writer/editor, I tackled three deadlines daily for more than a decade.  When I set goals, I usually meet them.  But it may have been a mistake a number of years ago to set one deadline in particular.  That deadline was my death date.  I was meeting with my financial adviser and, as with any good financial plan, we needed to estimate how long I intended to live in order for my savings to be meted out without running out.

"Eighty-five," I said.  "That sounds like a ripe, old age."

Maybe 85 seemed far away when I was in my early 60s.  But it doesn't anymore.  In fact, 80 seems real close -- like that stop light at the end of the tunnel.  I get the feeling I'm managing my life to meet this final deadline.

I hate this futile way of thinking.  I feel disgusted when I wake up in the morning and realize I did nothing the day before that was remarkable.  I took up motorcycle touring in 2005 because I wanted to put something in my life that made my heart beat faster.

I am going to try harder to live my life to the fullest.  I am going to set some more goals, plan more trips, get more involved.  I no longer want life to just seep into me; I want to go out and embrace it.

Maybe, just maybe, I can change that light at the end of the tunnel from red to green.  And if not, at least I raced to the end instead of simply coasting.

Tampa -- City of the Apes

You blew it up.  Ah, damn you.  God damn you all to hell.

These days I often feel like Charlton Heston in the movie "Planet of the Apes."  In particular it's the revelation at the end, where Heston's character realizes he's never left. Only, everything he's ever known about his world has been turned upside down.

I DID leave.  And that's a fact.  But I came back to Tampa.  I've been in Texas since 1989, and there's a standing joke that Texans inflict on outsiders.  If you're to be accepted at all, you say "I wasn't born here, but I got here as soon as I could."  That's about the only way a Texan would give you any credence.  I kind of feel that way about Florida.

On a particular day, at a particular time, I knew I belonged in Florida.  And I remember it like it was yesterday -- only it wasn't.  I was a man in my early 30s, I believe, when I was driving with the top down into the setting sun.  I was going over the hump on Gandy Bridge, with the radio blasting and the wind in my hair and face.  I was in my 1971 Olds Cutlass.

"Yeah!" I yelled, as my eyes scanned the horizon.  "I'm in Florida!  This is where everyone else wants to be."  And that feeling -- that feeling that Tampa was my home, where I was meant to be -- has never left me.

Back then, it was "Tampa town."  Traffic congestion was unheard of, unless one of the bridges across the Hillsborough River got stuck open.  People didn't actually live in St. Petersburg or Clearwater and go to work in Tampa, having to cross the bay via the Gandy or Howard-Frankland bridges, or the Courtney-Campbell Causeway.  No.  No way.  The three cities were all very well defined communities, each with a character all its own.

Today, we live in the Bay.  Quite literally, the marketing Gods would have the rest of the United States and world believe that residents live in a place called Tampa Bay.  Oh!  You mean "Tampa Bay area?"  Well then, why don't you say so?  Any map will clearly show you that Tampa Bay is a body of water, as is Hillsborough Bay, Old Tampa Bay and McKay Bay.

In this topsy-turvy world today, people young and old are fleeing Tampa to live in -- of all places -- St. Petersburg.  Hell, I wouldn't be caught dead living in St. Petersburg unless I was 65 or older.  At least, that's the way I saw it when I was young.  Clearwater was just a sleepy little town whose claim to fame was its fantastic beach.  Today, St. Petersburg's bayfront district is experiencing an incredible resurgence. Gone are the famous green bus benches and shuffleboard courts that catered to senior citizens.  Clearwater is so popular with the ultra rich that they've built walls of condominiums along the beach, screening off the Gulf waters from everyday people.  Why, even the Church of Scientology is in on the act, buying up as much downtown Clearwater property as possible to go along with its downtown world headquarters.

I live out in the country now.  Well, it used to be country.  Now there are thousands of home sites going in just north of us in what used to be pasture land.  Traffic is so bad on our east-west state road that we may have to drive back roads to a nearby intersection with a traffic light in order to be able to get onto or across the highway.  Developers are pushing elected officials to ignore planning efforts and law so that this rural area can be developed to the point where you can look in your neighbor's windows or stare at the three-story tower of town homes.

I grew up in South Tampa.  I could ride my bike down the middle of Howard Avenue, paved with Baltimore Block bricks, and never fear being hit by a car.  Today Howard Avenue is a parking lot.  In some places our wise city fathers have allowed apartments and condos to overshadow the street to the point that you feel you are in a canyon.

I was away from Florida for almost 30 years.  Each time I came back to visit I became more and more aware that "you can't go home again," as the novelist Thomas Wolfe noted.  Things change, and usually not for the better.  I'm certain young people today love Tampa Bay and all its bars, restaurants, malls and attractions.  But, if they could know what I know, see what I saw, and live the life I had back then, they would breathe a deep sigh, and dream of paradise lost.

Baltimore -- Tough Neighborhood

Do you know what my first job was?

I never really thought about it until I was watching an episode of "The Good Wife" and a black, female applicant at the law firm was asked where she was from.  "Baltimore," she replied.  "Tough neighborhood" and "You have to be tough to grow up there" were the responses from her interviewers.

To be honest, I wasn't an "inner-city" child.  But we weren't exactly out in the suburbs either.
To be sure, there were nothing but row houses where I lived -- just like downtown.  I was somewhere around the age of 10 when on Saturdays I would walk to the corner, catch a city bus, ride it downtown and get off at the Enoch Pratt Public Library where I crossed the street to go to the WMCA.

Riding the bus alone, being on my own in downtown Baltimore, and taking swimming lessons in the nude at the WMCA.  No one gave any of this a second thought.  It didn't make you tough; it's just the way it was.

As a kid, attending Northwood Elementary School, I was beat up a few times.

Once I decided to walk home from school using the other side of Loch Raven Blvd.  I couldn't resist going down the slope by the bridge over Chinquapin Run.  I was promptly confronted by the biggest kid I'd ever seen, and he proceeded to wrestle me to the ground, punching me in the face until I was able to break free and run away.  Lesson learned.

And there was the time -- again walking home from school -- two neighborhood kids caught me alone in the wooded lot next to Northwood Appold Methodist Church.  I really didn't know them except that I somehow knew they were from a nearby neighborhood.  This time, one kid -- the bigger one -- would hold me down on the ground while his little buddy proceeded to punch me in the face.

Never thought much about it.  "Tough neighborhood?"  I didn't think so.

But now that I think about it, I remember the day I got mugged.

I was too poor to get an allowance.  So in order to get some pocket change I'd walk 12 blocks to Northwood Shopping Center on weekends and station myself just outside of the door to the supermarket.  When people came out with their cart, I would ask them if I could push their cart to their car, help them unload groceries, and return the shopping cart for them.  In return, shoppers would give me a quarter, nickel or dime.  Whatever they had.

This, in fact, was my first job.

Then one day, as the sun was going down, I walked around back to the stairs up to the alley, ready to call it a day.  I had made a lot of money (or so I thought) and for some reason I decided to put it all in my sock.  It was awkward walking, I remember.

I had barely climbed the stairs before I was confronted by two kids, demanding my money.  They must have seen me pushing carts earlier.  But I turned my pockets inside out and said something to the effect of "But I don't have any money."  And I was let go -- without a beating.

"You have to be tough to grow up there ..."  Maybe so.  Just never thought much about it.

I Was The Mob's Newspaper Boy

When we moved to Tampa in January, 1960, we settled into Hyde Park, just off Howard and Bayshore.  Dad liked to call it Palma Ceia -- and it probably was, technically.  We rented a typical Florida bungalow with a large front porch at 1416 S. Moody Ave.  We were right behind Shepherd's Sports Cars, where Bella's Restaurant now stands.

In those days, I probably wasn't getting an allowance.  At age 12, I needed a small amount of cash for french fries at the drugstore soda fountain next to Bern's, or magazines about go-carts from the small general merchandise store on Howard and Morrison, where Hugo's now stands.

My bright idea was to shine shoes outside of the drugstore.  Somehow my Dad got wind of this and, without actually quashing my entrepreneurial spirit, he diverted my attention by making me a shoe polish box with a "sole" pattern on top where one would place their shoe during a shine.  I can remember Dad using a small hatchet to rough out the pattern.

But I still longed for spending money.  Somehow -- I'm not sure -- I must have noticed an adult dropping off bundles of newspapers at the nearby Lil' General store.  Kids on bikes would then come by and pick up their bundles and, after banding or folding the afternoon Tampa Times, would throw them on their paper route.  I imagine I approached the man and asked if I, too, could throw a newspaper route.

I was in luck and was granted a small paper route covering Morrison and Jetton, from Howard west to just across MacDill Avenue.  I can't remember the number of houses I had on my route; I wasn't going to get rich, that's for sure.  But I took over the route gladly, and performed my first duties as a newspaper man.

Throwing a paper route was actually a lot of work.  You had to pick up the bundle and lug it home in a canvas bag wound around the handlebars of your bike.  Fortunately for me, Dad had bought me a beautiful, used Schwinn "cruiser" with a wonderful, wide leather seat, a "springer" front end to absorb shocks and nice fat tires.  It had fine, broad handlebars, perfect for hanging the bag of newspapers.

The trick to throwing a paper route, as any kid with a route can tell you, is knowing how to fold the paper in thirds, so that it was flat.  Although we had rubber bands, we rarely use them.  You see, and nicely folded flat newspaper would sail when thrown.  And when you threw it just right you could calculate for the curve, or arc, that it was going to make in the air before landing just right on the front porch step.  Of course, any miscalculation of this trajectory meant the paper would likely land in the bushes on either side of the front door, making it necessary to stop the bike, get off, retrieve the paper and place it correctly on the stoop.

After a few months of throwing the paper route, I must have become fairly accomplished at landing the paper in the right location most of the time.  And, remember, this was done from a moving bike while steering with one hand.  Performing this complicated set of actions with impunity meant a smooth run of the route -- smooth enough to get me home before Dad arrived from work.  The evening family dinner would proceed on time.

I guess it wasn't long after taking over the route that my route manager approached me one day and told me that one house in particular on Morrison needed special attention.  It was a stately home, one of the larger houses in the well-appointed section of New Suburb Beautiful.  It was the only house, as I recall, that had two-story, tall white colonial pillars.  The red brick also set it apart from all the others since clay for bricks was hard to come by in sandy Florida.

Located on the corner of Morrison and Forest, I was now required to take a detour down the side street, turn up the driveway crowded by tall hedges on either side, ride my bike up to the small back porch and dismount.  I would, I was told, take the newspaper, open the screen door, and place it on the sill before closing the screen door.



Well, this would clearly be a disruption to the my well-defined path of travel.  I didn't want to do this.  Nobody else on my route made such demands.  I mean, I had high-powered lawyers, judges and doctors on my route.  Who, exactly, was this person that was intent on making my life miserable?

To add insult to injury, this particular customer was what we paperboys called a "pre-pay."  OK, sure.  I didn't have to knock on the front door and try to collect a month's worth of subscription money.  But that also meant that I would not be getting any face-time in order to secure a sweet tip for going through all that trouble.

"No," I told my manager.  "I'm not going to do it."  I could feel myself getting flushed.  "Why should I have to do that for just one customer?"  It was my paper route and I was damned well going to throw it the way I wanted.

After our little conversation, I'm sure I did not place the paper inside the backdoor as instructed.  And so, the next day -- as I sat on the porch of my house folding papers prior to throwing the route -- the manager pulls up in front and gets out of his car.

"Is your Dad home?" he asks as he comes up the sidewalk.  Apparently Dad had come home early from his job down on Tampa's waterfront, because I went back in the house to get him.  Dad and the route manager disappeared back in the house for a few minutes.  I don't remember even being worried as to why the manager wanted to talk to my Dad.  I hadn't done anything wrong, right?

Then they both came out to the porch.  The route manager told me that, in no uncertain terms, I would have to place that paper in the back of that house -- or someone else was going to be throwing my route.  Dad was silent.  I looked to him for support but he was oddly non-committal.  I felt the tears welling up as I told my manager that there was no benefit to me in performing these extraordinary tasks.  I was mad.  But it was to no avail.  I wanted to keep my paper route and the financial freedom it gave to me.  So I swallowed my pride.  And agreed.

We didn't stay long on Moody Avenue.  We eventually moved to another rental a block away from Grady Elementary off Henderson.  I attended Wilson through 8th grade, riding the bus each way every day.  But my paper route days were finished.

Many years later I learned that the red-brick colonial house on the corner was the home of reputed mob boss Henry Trafficante -- and it all became clear.  There was no way Henry was going to walk out into his front yard to retrieve a newspaper.  No way.  And it probably didn't take much to convince my route manager that another form of delivery would be necessary.

As a reporter for The Tampa Times many years later, I got to see Henry escorted into the federal courthouse, charged with some infraction that I'm sure he was never convicted of.  But it was then, with a warm glow of satisfaction, that I realized "I was the mob's newspaper boy."

The Limit

I got excited about weight loss the other day.

We needed to take Max to the vet.  A Rottweiler, he's a big old guy.  He's going on 12 and weighs in at 106, down a few pounds from his usual 110.

We had been in the front office for a few minutes when in came a rather skittish breed.  There was bound to be trouble so we elected to walk over to another part of the office, where we could get some separation.  (You Gotta Keep 'Em Separated.)

As we paced back and forth, we spied the electronic scale that the vet uses to weigh animals.  Beth says, "Why don't you check your weight?"  Well, I wasn't weighted down with heavy blue jeans or boots; I was runnin' light.  So it sounded like a good idea even though I had checked my weight about 5 days earlier at the house.

I climbed aboard, and turning to the electronic readout on the wall I was ... well, surprised.  At the house I became aware that I was putting on pounds and was approaching my limit.  You know, The Limit at which you just have to do something.

"One ninety nine," I exclaimed.  Quickly followed -- from me -- was the assessment of "That's not right."  It was way too light.  And I knew I couldn't have lost that much weight in the few days that had passed since I last weighed.

But I was hopeful.  Pitifully hopeful.

Then Beth brought me down to earth.  "The scale probably doesn't go over 200 pounds," she guessed.  I thought on that for a few seconds and, by gosh, I'll bet she was right.  After all, how many pet dogs weigh over 200 pounds?

Deflated, I waited until I got home and stepped gingerly upon the scales.  Uh huh.  The weight had miraculously reappeared and I slunk back into reality.  I had to "Take It To The Limit, One More Time."  But now it's time to get serious.