Sunday, February 28, 2021
Good morning.
OK, I said the previous epistle was the last of Florida, but a few more bits and pieces as well as non-Florida scribbling. (As with the previous messages, my Facebook friends will have seen some of this material.)
We met up with friends (former neighbors who retired to Florida who live on the Atlantic coast side) at the Naples Botanical Garden a few weeks ago. It's a wonderful place to walk and see thousands of flowers (especially when, in winter here, very few are blossoming). We knew we'd been there before but thought it was a long time ago. Facebook reminded Kathy that it was three years ago. My age is heading north; my memory is heading south.
One of the pleasures of being in Florida, pandemic or no, is being able to get together with high school classmates who live here or winter here as well as Minneapolis friends who spend time here in the winter. There are a number of them scattered up and down the Gulf Coast and a couple of others in central and eastern Florida. Because the weather is temperate and there are usually breezes, we've had lunch or dinner with all of them outdoors and (mostly) distanced on several occasions. Doing so means we drive quite a bit because we are spaced apart, so a half-hour drive is usual and a 90-minute drive (each way) has happened. For a couple of classmates, the drive to lunch was two hours. I guess we all want to see each other and have some modest level of social interaction after a year spent being reclusive. We are assuming that if we come down here next year—which for now is the plan—we'll be able to things like go to concerts and museums and dine indoors with friends. But we'd still have to drive a ways ☹
One of our 90-minute drives for lunch was to the Tiki Bar in Clewiston (not a place you'll rush to visit when you come to Florida; it was a convenient midpoint for those of us coming from the Gulf and another classmate coming from near Fort Lauderdale on the Atlantic coast).
It was an uncomfortable setting. None of the staff wore masks, which was sort of OK when the upper half of the walls were open air and there were big fans blowing. Then a torrential downpour came through, so all the plastic shades (rolled up in this photo) quickly came down, blocking the rain and air flow—and we were suddenly dining inside with a large group of people, a setting we have avoided since last March. We didn't get COVID from that lunch—and we may have dodged a bullet.
A poignant story came out of this lunch for me, about the loss of a small bit of important geography in my life. As a result of a conversation here, I learned later that another classmate, John Tillotson, is selling his childhood home on Lake Harriet Parkway. I spent many evenings during the summer of 1967 in the Tillotsons' dining room with Scott Eller and John and another classmate learning to play bridge. The house will likely be torn down because it's the oldest house on Lake Harriet, built in 1888 (if I recall correctly), and too small by modern standards. (I also house-sat for John's parents a couple of times when they were traveling.) So I spent much time in that house, and bridge became a significant part of my recreational life in the following decades. To this day I play bridge, including weekly online, with one of my teachers from that long-ago summer. He's still a better bridge player than I am.
This has nothing to do with Florida. As Facebook users know, you receive "memories" from Facebook, showing you a post from x number of years ago that day. One "memory" I received on February 15 from February 15, 2011, was this photo:
This remains one of my favorite photos of the two of us. We were at a wedding reception for the daughter of one of my long-time good friends. We were both chuckling at something happening across the room and the photographer caught us at just the right second. Ah, to be 59 again.
Also nothing to do with Florida: It appears that Pat and I are taking the same approach to items that have some family value/heirloom value: we are leaving descriptions of them for Elliott. I haven't done photos, like she has, but that's a good idea. Maybe I'll do that when I get home. Photos in a Word document with a short narrative that describes things. Elliott can then keep or pitch what he wants, but at least he'll know the provenance of items before he decides whether or not to toss them. The difference between Elliott and Martha—and between Elliott and me and my siblings, and so on—is that he is now sole inheritor of everything from both parents with different households. I had to split up my parents' things with my brother and sister and presumably Martha will have to do the same with her sibs. Elliott gets a boatload of stuff.
On a related topic, a couple of retired University friends got me involved in a "family history interest group," part of the U of MN Retirees Association. I learned that it is wise to digitize the family photos. Duh. When I realized the wisdom of doing so, the worry that jumped immediately to mind is that house would burn down while we were gone and I'd lose over 40 photo albums, some with photos going back to the late 1800s. So my summer project will be to get a new high-quality printer/scanner and digitize everything.
79 degrees feels different depending on the circumstances. This is sort of a "duh" but I'd never thought explicitly about it before. We have been out walking here in the sun at 79 degrees and humid and got uncomfortably hot and sweaty. We have been sitting outside late afternoon in the shade at 79 with high humidity; we were not so warm as in the sun but still sticky. One night we were sitting outside for a glass of wine at 79 with low humidity and a light breeze and it was perfect.
I was pleased to see that our friend Peggy posted an article on Facebook reporting on a study from the Berlin Institute of Technology. The researchers concluded that "the risk of COVID-19 transmission is far lower in museums and theaters than in supermarkets, restaurants, offices, or public transportation." Inasmuch as we went to a museum the morning of the day she posted the article, we were pleased to have our decision confirmed. The museum in Naples, the Baker, had a Chihuly exhibit that we wanted to see. It was worth the visit, and unlike even some restaurant gatherings we've been at, we didn't feel our stroll around the Baker was particularly threatening. We were probably the youngest people there (so I bet a lot of them had already been vaccinated), they kept the numbers low, everyone had on masks, the rooms are large, and the ventilation seemed excellent. I posted a few photos from the Baker on my Facebook page; for those not Facebook friends of mine, here are a few.
This chandelier was so big I couldn't get it in one photo. One of the docents told me it weighs about a 1000 pounds. First, looking down from the third-floor balcony, then looking at the top, right in front of me.
Another chandelier, not quite so big.
A big boat of glass. This "boat" was perhaps a dozen feet long and 3-4 feet wide.
He titled this one "River and Cobalt Mille Fiori"
I'll end on a slightly peeved note. The distribution of COVID vaccines, and how people get them, is utterly ridiculous. I have Minneapolis friends who have gone to Marshall MN, Fargo ND, St. Cloud MN, as well as closer-in suburbs that are nowhere near where my friends live. Searching all over the web for places to get shots, almost no matter how far away, is absurd. This is no way to run a railroad. I will get my vaccination after we get back to Minneapolis, presumably March 15 or so, and I'm hoping that with the additional flow of vaccine to the states, I'll be able to go to a local pharmacy or my own regular clinic to get it—and not have to chase all over the Upper Midwest to find it. Kathy's not eligible until the next age group is up for shots because she doesn't turn 65 until November.
Gary
