The Real America Is Alive And Well In Florida

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Okay, he wasn’t there in person, but his spirit and love for America sure was. 

I spent the Fourth of July 2021 in Florida. A state that is so vastly superior to the blue dungeon I came from that it barely is worth mentioning. Until, that is, you celebrate a patriotic holiday here.

Morning was church. Love my little church in the Everglades. Small congregation, no big screens or fog machines, and the band is a piano and a guitar with an occasional dulcimer thrown in. They normally have a second service at six in the evening, (which we don’t attend) but yesterday the second service was cancelled, and instead the entire congregation gathered at the home of a member for a “bring a dish” dinner, fireworks, volleyball, jumpy house (I was not allowed in, something about it being for the kids) and a couple of pools.

Dinner was great. So was our conversation. Like these events everywhere, the vets all find each other and trade stories. Last night no exception: except almost everyone there was a vet, so there were a bunch of conversations going on all over. 

While we ate, we watched the young people play volleyball. (Side note: at what age do you get to use that phrase?  Answer: 60.) They had more energy in the 98 degree heat than I do, but I killed the macaroni salad eating event.

As twilight approached, the pastor (our host’s father) said a prayer for America (and, yes, it’s pronounced “murica” down here) and we all joined in. This was followed by the playing of the national anthem. Nobody had a hat on their head, and a lot of us stood at attention and presented a salute. It was stirring and wonderful. I love that feeling of knowing the people around me have my back and I have theirs. 

Then our host’s husband (who was also our host, come to think of it) who is a fire-fighter, lit off about $8,000,000,000.00 worth of fireworks. Now, we live just down the road a half-mile, and they have a big acre lot as well. So we’re out in the boonies. The shredded paper from the fireworks covered my car in the parking area. I took out the hearing aids. We had a great show. 

And as the event ended in our company, the skyline light up from horizon to horizon with fireworks. Lots of fireworks. In Florida, you can shoot off danged near anything you want, but only on the Fourth. Not the third, not the fifth. You got the holiday and that’s it!  God, not wanting to miss out on the fun, lit up the eastern horizon with his special brand of electrical fireworks, and so it went.

Chewy was a bit uptight, but he got some tranquilizers early and late in the evening and he was okay. No panic, just a little anxiety. But we ended the night on the couch comforting him and thanking God we lived in a free place. 

That’s my new ‘murica. I love it.

Some Things That Just Aren’t Right

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I know that you’re probably wondering what this moron is doing now. Simple, I have observed some things that just aren’t right and need to be addressed.

Let’s start out easy and get to the really tough ones later.

McDonalds bags. I know that the good people at the counter/window of your favorite burger joint are trying to eliminate the need for you to juggle multiple bags when they jam it all into the bag most able to handle the load.

The problem is, and I say this having lived in a cold climate for a very long time, that if you can’t shut the bag by rolling the top, the top layer gets cold. And what’s always on the top layer? Fries. Nobody likes cold fries except Chewy. 

So, Golden Arches people, give me two bags for that order and let me close them properly. That’s what your competition at White Castle does. They’ve been around a lot longer than you have, so they might have it right.

Store brands versus name brands being displayed in different locations. Look, I get it: there’s a science to how things are shelved, and what locations get the best traffic/grabs from the shelf. But please don’t make me search the entire cereal section to find the store equivalent of Raisin Bran, Grape Nuts, Captain Crunch, etc. Either shelve them next to the big name product, or in a completely separate section of the shelf dedicated to the store brands. I really hate finding what I want in the middle of some other variety of product. I mean, seriously, who looks for Fruit Loops Generic in the middle of the granola section?

Gas pumps with three hoses. I vaguely remember getting a degree from some place that proves that I’m an educated idjit. But I really have to examine the multi-hose pumps with Diesel, non-ethanol, and then three grades of ethanol. The hose colors seem to vary with the chain as well. Let’s go standard here: blue for diesel, red for gasoline, and tiger-stripes of orange and purple for non-ethanol. Something. Anything. Make it somewhat easier than brain surgery for God’s sake. 

Mask signs. It’s time. Take the damned sign down. I don’t wear one anyway, but I want to know if you’re going to scream at me when I walk through the door. None of your staff, and very few customers, are still wearing one, but you forgot to take them off the doors. Get hot with that razor blade and soapy water, you losers. 

Quit blaming police for criminal’s bad actions and criminal actions. Yes, this one’s serious. Every time you label a cop as a racist for enforcing the law, bringing a suspect down with a Taser, or citing a speeder, you diminish the value of everyone involved. Force, violence, power projection is sometimes needed to protect the officer and the citizenry.

Bad shoots are a bad thing. If it’s done with clear malice, it’s a criminal act. If not, perhaps it’s a training issue. It’s not a given that an officer using force is wrong for doing what they’ve done. 

A measured evaluation, instead of an insta-riot is what needs to happen. 

Our President. I’m fluent in lots of things, and just this past week he said we’d nuclear weapons and F-15 fighters to take down the government. Yet on January 6, unarmed protestors were labeled an insurrection. (The word means protest against government, often of a violent nature.) Protesters, I might add, who were given admission into the building by the police in some cases. 

How can that be if we need fighters and nukes to take down the government. And, frankly, why is the government still holding people guilty of nothing worse than trespass in jail from that event. None has been charged with insurrection. Not. A. Single. One. Strangely enough, only one person died due to the violence that day: Ahsli Babbett. She was shot by an unnamed Capitol Police officer. She was unarmed. If you’ve read this blog for very long, I’m as pro-police as it gets. But that shot was murder. Plain and simple. We need to know who the shooter was. Now.

Now, I realize that last paragraph really upset some of you. But think it through: was it a protest, or an insurrection.

Think about all the people in this country with skill and equipment that could really make for an insurrection, and ask yourself where were they that day?  They were not there, in Washington, because it was a protest that got out of hand. Most likely through the agency of people opposed to the message of the protest, but willing to set fire to their own hair to make the protesters look bad.

Those are some of the wrongs that need to be righted. And, Mr. President, you work for us. Don’t forget that. Because millions of Americans took it rather personally when you made your statement. We don’t need no stinkin  nukes.

So, for all of you eating cold fries, with a soggy bowl of the wrong cereal in front of you for desert, go ahead and rage. But you’re still wrong. And so is the President.

That’s all until after the Independence Day celebrations. Go be with friends and family. Eat hotdogs, light rockets, and ignore the dictators who tell you to socially distance and turn in your guns.  You need no permit to be free: God issued that to you at birth within these borders.

George and the boys would approve of your actions.

Great Real Estate Agent Alert

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In the past few years I have extolled the joys of certain movies, television shows, books, restaurants, charities, and a host of personal stuff I’ve been involved in.

Today’s blog is presenting great real estate agents.

My recent move from the Blue Hell of Minnesota to the Red Utopia of Florida is case in point. I grew up one place, plan to die in the other, and have had great agents in both places. 

Let’s start with my Minnesota agent, Kevin Horan. Not many people have the guy next door as their agent. We did. It made it easy to wander over with a bottle of adult beverages and some snacks, sit around the center island in his kitchen, and plan the strategy. It made it easy to get the house ready to list, and for him to show it as well, since he just had to look out the window to see what was going on.

But the little things count massively. Example: he cleaned the joint out for us after we moved out. I hired a team of 800-GOT JUNK people to come in and make it all vanish. Kevin was there to let them in and supervise. Likewise with the cleaning crew (whom he recommended) that left the place far better looking than at any point when I lived there. Finally, it got warm before the new tenants moved in, and the snow melted. That meant that a winter’s worth of Chewy poop was visible. Kevin did poop patrol. I owe the man a steak at a minimum. 

He was in constant communication with us, got us a great price, and made it all happen painlessly. Not because he was my neighbor, but because he’s a rock star and a great agent. If you are in the Twin Cities and need to sell, or buy, a home, give him a call at:    (612) 910-3704 Mobile and email at: kevinhoran@kw.com 

As far as hobbies and whatnot goes, I know he tells a great story, loves his family, and is handy with a poop scoop.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

 

Now, on the other end of the country, we found our agent through my sister. She’d already been looking in Florida and knew Marybeth as a good agent. Good enough for me. We had put out calls to a couple of agents and she was the first to respond, cinching the deal.

She’s fast. Really fast. No phone call or email went unanswered. She asked us what we wanted in our new home. We gave her some precise goals, and she provided 21 homes within a couple of days. We checked the listings, and eliminated most, highlighting what we liked, the areas we liked, and changed our specs a bit. 

This went back and forth several times until we figured out what we really wanted. At that point, the market was turning fast in Florida. Marybeth drove all over to look at homes for us, and used her extensive network of people to find what we were looking for in our lives.

Simply stated, I never would have bought a house over the internet if she wasn’t my agent. We trusted her. We knew she would do right by us. And, with great confidence, we bought our house on Christmas Eve. She has little ones, and she was up late cinching the deal for us. 

She wasn’t done. She went to the closing walk-through on our behalf. She made sure it was all good. We met her for the first time at the closing.

But she wasn’t finished. She helped us find a good fencing contractor and water treatment company. She guided us through the steps needed to make our landing in Florida soft.

So, if you’re looking for a house anywhere around Naples, Florida, you’re wasting your time if you don’t call her at:    239-319-8464 or, you can email her at:  marybeth.alford@compass.com.

Hobbies:  She’s a runner, couple of marathons under her belt, and she hunts wild hogs. Let’s see…. yup, don’t mess with her, she’ll run you down and  – well, let’s just say she’s formidable.

If you need an agent in either market, start with these two. Fine people with great work ethics. They have our vote. 

 

 

 

Nice Timing

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No blog last week.  That happens now and again when you’re waiting for someone to get back to you with information. Maybe that one will pop up next week.

In the meantime, an update on the new joint. Reverse Osmosis system in place, water to whole house now tastes good, instead of like a safety match. 

Solar power – – – coming soon. Between supply chain issues related to the Chinese virus, county inspectors, and the blistering heat at midday, we’re still a few weeks out from completion. But so close it is almost tangible.

The yard. It’s so freaking thick and green it is amazing. This time of year is rain on, rain off, every day. No need for sprinklers. My yard guy, Yordany, mows every two weeks, I try to mow in the off weeks. Now, why would a fat old dude want to try to mow this big lot?  I like stripes. Too many years maintaining other people’s turf have ruined me. I like a lawn with stripes. Looks great when I do it, but tough to get out in the window between dry turf and brutal heat. We’ll see how that goes.

Shelving is almost done. One room left, but until the audio book project is done, can’t move the computers around to put the shelves in. Soon.

On a nice note, I scrounged around in Chewy’s toy box last night and found his two favorites. He’s been anything but bored since we moved in, but I missed watching him play with his Kibble ball and puzzle. Pulled them out, loaded them up and put them out while he was in the back yard. 

When he came in, he worked them both hard. He had a blast. I laid down on the floor to watch television later that night and he came over, and licked my head for a few minutes. 

 

Now, if you’ve never had a dog do that on your bald head, it kind of melts you. So relaxing your eyes cross and you go limp. Man, I missed that and didn’t even realize it. Ed and Maisie, our shelties, did that years ago. Stormy never did it, and yesterday was the first time I remember Chewy doing it. It simply conveys total love. And, my nubby head scrapes the tongue crud off, so the dogs like that.

Today holds a block of recording the new DiMercurio audio book and then editing it when the afternoon rains come along. I’m excited:  the book is fantastic!  More details when the release is official.

Now, go about your day and be blessed.

 

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The Lake.

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Charles had always enjoyed that first day of summer with his family. Most years they headed “Up North” to the family’s cabin on Thursday and spent the next week putting the dock in the water, cleaning up the deadfall around the cabin, and cleaning. Mom always insisted on the cleaning before the water skis were loaded out of the shed and put in the boat.

His sisters were just enough older that he was ignored most of the time, and that left him with plenty of time to explore the area with an assortment of dogs over the years. Each dog had its season at the cabin, and one-by-one they passed on, clearing the way for the next dog. 

In his 19th year Charles dropped out of college. He had good grades, and he was learning a subject that he truly loved. But the guilt he felt with every casualty list coming from Vietnam put him in a bind: he loved his country and grew to believe that he needed to go himself or he wasn’t worth much as a man. 

So, at the end of spring quarter at the college, he quietly packed up his dorm room and brought his stuff home in boxes. He left it all in the attic, telling his parents he’d deal with it when they got back from the lake. And, as usual, the following Thursday they went north and stayed for a week. His sisters had been married off, and it was a quiet time where he could tell his parents about his enlistment in the Navy and his impending departure for San Diego and boot camp.

At the end of the week, he had them drop him off at the recruiter’s office on a Friday morning and by lunchtime he’d been processed at the large recruiting station downtown and put on a plane to California. He was a bit disappointed that they didn’t send him by train, but it wasn’t his choice to make.

Nine months later he reported to a riverine unit in South Vietnam. He’d been through the training as a gunner in the Navy’s schooling system, and since he was in his second year of college they offered him a chance at a degree and a commission. He declined, and said he’d best go where his friends were: Vietnam.

Just a month after that, his boat was obliterated during a gun-duel with Viet Cong forces on a small canal that nobody remembers the name of any longer. His boat was doing well in the firefight until a mortar lucked out and hit them while they were exchanging fire with a machine gun nest on shore. It was a direct hit, and it took the boat out with a strike in the fuel tanks. No survivors.

That spring, on Memorial Day, his parents were going to leave the cabin unopened, and wait until the Fourth of July to go up and open the place. But Charlie’s sister June insisted, saying that “Charlie wouldn’t want you moping around. He loved that place. Do it for him.”

And, reluctantly they did, heading up on Thursday and planning to return Thursday following, just like always. 

The dust seemed thicker this year, and his parents struggled to keep the emotions under control while they got everything in order. It was a lot tougher without any help from the kids. But they managed.

Monday morning Charlie’s father got up at dawn and made himself a cup of coffee. He was a combat vet of Korea, and had lost a number of friends during that war. A war not unlike his son’s war. He put a shot of brandy in his coffee, and wandered down to the dock. Time to reflect.

When he arrived, he saw that the water skis were bobbing in the shallows near the dock. He touched the engine of the old boat and realized it was very warm; someone had been out on the lake in it in the last hour.

Walking down the dock, he hopped into the shallow water to grab the skis. Damned inconsiderate for a boat thief to go joy-riding in his beloved boat.

He stopped and looked past the skis, up to the beach. There were footprints coming out of the water that ended six feet up the beach. Ended, as in nothing more. Just unblemished sand.  And in the hollow of the last footprint was a single dogtag that read:

Veninbilt, Charles. 

They’d never gotten Charlie’s dogtags. His body was recovered, but not the tags. The explosion had left little behind.

Dad dropped his cup of coffee and picked up the tag. It was charred and bent, but all the information on it was correct. It was Charlie’s.

Staring out at the lake, he heard music, it sounded like The Rolling Stones “Under My Thumb,” and then the deep growl of a  big marine engine. A moment later he blinked rapidly, unable to comprehend that he saw a riverine unit come around the point near the resort at full throttle. Bow wave held in its teeth, the boat turned toward shore and the dock, holding course until it was fifty yards out. She wheeled hard to starboard at that point and the crew waved. From the rear .50 mount a blond kid with no shirt waved and threw a salute. As fast as it had come, it turned toward the center of the lake and faded into vapors. The sound of the engine, and Mick Jagger‘s voice, rapidly faded. The surface of the lake returned to a mirror finish.

Charlie had come back for one more Memorial Day at the lake.

To all my readers, spend the day honoring all the men and women who went forth in our place and gave us the peace we enjoy today.