Miramar Beach: May 2012

Here are a few random thoughts, impressions, and observations gathered down at Miramar Beach this morning:

To my right at the water's edge a fit-looking grandad is tossing some underhand pitches to his very eager 5-year-old grandson. The grandson has to be reminded to "stand sideways" before each and every offering. He adjusts his position dutifully each time and the grandad reassures him before each pitch. The kid's swing is an elegant uppercut, a la Dustin Pedroia, and when he connects both he and the grandad laugh delightedly.

Unnoticed, about 50 feet away so do I.

A 10-year-old boy is boogie boarding in the surf in front of me. He notices a younger girl who is standing at the water's edge longingly watching her mom and older sister who are splashing around on a float farther out. With no prompting from any adult, the boy walks over to the little girl, smiles,  and offers her his boogie board. She is too shy to respond and after a minute the boy waves goodbye and continues his surfing. A short time later a woman, the boy's grandmother, comes down to the water to call the boy out of the surf. The woman catches my eye and says good morning. I take that opportunity to tell her what a kind and generous gesture I had observed from her grandson. Naturally, the woman is very appreciative and thanks me for noticing and telling her.

All in a day's work.

When I was a kid we used to spend our summers at Nantasket Beach in Hull, MA. Like hundreds of other Jewish families from Dorchester and Mattapan, we'd line up a rental place for the summer season. My father would then commute to work in Boston while Marvin, Teddi, and I would spend July and August free to frolic in our particular version of lower middle class paradise. Now Nantasket will never make Dr. Beach's top 10 list but to kids who grew up in Dorchester in the '50's it was a combination of Maui, Kiawah, and Coronado, an absolutely perfect beach. I can still feel viscerally the disappointment we felt when it became apparent that a particular day was not going to be a "beach day"...too cold, rainy, or windy

Down here on Florida's panhandle in Miramar Beach  from May through September there's almost no such thing as a non-beach day. For the next four months the temperature will almost never dip below 90. Thunderstorms might interrupt a beach day but there will be few if any gray, rainy days until the winter. Of course the price we pay for this weather is the very real threat of hurricanes. It's been about five or six years since they had any impact here.

Most people feel we're overdue.

I pop in my earbuds and power up my Ipod as I grab the wonderful biography of Van Gogh I have been reading lately.  Now, before we get to Van Gogh, let's discuss the ear buds. What strange aural geometry was I endowed with to cause all of the ear buds I try to fail miserably in their one mission: convey music to my freaking ears in a manner which is both comfortable, accurate, and, above all, PLEASANT! Ear buds should be like umpires: they should do their job with little or no notice or fanfare. If you know they are there, then something's gone horribly wrong. I'm on my third set of these infernal gadgets and I have yet to enjoy a song, ANY SONG, uninterrupted from start to finish. One side will seem louder than the other or one side will pop out or one side will itch or one side will just cut out altogether or i'll turn my head and throw the entire assemblage into chaos. If you insist, I'll delve into the ear wax issue, although I'll understand if you'd rather move on.

Fine, we'll move on to Van Gogh, another fellow with ear problems.

I'm reading Van Gogh The Life by Naifeh and Smith. It is an incredibly detailed and ridiculously researched account of the troubled painter's life. Just to give you an idea of the level of detail, I'm on page 467 and Vincent is only now about to paint his first "real" paintings. Still it is fascinating to follow alongside this tormented soul on his singularly unlikely path to immortality. I have been surprised to discover how much there was to dislike about him. At various times in his short life he was petulant, overbearing, unreasonable, and quite selfish. To say nothing of delusional and kind of crazy.

By all accounts I'm a pretty normal, stable guy, but the only thing I could ever paint was the side of a house, and that was a pretty weak attempt. I guess there really is something to that whole "artistic temperament" deal.

Still, I wish the authors would hurry up and get to the ear part.

Ain't life grand?
J

My Beautiful Colonoscopy: May 2012

It's the day before my colonoscopy and I have just gotten off the phone with the nurse who was going over the final details with me.

"Be sure to wear loose clothing," she said.

"Didn't you read my last blog entry?"  I inquired.

"Your last what?"

"Never mind."

"Enjoy your prep drink," she smirked.

I should have realized I wasn't in a position of strength here. I know many of you have gone through this delightful procedure; some, like me, more than once. It's all about the prep drink. I'm staring at what looks like a 50-gallon tank of the vile stuff right now. Once I down that first eight ounces, assuming I don't gag, there will be no going back.

Just a lot of going.

I had heard that some people are able to prep for their colonoscopy by drinking much less of something other than this nasty stuff, but evidently my gastroenterologist feels strongly about the super-sized stuff. I like a doctor with strong convictions. I'm taking small sips and thinking of unicorns but it's still really nasty stuff.

I'll spare you all the details of the rest of this free flowing evening except to tell you that it's hard to enjoy  a playoff hockey game on tv when one's attention is so,ummm, divided. I'll also reveal that I wish I had purchased one of those soft, cushy toilet seats prior to this ordeal.

And that's all you're going to get out of me on this particular subject.

The actual colonoscopy was completely and, thankfully, uneventful. I was given a deep sedative and have no memory of the procedure; just as well, since I assume I spent the better part of a half hour mooning the entire operating theater. I can only hope that this wasn't "Come and Watch a Colonoscopy Day" at the surgical center. If it was, I doubt I'll be invited to any Destin cocktail parties any time soon. Of course, there was a time back in my youthful Dorchester days that I would spend the better part of a summer's evening sticking my prodigious, uncovered derriere out of Razin's Buick window hoping for a reaction from the unsuspecting pedestrians nearby. I realize now that one is best served in public if one's buttocks remain in some kind of container.

Life's lessons learned.

In a week I'll be moving about 20 miles west of here to a furnished townhouse about two blocks from the Gulf.  This will be my fourth address since moving down here two years ago. That's more than all the moves I made during my 41 years with Ada. I wish I knew the significance of this fun fact. I'll leave it up to the brightest of you to figure it out. And that includes the esteemed driver of the aforementioned Buick.

These new digs should prove interesting. They are located in the heart of the summer vacation rental section of Destin. For the next three months, most of my neighbors will be young families from places like Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana who have flocked to the beach for a week or two. I imagine there will be lots of barbequeing, y'alling, and guzzling tremendous quantities of cold beer.

Looks like I had my colonoscopy just in the nick of time.

Ain't life grand?
J