stevehartflorida.com

A little snark and life on this big ol' sandbar…

Home » Archive by category "The blog from Down Yonder, Florida"

Florida Cracker Quiz

FloridaTourist

DOWN YONDER, FL. – OK, boys and girls, it’s time to gather ‘round for a little geography quiz.

Relax, you ain’t goin’ nowhere today, anyway, so you might as well settle back, get out a map of Florida and see if you can find some of the spots about which you’re fixin’ to read.

The reason for little quiz is that while many folks like comin’ down here and spendin’ a little time in our sunshine many of those folks just don’t think of our home as home. This is but a place to hang out for a few months in the winter after they will return home.

Even if they move here fulltime, many folks still think of home as “that place back up north.”

If you are in either of these categories let me explain to you; the very best way to make us Floridians completely ignore any piece of wisdom or advice you feel compelled to pass long is to begin every sentence with the phrase, “the way we did it up north was…”

This leads to what scientists at the University of Gators refer to as, “IFAS,” or “Immediate Floridian Aural Shutdown,” and is not to be confused with the university’s agricultural extension service of the same acronymity. It means, “we ain’t listenin,’ don’t give a ding-dang how you did it Up North.”

Anyway, back to the reason for this little quiz. Until folks who move here from some other place begin to think of our place as home they can never fully develop a sense of community that is essential to our community’s well-bein’.

Folks who don’t think of our place as home are more likely to throw trash out the car window or use way too much water or complain they pay too much in taxes.

Folks who don’t think of our place as home are less likely to participate in civic affairs (and explain how much better things were Up North) and are less likely to make a contribution of their talents and energy to the community.

So, in any effort to make you more familiar with your region here’s a little geography quiz you can take by yourself or share with a loved one.

We’ll start out easy:

On the map, find: Immokalee, Chokoloskee Island, Bonita Springs.

See? That was easy.

Now, find: Ochopee, Palm River, Lake Trafford.

No problem. Piece of cake.

You’re probably feelin’ pretty good about yourself by this time.

OK, try: Deep Lake, Miles City, Copeland.

Hey, impressive. Maybe you know more about this place than you think you do. Those last three communities, by the way, were built by Barron G. Collier when Naples had but a few homes and was only that swampy spot on the beach.

Back to the quiz.

You’re probably battin’ ‘round 1,000 so far.

Let’s get a little harder.

Find: Matlacha (and pronounce it correctly), St. James City, Bokeelia.

Did it? Think you’re pretty sporty, I’ll bet.

Try these: Big Hammock, Rice Straw Stand, Coconut.

Hah! Got you on those, unless you’re a real old-timer.

Still interested?

Find: Curry Island, Fish Trap Bay, Quakenassee Hollow. (Clue here: not all islands are surrounded by saltwater.)

For the intrepid, find: Rock Spring Island, Bear Island, Monkey Joe Key.

Still with me? Bonus points for finding: Catherine Island, Cowbone Island, Charlie Key.

If you can identify on a map all those spots, congratulations! You can now official qualify as a Provisional-Cracker, pending your willing acceptance to full Floridian and with it the responsibility to love and cherish this unique peninsula.

 

Boats ain’t for fools…

2003-02-17 09.50.10

DOWN YONDER, FL. – A little knowledge is always a dangerous thing but particularly so in the boating world.

We Floridians take our boats seriously. We consider them almost a God-given right, if not a special requirement of the Florida Constitution. But we also learn early to respect the water over which we glide our craft.

The Gulf of Mexico may be the most placid of the Seven Seas but it’s still an ocean, after all, and must be treated with respect if not also just a touch of fear.

Too many people jump into too many boats without enough knowledge or training and pose a threat to themselves and the rest of us.
One of the things newcomers seem to think is great fun n their first few outings on the Gulf is to jump overboard for a cool swim. This is all well and good but only if you take the right precautions.

Power boaters, for example, can simply throttle back the engines and stop the boat to retrieve someone gone crazy and overboard. It’s easy, then, to jump overboard or strap on a couple of two-by-fours and do a little skiing.

For sailors, the story is a little different. Sailboats tend to do best when they remain in motion. It’s just something about the way they’re designed. Jumpin’ overboard tends to be a little more tricky if the boat is in motion – mainly because once you’re in the water you’re no longer on the boat. Separation between person-in-the-Gulf and the boat can be a problem.

There are good ways to enjoy a quick dip from a moving sailboat.

One way is to dangle a line off the stern, jump in, grab the line and let the boat pull you through the water. This can be done only at the slowest speeds, however.

Another way, if you have a big enough boat, a strong enough mast and an extra halyard or two, is to craft what’s called a Bahama sleigh ride. If the wind is strong enough and the sailboat heeled enough you can strap yourself into a boatswain’s chair, attach it to one of the extra halyards and hang precariously to leeward as the motion of the boat cutting through the waves pick you up and crashes you back down into the water. Great fun!
But it’s not a good idea to simply jump overboard from a moving sailboat.

This happened, however, to one captain on a recent outing. One of the boat’s passengers, a newcomer to the area, decided it would be fun for his four-year-old son to enjoy a dip in the Gulf.

Hanging on to a dangling line was out of the question because that little trick is reserved for people older than four.

The passenger finally persuaded the captain to luff the sails for a bit and allow him to dip his son over the side. Reluctantly, the captain agreed.
The sailboat slowed and to everyone’s surprise – including and especially the four-year-old – the father threw his son overboard and jumped in after him. The child was wearing a life jacket but still he and his father found themselves in the Gulf of Mexico as the sailboat drifted away.

Within no more than 15 seconds the two freshman Gulf swimmers were at least 30 feet from the boat’s transom.

The captain knew he could swing around and come back to get them if head to but that would take time to haul the sails back in, restore steerageway and return to their position. Instead he headed the bow straight into the wind and, finally came to a relatively complete stop. That allowed the father to swim his son back to the boat and climb back aboard.

The lesson learned here is two-fold: don’t jump overboard unless you know what you’re doing and don’t freak out the captain. He might just leave you.

 

Never underestimate the blackbird

DOWN YONDER, FL. – “This sure is a peaceful spot just to sit and rock and watch nature go by,” a visitor said as he seated himself on the porch beside the old man.

“Yes, sir,” replied the old man. “It can be right entertainin’. You’re never quite sure what you’re gonna see next. I don’t know but what it’s the time of year or somethin’, but I’ve seen the birds do some pretty funny things here lately.”

“I don’t think of birds as bein’ funny,” said the visitor. “Unless, of course, you’re talkin’ ‘bout them pelicans. They can pretty funny. Or them anahingas. Who ever heard of a bird divin’ down under the water and swimmin’ along?”

“Listen here, young feller,” said the old man. “Birds is among the funniest creatures God ever made. “They have the most fun, too. I guess if you could fly, you’d have yourself plenty of fun.

“Why just the other day, I sat here and watched as a whole bunch of mockin’ birds played themselves a little mockin’ bird game.
“You shoulda seen ‘em. There musta been six or seven of ‘em, just a whistlin’ and whoopin’ and a carryin’ on somethin’ fierce,” the old man continued.

“They all go crowded onto a couple of lower branches of that pine tree yonder, still a whoopin’ and a whistlin’, when one of ‘em shot off like a rocket straight out to the west.

“After that, another one of ‘em shot off like a rocket straight out toward the south.

“They, still another took straight toward the north followed by a fourth on that shot off to the east.

“And I’m talkin’ straight to the cardinal points, too, even though they was mockin’ birds.

“A couple of them birds stayed on the branch yonder still a whoopin’ and carryin’ on.

“In just a couple of minutes, one of the birds still on the branch let out a particularly loud whistle and them four that had flown off came screamin’ right back after which they all let in to whoopin’ and carryin’ on even louder than before. It was like they had just pulled off some great big inside mockin’ bird joke.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like that happenin’ before,” said the visitor. “How do you explain it?”

“Who do I look like, John James Audubon?” countered the old man. “I haven’t any idea what they was doin’. Maybe they was dividin’ up territory. Mockin’ birds can be pretty territorial. Maybe they was just havin’ a good time in the early mornin’ coolness. I don’t know.

“But that sight wasn’t nearly as funny as what I saw a couple of days after that,” said the old man, without skipping a beat. “You ever seen a bird jump?”

“Well, er, no. I guess I haven’t,” said the visitor, a little perplexed.

“Well, it happens,” said the old man. “You don’t think about birds jumpin’ because they can fly and why would any flyin’ creature need to jump?
“But there was the little blackbird walkin’ around the other day underneath that hibiscus there when all of a sudden he glances up at a limb and sees somethin’ he evidently wanted.

“I’ll be a son-of-a-gun if he didn’t crouch down on his little blackbird haunches and jump directly up into the air, grab whatever it was on that branch that he wanted. He landed and just kept on walkin’.

“And I’ll bet he jumped just about his height, too,” said the old man. “That’s something not even that My-am-ah Heat feller, Lebron James, can do.”

 

It should always be about the people…

declaration-and-american-flag-290

DOWN YONDER, FL. – Been thinkin’ ‘bout the reason for this holiday, this celebration: the Declaration of Independence.

It’s a short document, amazing considering its consequence. Its second paragraph is without a doubt the most elegant statement of human rights ever penned.

We hold these truths to be self-evident:

That means everything in that paragraph ought to be obvious to everyone.

That all men are created equal;

Now, in those days, they meant what they wrote – “all men” – are created equal and all white men, at that. ‘Course, nowadays we know it’s a matter of justice to include all women, too, and all people, no matter the color of skin or walk of faith or country of origin or sexual identity or anything else: all people. It just took us a while and way too much violence and bloodshed to realize that particular self-evident truth. Some folks still can’t understand it.

That they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights;

That word, “inalienable,” means that endowed rights can’t be changed or altered by anybody, for any reason. We forget that sometimes.

That among these (rights) are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness;

That passage right there is the cornerstone of these United States of America. It can be a controversial passage today because some folks try to twist it to their own political purposes. But is seems clear to me: ALL FOLKS, ALL PEOPLE have an automatic, God-given right to live their lives free and happy. It is the simplest, yet most compelling argument ever given for dignity and human rights.

It does not, however, give us a “right” to pursue our own “happiness” on the backs of others; exploiting them for our own selfish purposes. “Pursuit of happiness” means, just as the ancient Hebrew prophet Micah suggested, we should all have an even chance at sitting contentedly, peacefully under our own fig tree.

These concept expressed in the Declaration were ideas borne of the Enlightenment, of Locke and Descartes; the notion of the supremacy of the individual above all else. “I think, therefore I am.” “Don’t Tread on Me.”

It is a uniquely Western thought, taken to its limits by the American experiment. There is, alternatively, the African concept, “Ubuntu,” which suggests supremacy is not found in the individual but, rather, in the community. Perhaps we could better practice that concept through this next part:

That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

Anarchy can’t secure rights. Governments must do that. It is an idea as old as Plato. Beware of so-called leaders who belittle a government’s authority to protect the rights of the otherwise unprotected.

The American experiment added the concept which suggested the only legitimate government is the one that gets its power from the people it governs. That was a radical idea back in 1776, given voice by the likes of Thomas Paine debating Edmund Burke. Given the present state of government in the U.S. of A., it’s almost as radical today.

That when any government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.

If we don’t like the government, we can change it – so long as we continue to hold those to those basic, self-evident truths and irrevocable rights.

That’s it, isn’t it? We have a God-given right to revolt if our government is interfering with our rights…to happiness…to privacy…to health?

Does that mean government is bad? Most certainly not. Those who would tell you today government is an evil do not understand history nor our American experiment nor the inherent goodness of diverse people coming together to organize themselves into a nation state and a society. And, yes, to provide a system of health care for every citizen.

It’s hard, sometimes, for our elected leaders to remember they are in office because we sent them. We may not have contributed thousands – or millions – of dollars to their campaigns. But we voted for them. They work for us. The very small minority who gave them hundreds of thousands – or millions – of dollars should not control them. They work for us: the people.

It is hard being an American democrat, sometimes. We tend to get set in our ways; protective of the power that comes with elective office and lazy when it comes to standing up for our rights. It is far easier for politicians to listen to those who bankroll them than to the faint voices of the governed.

It is We the People who have the inalienable rights, not exclusively we the wealthy people or we the large corporations. It is We the People.

Elected officials govern only with our consent. It is to us and, therefore, to the preservation of the government and its integrity to which they owe their most important allegiance.

 

 

Ah yes, hurricane season…once again.

DOWN YONDER, FL. – The family hunkered down in the center hallway of their home.
It wasn’t quiet there but they thought it the safest place.
The roar of the wind outside was so deafening it reached into the center of their ears. It was a roar that would not case until daylight.
But daylight would bring its own problems.
The radio cracked faintly.
The family tried desperately to hold on to the signal, their only link to the world outside the maelstrom. Talk on the radio helped keep the family’s terror at a low simmer.
A full-blown hurricane, winds over 100 mph was making landfall.
The family’s home was on a slight hill so they were not worried about flooding. But that was the only part of the storm that was not terrifying.
“I’m scared,” the boy said as his father directed the family flashlight in his direction. “I don’t want our house to blow away.”
“Don’t worry, son,” said the father. “We’ll be fine. The house isn’t going anywhere.”
Deep inside, he was not certain.
The sturdy brick home swayed, creaked and moaned under the intense pressure of the storm.
The outer edges of the hurricane’s fierce winds arrived about mid-afternoon. A stiff breeze from the southwest provide to be only a harbinger of the wall of wind and rain that would arrive by dusk.
The threatening dark clouds raced overhead, surreal, like movie special effects.
It was no movie. It was the terror of raw natural energy, strengthened by its own centrifugal force and unleashed with nothing to choke it.
Electrical power to the family’s home was lost just before the darkness fell. They telephone went out. Except for the nervous radio chatter, the family was isolated from the rest of the world by the wall of roaring wind outside.
The darkness was bad enough but the constant and overwhelming roar of the wind worked the human psyche into a frenzy.
The dropping air pressure squeezed brows, eyes and ears like a vice.
Father opened the hall door and crept on is knees for a peek outside.
The solitary beam of his flashlight revealed a violent and wet cauldron. It was not raining so much as water was flying in every direction.
Father thought he was looking at a terrarium in a blender.
He pointed the beam up the tall pine trees that dotted the yard. But the trees were tall no longer. They were bent and broken at mid-trunk. One was swaying back and forth, its trunk perpendicular to the ground.
Pine needles were driven into the tree trunks like nails hammered into a wall.
A loud crash jolted the entire house as the broken end of a thick pine tree limb shattered the living room ceiling.
Water poured in. there was nothing that could be done. Father sat helpless as rain soaked the living room.
The family managed a couple of hours of sleep in the early morning but it was restless sleep, induced by sheer exhaustion.
By daylight, the storm moved on.
Neighbors stumbled like zombies from their homes in the early morning light. Their eyes fell on massive devastation.
Shock set in. the once green and lush neighborhood was flattened in naked ruin. Felled trees were smashed across cars and houses like spaghetti. Leaves and small branches were plastered against buildings. The quiet was eerie.
It would be two months before the community returned to normal, or what resembled normal. It would never again be the way it was before the storm.
Hurricanes are like that. They change people and communities forever.

We love you, Mom…and you’re still with us!

FrancesCobbHart

DOWN YONDER, FL. – There’s a mom missin’ ‘round these parts on this Mother’s Day.

Oh, she’s not really missin’. We know where she is. It’s just that she’s not walkin’ along the shore or eatin’ supper like the rest of us.

And, to be sure, she’s still around. I know that ‘cause I can feel her presence and sense her inspiration and her love in the priceless upbringin’ she so selflessly imparted right in the core of my heart. I carry her with me every moment of every day.

You see, Frances was called home about three years ago – as many of my ol’ Down Yonder cousins might say. She passed from this tepid earthly existence just as sweetly and tenderly – and resolutely – as she had lived her life; absolutely confident of the next phase of her journey and full of faith that God meant what he said.

I know many folks are thinkin’ these days about moms who are also no longer walkin’ the shore or eatin’ supper like the rest of us. Many others are celebratin’ being a mom for the first time and they are joyful, as they should be.

But for those of us wakin’ up on Mother’s Day this year and realizing there is no card to be sent, no flowers to buy, no special gift to say, “thanks,” it is bitter-sweat.

She was called Frances Harriet Cobb Hart, born a fourth generation Floridian to a citrus growing farmer, cattle rancher and businessman and his lovely and intelligent teacher wife. She was cracker princess, to be sure; horses she loved and her good country upbringin’.

She would, quite naturally, later become a queen both at Lake Junaluska, North Carolina and absolutely in the hearts of James, her husband of nearly 60 years and her two sons and their children.

James was a Methodist preacher and Frances became the consummate preacher’s wife, as that role was defined in her day; always ready to serve, always ready to lend a hand. Blessed with a fine voice, she was a permanent fixture in the choir and often sang solo. When the need arose she even donned face paint and started a clown ministry.

She was also the one who prayed the most, especially when her family needed it the most.

She was a fine but quiet artist, as well, not only lending her skills and talents to her elder son’s neophyte political ventures in high school and college (“You gotta have Hart!”) but painting, candle-making, knitting, stained glass were all in her portfolio.

That good ol’ Florida cracker spirit always lurked just below the surface and she could be a prankster when she wanted. One memorable April Fools Day found her sons not quite sure of the evening meal. It looked like hamburger and mashed potatoes but the potatoes tasted like flour and I’m STILL not sure about that hamburger. The opened and empty can of dog food placed meticulously on the counter next to the kitchen table lent a decided air of uncertainty to the whole affair.

She was the rock of the family; there when needed, arms to cry into, pat on the back when necessary and beaming proud – despite her sons’ short-comings.
And, sure, we’re missing those arms and that gentle and loving patience. But she left us with something deep inside ourselves that no one can touch: a centered and calm core, a loving heart and her witness to all the world of the power of unconditional love for each other, for ourselves and for the rest of humankind.

Hers was a life of unequaled generosity. She was a gift and through her life she passed that gift on to everyone she met.

“Thanks,” is not enough. Living as she did, understanding as she did, compassion as she unfolded it, loving as she showed is the only way to repay her.

 

Still searching for the front door…

DOWN YONDER, FL. – The family was gathering. Food was on the table. Well-wishers and mourners had been stopping by the house all day.

Most of them rang the front doorbell. But a knock at the back door raised curious eyebrows of the family members gathered for the moment in the kitchen.

Outside the door stood one of the most familiar faces ever to grace that farming hoe. A tall, elegant woman who carried her head and shoulders high, she refused to let her demeanor reveal the troubled years of her life.

“I heard about Mr. Ernest,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry. He was a good man, good to me and mine.”

The woman was ushered into the house enthusiastically, gratefully. She’d come a long way to pay her respects, taking public transportation as far as it would carry her and walking the rest of the way.

How she’d heard about Mr. Ernest’s death was never made clear. There had been a short newspaper piece about it but Mattie couldn’t read – she never been given the chance to learn. Rather than schooling in her young years, she was working.

Her handsome and dark brown face radiated the sight of seeing so many old and familiar faces, some of which she’d seen mature from childhood to adulthood. Her face, now framed by graying hair, broke into that bright smile that for so many years was an integral part of that farmhouse.

“Mr. Earnest,” as she always called him had, indeed, been good to Mattie and her family – in his own way and in a way dictated by the social mores ofFlorida’s old, white society.

Mattie and her husband, Jimmy, lived on the farm for many years. Mr. Ernest gave them the old family house when a new one was built. Jimmy worked in the pasture and groves alongside Mr. Ernest. Mattie worked in the house with Miss Mary.

Mr. Ernest had been employer, benefactor, even arbiter when the need arose. He tried to treat his employees with respected and dignity, the way he treated everyone – but with Mattie and Jim, the attitude was actually one of benevolent paternalism, the social mores of the day.

It was a different era, a different time, one best left behind but not forgotten for fear of it being repeated.

The times had changed greatly by that balmy spring morning when Mattie stopped by the old farm house to pay her respects. Martin Luther King, Jr., had preached, led, taught, suffered and died trying to make sure the discrimination and paternalism of the past gave way to a new dignity, new self-esteem and a new sense of independence and social advancement.

Although he’d never been to this part of ruralFloridato lead a campaign, he’d been to the big cities. His message and his mission touched the lives of everyone gather in that farmhouse that morning.

But still, Mattie came to the back door. Granted, it was the door used by nearly everyone in the family. Hardly anyone actually used the front door. Mattie had no doubt seen other people arriving at the same time and going to the front door. But this was Mr. Earnest to whom she was coming to pay her respects. She chose the back door.

It has been almost 60 years since Martin Luther King began the campaign that would transform this nation. But the transformation is not yet complete.

Had the scene repeated itself today, Mattie might have chosen the front door. But Mattie was still a prisoner of the social mores of the time. Mattie died in aTamparest home. She was practically penniless. Mr. Ernest’s family might have done more to ease her comfort in her last years but they didn’t. We have still not reached the social midnight about which Dr. King frequently talked.

The dawn is closer but it hasn’t yet arrived. Faith, however, is inching the hours closer to a dawn where everyone is judged “more by the content of their character than by the color of their skin” and front doors are there for everyone.

 

 

Never give up hope…the hope of Christmas.

 DOWN YONDER, FL. – The little girl’s eyes sparkled when she spotted the huge mechanical Santa waving from his post outside the store.

“Ho, ho, ho,” she said, surprising her parents. They didn’t realize she knew so much at 17 months.

People find Christmas in many different places but I see Christmas in the smiling eyes of that little girl.

I relive the miracle of that first Christmas night with each gleam of unconditional love that springs from her sweet and tiny face. She’s an adult now or nearly so. I still see the unconditional love and I still see the small child each Christmas.

Christmas began, of course, with the birth of a child.

Born in a barn and laid in a manger, that tiny infant was a gift to the world; a gift intended to relieve the world of its slavish attachment to itself, to relieve the world of its meanness and self-seeking; replacing those worldly constrictures with hope, love and peace.

That is quite a burden to place on the soft shoulders of a baby child and, yet, it is only a baby child who has a chance at fulfilling that promise.

Each child carries within her or him the steadfast love, the trust and the undated yearning for peace and universal understanding.

It is in the eyes of each child that we see the hope for peace and harmony and the promised of a new and brighter day. It is in the eyes of all children, no matter their color or the color of the skin around those hopeful, yearning eyes.

The promise of children is not only found in the eyes of Christian children, either. It is also found in the eyes of Jewish children and Muslim children and Buddhist children and Hindu children and in every child of every religious, social and cultural stripe.

Christmas lights may sparkle and add luster to the season but the sparkle in a child’s eyes is as powerful and as moving as any bright star in the east.

There are, at this Christmas, still too many children of hope and promise suffering from the cynicism of adults.

Although it is but a dim glow, the light of hope sparkles even in the eyes of the children of Syria, of Somalia, of Nigeria and too many other places where children suffer.

Even inAmerica, where the promise of hope is woven into the basic fabric of civic life, 15 million children suffer from poverty and society’s neglect.

Until each child has a chance to realize her or his own promise of hope and peace, the Christmas story will remain incomplete.

A little know but dramatic narrative describing the birth of the Christ Child was probably penned at least 200 years after that birth. It’s called the Arundel manuscript of a Latin Infancy Gospel.

“The child himself, like the sun, shone brightly, beautiful and delightful to see, because he alone appeared as peace, soothing the whole world,” reads the translated manuscript. “…and opening his eyes, he looked intently at me and suddenly a great light came forth from his eyes like a great flash of lightening.”

It is the power of Christmas that puts that light into each child’s eyes. The Christ Child was born to all people and children everywhere are born to all people like him.

As long as children are being born into this world, the hope and promise of that first Christmas will never end.

Merry Christmas to all sleeping children of hope and peace, wherever they rest their heads.

 

 

What do you mean, “It doesn’t feel like Christmas in Florida?”

Well, ho-ho-ho, it’s that time of the year again!

It’s the time of the year when nearly all Floridians are hailed by their temporary Yankee neighbors with the traditional greeting, “Geez, it just doesn’t feel like Christmas inFlorida.”

(You can if you’d like alter that slightly, of course, to say, “Geez, it just doesn’t feel like Hanukkah inFlorida.” But truth be told, most Jewish folks are smart enough and reasoned enough not to associate the great triumph and resilience of the Maccabee children with bone-crunching cold, life-threatening conditions and enough snow piled on the roof to cave it in, crushing the Christmas tree…or Menorah, whichever.)

But if you’re a Floridian, born or adopted, you’ve no doubt run across at least one moron every year who will complain about the warmth of the December sun, the gentle Gulf breeze, the tranquil surrounding nature, the moderate nights filled with jasmine and remark that, somehow, Christmas just shouldn’t be spent in such idyllic and temperate latitudes.

They seem to think Christmas just “isn’t right” unless they are buried under three feet of snow in sub-zero temperatures, battling frozen water pipes and hoping to the Baby Jesus electricity doesn’t go out again because they only have enough fire wood for one more night.

I blame Currier & Ives. I also blame Charles Dickens. Perhaps these folks would be happier at Christmas if we didn’t have child labor laws, environmental regulations or systematic care for the infirm. I don’t know.

Some folks just can’t bear the thought of a Christmas Day sail on warm waters or a Christmas Eve stroll on the beach at sunset. They are, frankly, demented.

This malady can even run in one’s own family. My very own Florida-girl darlin’ daughter used to think she just had to be in the mountains of Western Carolina at Christmas because, who knows, it COULD snow!! (Okay, let’s recall…two Christmases ago stranded without power for three days under nearly four feet of snow, couldn’t even get there last year because of the snow…hmmm…she may have changed her mind.)

When she was a child, I took great delight in pulling out the globe (remember those?) and drawing a line west, right along the latitude of old Bethlehem to…to…to…well, I’ll be darned, NOT to a point that would ever be immortalized in a Currier & Ives print.

Nope. Old Bethlehemis just a skosh north of the 31st parallel, which places it on exactly the same latitude as one of the many hick towns in South Georgia (USA) between Jacksonville and Savannah.

And given the moderate, Mediterranean-warmed climate of Palestine, I’d be willin’ to guess there were palm trees just outside that stable on that miraculous night.

Maybe the cattle were lowing because they feared getting bopped on the head by a falling coconut. No, probably not.

In any event, the point is Christmas is not about cold and snow and sleigh rides and stealing someone else’s maple syrup. Nope. Christmas is about the greatest gift every given: the reconciliation of humankind with our God. That, my friends, can be celebrated any-dang-where you feel the spirit – especially in Florida.

Bein’ born to a Florida-girl mother but raised as a mountain child, I can testify that it was never, really, truly Christmas until we reached the orange groves and palm-lined yard of my cracker grandparents. Suckin’ down a fresh cut temple orange or playin’ football on that spongy Floratam lawn was always the single best annual gift. It was the Floridian my soul.

So, the next time some crank wanders up to you and says something really stupid like, “It just doesn’t feel like Christmas in Florida,” you just turn to them, smile and hand them a Honeybell orange. They’ll be tradin’ Currier & Ives for Clyde Butcher before you know it.

 

What if…we really had a way to create jobs, improve Florida’s economy.

 What if…

410,000 companies inFloridasaw payroll taxes cut in half?

We invested almost $1.6 billion to improveFlorida’s highways and transit system and, in the process, created 20,500 new jobs?

We invested nearly $1.7 billion to save and additionally support nearly 26,000Floridateachers, police officers and fire fighters?

We spent nearly $1.3 billion to upgrade Floridaschools to 21st Century standards while, in the process, created over 16,000 new jobs?

We spent $2.7 billion inFloridato refurbish and retrofit foreclosed homes?

We spent nearly $300 million to augment the job creating work ofFlorida’s community colleges?

We put the 498,000 long-term unemployed workers inFloridaback to work?

We placed 8,800 adults and 35,600 young people inFloridainto jobs through training in growth industries?

We cut the taxes of a typicalFloridahousehold – earning $46,000 a year – by $1,430 through an expansion of the payroll tax cut passed last December?

Let’s see, doing the math…okay, carry the one…that’s about $7.6 billion additional dollars flowing into Florida and almost 600,000 new jobs.

Somehow, I think we’d all say, “yes,” to such a bold investment in ourselves, our communities, our economy, our future.

The good news is we can say yes to these kinds of investments and more. They’re all part of President Obama’s American Jobs Act.

All we need is for the Congress of theUnited Statesto say, “yes,” and pass this bill.

The purpose of the American Jobs Act is simple, according to President Obama: “put more people back to work and put more money in the pockets of working Americans. And…do so without adding a dime to the deficit.”

Sure, you say, “but how would we pay for such a clearly beneficial project? We don’t have any money.”

Actually, we do have money –  or could have the money. President Obama challenged Congress on Monday to cut $4.4 trillion from current spending and press forward on deficit reduction.

The single largest piece of these cuts – approximately $1.5 trillion – will come from tax reform. Everyone agrees the nation’s tax code is in need of reform.

The president wants Congress to lower tax rates, cut wasteful loopholes and tax breaks, reduce the deficit by $1.5 trillion and enact the “Buffett Rule” raising taxes on people making more than $1 million a year to bring their tax rates in line with tax rates paid by middle-class families. (That’s the Warren Buffett rule, not the Jimmy Buffet rule…although he, too, will probably see taxes go up.)

Democratic leaders in the Senate have indicated they favor a tax surchage on incomes above $1 million.

The president wants Congress to allow the Bush tax cuts of 2001 and 2003 to expire, which will raise $866 billion. He wants to limit the deductions and exclusions of people earning more that $250,000 a year to raise $410 billion. He wants Congress to close loopholes and eliminate special interest tax breaks to raise $300 billion.

He also wants Congress to move forward with the $1.2 trillion in discretionary cuts enacted in the Budget Control Act; approve $580 billion in cuts and reforms to a wide range of mandatory programs; save $1.1 trillion from the drawdown of troops inAfghanistanand transition from a military to a civilian-led mission inIraq. Add to the mix, as well, $430 billion in additional interest savings.

Granted a one-time investment in the American Jobs Act adds to the deficit in 2012 – a bold and risky proposition for a president running for re-election in 2012 – but the project is fully paid for over 10 years and deficit reduction begins in 2013 as the economy grows stronger. Spending cuts-to-revenue ratio for the entire plan (including discretionary cuts) is 2 to 1.

Is it complicated? Sure. Is it bold and courageous? Without question. Can it pass the Congress? It can if the Congress puts our nation ahead of partisan politics.

Watch the President’s Speech to Congress, read more about the American Jobs Bill. 

 

 

Presidential communication changes with the times

Published July 20, 2011 in the Naples (FL) Daily News:

From Teddy Roosevelt’s Bully Pulpit to President Barack Obama’s embrace of social media, presidential communication tends to define communication as a cultural phenomenon.

The public — and policymakers from Capitol Hill to nearly every other level of government and society — tend to listen when a president of the United States communicates. The way in which a president communicates has also become nearly as important as the words written or spoken.

Former presidents George Washington and Thomas Jefferson set a tone for our early days with their letters — hand-written and usually hand-delivered. Abraham Lincoln’s speeches defined our nation in its most troubled times.
The first telephone was installed in the White House in 1877 by Rutherford B. Hayes, a single line running only to the Treasury Department next door.

Regular and frequent telephone calls into and out of the White House would have to wait another 50 years until Herbert Hoover installed the first telephone into the Oval Office.

The age of mass communication between the White House and the American public began famously with Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Fireside Chats on the radio. Embracing the earliest form of mass communication, Roosevelt’s effectiveness and success is legendary.

Both FDR and, later, presidents John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson knew how to work the phones effectively and all three effectively used off-the-record conversations with journalists as part of a mass media strategy.

President Johnson famously had three televisions set up in the Oval Office to monitor all three — at the time — major television news organizations.

Perhaps no form of presidential mass communications compares in its effect on the body politic as greatly as the 1960 televised debates between John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon. The medium became the message and helped determine the outcome of the election.

Live televised speeches directly to the American public have become almost routine for presidents from Kennedy to Obama. And the annual State of the Union address to Congress has become an evening of great television theatre.

Obama’s uses of the “new” forms of social media in 2008 are widely credited with propelling a relatively unknown senator from Illinois to the White House. (Lincoln used trains and debates with Stephen Douglas.)

The Obama administration continues to employ many forms of social media in its daily communications. With a few quick keystrokes, millions of Americans are able to occupy front-row seats in the White House and Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

From its primary Internet portal at www.whitehouse.gov/engage, visitors can subscribe to a wide range of electronic newsletters and blogs, can visit and engage with other Obama administration initiatives like “Let’s Move” or “Joining Forces” or the new “Champions of Change” initiative.

From its Facebook page and Twitter account to its presence on LinkedIN to its White House channel on YouTube and Vimeo, constant uploading of photos to its Flickr account and podcasts on iTunes, the Obama White House is communicating online constantly to millions of Americans just about every aspect of this historic presidency.

“This White House is committed to being the most open and transparent in history,” said Katelyn Sabochik, director of online engagement for the White House Office of Digital Strategy.

Her title and office pretty much says it all. Social media is the message for the Obama administration.

Crisis of imagination, of hope?

Alaska, Anchorage Easter Lily and black background.

DOWN YONDER, FL. – “A crisis of imagination,” is what the man on the radio was sayin’ the other day. “Moreover, a crisis of moral imagination.”

The quick, the expedient, immediate gratification.

“I want it all and I want it now!”

New, bigger, faster; MORE SUGAR!!

I don’t care where it comes from. I don’t care who made it and how little they were paid. I don’t care how much fossil fuel it took to get it to me and how much extra carbon goes into the atmosphere because of it. I don’t care where the trash goes when I done with it. I don’t care how much someone else lost to give it to me. I just want it!

A crisis of imagination; a crisis of moral imagination.

The same fellow on the radio was recalling an essay by Robert Louis Stevenson, written of course a little over 100 years ago.

Y’all remember Robert Louis Stevenson: Treasure Island, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Kidnapped. It seems appropriate to be quoting Stevenson right about now.

In Stevenson’s essay quoted by the feller on the radio, he questioned his friend, a banker and with whom he was having an imaginary conversation, about why he was a banker.

The banker replied, “It is my business. It is my duty.”

But Stevenson, who rejected the family business of engineering lighthouses to become a writer and explorer, suggested his friend had mistaken duty for simply his desire to make money. Making money, Stevenson deftly suggested, is not a duty.

No, Stevenson suggested, perhaps we are called to a higher duty.

Christians will end Lent today and celebrate Easter on Sunday. Jews are celebrating Passover. Muslims celebrated only weeks ago the birth of the Prophet of Islam.

All three celebrations by the descendants of Abraham have something in common: they are all celebrations to relinquish that which binds us and look to a time of liberation, of hope.

And if you think it’s purely coincidence that all three occur in the spring (at least in the northern hemisphere) you would be mistaken.

Christians often mistake the time of Lent, the time of preparation for the Cross, as a time for masochistic self-denial; suffering through the absence of chocolate because we love so much chocolate. That misses the point.

Lent is a time to prepare for the liberation of the Cross, which in one of the world’s greatest ironies was originally a tool for cruel capital punishment.

It is the time to reflect on that which keeps us from the Cross’ liberation and set about to remove those barriers so we can be freed. The Cross was death. Easter, Christ’s resurrection is victory over that death; victory over the world’s unending oppression.

Passover, too, celebrates the liberation of the ancient Jews from their Egyptian captors.

Mawlid, the celebration of the birth of the Prophet of Islam, also celebrates liberation from the old order for the liberation to a new enlightenment through the revelation of God’s word. Our Muslim brothers and sisters celebrated Mawlid back in February, this year in the Gregorian calendar.

No doubt we are in a different time than we were just an astonishing short time ago. Physicists might suggest a quantum leap; other scientists a paradigm shift; sailors a sea change. The Latin-to-English word, “cross,” also stems from the same root word as, “crux.” It is a crossroads.

Do we hang on to the old or do we reach for the new, the hope? I will reach for Easter’s victory, for hope and liberation.

 

 

Hardwood to figure out.

mahoganytree

DOWN YONDER, FL. – No one can deny that nature in South Florida has its own curious quirks.

Birds that dive to the bottom of a pond in search of fish, frogs that live in trees and bark like dogs just before a rain, mammals that never come out of the water – all seem like ecological conundrums.

So it happens nearly every spring that one of South Florida’s oldest trees decides to shed its leaves.

Northerners expect leaves to fall from trees in the autumn when the air is crisp and the sky is becoming a bold blue. They are sometimes perplexed to find mahogany trees dropping their leaves in the late April and early May.

Get a stand of mahogany trees all shedding their leaves at the same time and the ground below them can look like a New Hampshire hillside in September.

Throw in a brief cold snap following on the heels of the last sweeping frontal system and one could swear a bizarre climate exchange had taken place; that somehow South Florida ended up in the middle of a Somewhere-Up-North autumn.

Some people think the mahogany trees are a little screwy, arboreal dyslexics that can’t properly distinguish the seasons. As a result, they think, they trees drop their leaves at the wrong time of the year.

Other people see the trees shedding their leaves in late April and think a plague of Biblical proportions is springing through the canopy.

None of this is true.

The mahogany trees are doing exactly what genetics tells them to do: drop their leaves in the spring and reflower immediately.

A native to South Florida, the Caribbean and Central American, the mahogany was once harvested from the hardwood hammocks to make furniture. Mahogany trees were among the first to be explanted by the early white settlers of the Florida Keys during the 1820s. They not only sold the timber but also used the trees for firewood and charcoal.

They mahogany is what botanists call a “deciduous” tree, meaning it sheds its leaves at a certain time of the year.

The mahogany, being a true tropical species, sheds its leaves in the spring because the spring also signals the end of the dry season. Wet winter seasons sometimes play havoc with the mahogany’s annual leaf drop. A winter that is wetter than normal will inhibit the trees’ ability to shed their leaves and reflower.

People who think all trees in South Florida remain green year-round have another think comin’.

South Florida actually has very few evergreens. The slash pine is the most common example. Even the mighty bald cypress, among the most ancient of trees, sheds its leaves and turns brown for a while in the winter.

Willows lose their leaves in October and flower and leaf out in December and January.

Very few of the tropical hardwoods, cousins of the mahogany, lose their leaves at any set time of the year.

Several tropical hardwoods – Jamaica dogwood, for example, gumbo limbo, pond apple and wild tamarind – will drop their leaves gradually during the winter. The rate at which their leaves drop depends on the dryness of any particular winter. They will usually begin to flower and grow new leaves by April.

But the good ol’ mahogany sticks right to its well-defined schedule. Within a period of three to four weeks each spring, the mahogany has completely shed its canopy and is growing new shoots and sprints of tiny red-tinged leaves.

So the next time some Northerner express dismay over a shedding mahogany, just tell them the tree is nature’s way of reminding South Floridians what autumn is like Up North.

 

Yoga bird and the ball play

YogaBird

DOWN YONDER, FL. – “Who knew birds was into yoga?” asked the old man as he sat beneath the covered deck staring absently out across the calm lagoon.

“What?” asked the old woman, incredulous.

“I’m just sayin’, I didn’t know birds practiced yoga,” repeated the old man.

“Have you done lost your mind?” asked the old woman.

“No, looky there,” he said, pointing at a seagull standing one-legged at the edge of the dock, its left wing outstretched.

“Why are you whispering,” asked the old woman, also in a low voice.

“I don’t want to disturb the bird,” said the old man.

“You really have lost your mind, ain’t you?”

“No, no…look.”

Sure enough, as the old woman looked, the seagull again stretched forward its left wing while at the same time stretched back its right leg. It held that position for quite a while.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said the old woman.

“I know,” said the old man. “It’s bird yoga!”

“You’re still nuts,” insisted the old woman.

“Maybe,” agreed the old man. “But that doesn’t mean that seagull right there ain’t doing what the yogis call, ‘Virabhadrasana 3,’ or, ‘warrior 3,’ or simply, ‘airplane’.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of,” said the old woman. “And where’d you learn about yoga?”

“You don’t know everything I do,” said the old man. “And it ain’t dumb at all. Who’s to say animals don’t seek some kind of center? Some path? Never underestimate the ability of another creature.

“The ancients told the story of how the animals and birds challenged each other to a ball game,” said the old man.

“The animals were sure they could field a superior team because, after all, they all had four legs and the birds only two.

“Along the way to the ball ground, the bear – who was captain of the animals – kept bragging about how he was strong and huge and could pull down or tackle anyone who got in his way.

“The turtle, too, bragged about how his shell was so hard nothing could hurt him. And the deer, who was by far the fastest of them all, bragged about how he would steal the ball from any bird and run away with it.

“The birds had the Eagle as their captain and the great hawk and they were all strong and swift. But they were a little afraid of the animals, if the truth be known.

“Finally, the dance was concluded and the ball play was about to begin. The birds were up in the tree limbs, pruning their feathers, when two little four-legged creatures scurried up the branch.

‘We want to play for the birds,’ said the creatures.

‘But you have four legs,’ said the Eagle captain. ‘Go play for the animals.’

‘They laughed at us and told us we’re too small,’ said the creatures.’

“So, the birds fashioned wings for them from old drum skins and they became the bat and the flying squirrel.

“The game began and the flying squirrel was the first to grab the ball. The birds kept it in the air for quite a while until it dropped. The bear rushed to pick it up but the purple martin reached it first, scooped it up and threw it to the bat who grabbed and began darting in and out of all the animals, making many of them fall over, until he threw right between the posts.

“The birds won the game easily.”

“You’re bird-brained, if you ask me,” snorted the old woman.

“Ah, maybe,” said the old man. “But never underestimate a person’s ability to soar.”

Cracker Resources…

FloridaCrackerDock

DOWN YONDER, FL. – The old man pulled himself onto the dock, feeling rejuvenated and fresh from his morning swim.

“You know, I was thinkin’ the other day how resourcefulness is a necessary part of being a successful Floridian,” said the old man to his young friend who was perched at the end of the dock, bamboo fishin’ pole in hand.

“There’s lots of people spend lots of money to live comfortably in Florida when all that spendin’ ain’t really necessary at all,” he said.

His young friend looked up at him from under her wide-brimmed straw hat.

“What’re you talkin’ about, uncle?” she asked.

“I mean, look around you. We paid no more than a song for this here cabin and look how rich we are. We got all the food we can catch. We got the biggest swimmin’ pool anywhere and this ol’ cabin has weathered ever’ storm it’s seen.”

“I guess resourcefulness is a sorta way of life when live close to Florida nature,” said the young girl. “But it manifests itself in a lot of ways.

“I was readin’ the other day where a bunch of farm workers in Central Florida were spendin’ the lean workin’ month of August pickin’ palmetty berries from the woods,” she said.

“Oh yeah,” said the old man. “We used to make a pretty good wine from them berries. But you can get in trouble with the G-men for doin’ that today. Them berries still help the bees make a darn fine honey.”

“Well accordin’ to what I read, the farm workers did get in a little trouble with the sheriff who kept makin’ ‘em dump their harvest because he thought the berries were bein’ used to make wine,” said the young woman.

“But that’s not why they was pickin’ ‘em. They was out there bravin’ rattlers to send them berries overseas, to Europe and Asia where they berries are apparently used to make medicine for prostrate and urinary-tract infections.

“That’s not surprisin’,” chuckled the old man. “Considerin’ what I’ve done more than a few times to them palmetty bushes.”

“That’s not the point,” said the young woman. “The point is that them farm workers were bein’ resourceful, usin’ their slack time to pick the berries and make four times as much money as they would workin’ on the farm durin’ pickin’ season.

“That Florida resourcefulness also manifests itself in other , more sophisticated ways,” said the young woman. “I was also readin’ the other day about the professors up in Gainesville who developed a machine that peels the skin off fruit and shellfish so northerners don’t have to get their hands all sticky peelin’ oranges and shrimp.”

“Do tell,” said the old man. “How does that machine work?”

“It apparently works by usin’ steam to expand the layer of water found just beneath the skin of fruit and shellfish,” she said. “As the steam is released a vacuum is applied and the separated skin just drops from the fruit like it was never there to begin with.

“They claim an orange doesn’t lose one drop of juice, although I’ll bet the steam cooks the shrimp quite a bit,” she said.

“Yeah, but most folks like their shrimp cooked a might,” said the old man.

“Anyway, these two professors got a patent for their machine,” said the young woman. “But right now, it’s about the size of a 55-gallon drum. That’s not the sorta thing that’s goin’ to go well as a Christmas present under the tree. And it’s too small for commercial uses.”

“They’ll work on it,” said the old man. “I figure two professors who’re smart enough to figure out that much will be smart enough to whittle down their invention to the size that can fit on a counter-top in one of them fancy houses that you don’t need in the first place,”

“I reckon’,” said the young woman. “Now I wish somebody would be resourceful enough to tell me how to get these trout to bite so we can have some breakfast.”