The Grandchildren in Melbourne

The Lunar Eclipse

MOON OVER MIAMI AND MIDHURST

Realistically speaking, there aren’t a great many things that one can say that Miami and Midhurst have in common. Miami is extremely short of castle ruins for one thing, and the main road that runs through this town would have room for four sets of the A272. There are a couple of British style “pubs” but you have to travel a fair way to find them, and you are far more likely to dine out on tacos and empanadas than shepherds pie or fish and chips. But last night, we were happily aware that we were all agreed on one thing; the lunar eclipse.
By the time that the sun was sinking behind us into the western sky, all eyes were fixed eastwards out across the warm Atlantic waters off the south Florida coastline. A low bank of thin cloud threatened to spoil the show, but that didn’t deter families, couples, kids and seniors from setting up camp all along the beach. Some forward thinking official had undertaken to dim the new lamps that illuminate the three mile promenade along the Hollywood seafront, and restaurant owners and bar keepers had organised their normal inside seating to face out to sea.
One of the most evocative sights on the east Florida coastline is the silhouette of palm trees against the fading evening sky, and last night they barely moved in the warm tropical breeze that gently ruffled their fronds.
“Here it comes” went up the cry and through the haze of cloud, we could see a thin crescent of silver, growing slowly bigger as it climbed into the clear sky.
“Moon over Miami” crooned some amateur tenor, and the children paused in their games of beach football, and adults raised their glasses of chilled wine to the heavens.
Toasting the moon seemed like an odd thing to do, but I realised that it was the same moon that linked me to my friends in Midhurst, my old stamping ground in South Africa and my children in Australia, and although my grasp of the planetary system is extremely weak to say the least, I knew that this same moon was shining down on all of us, and for once it gave me a feeling of being at one with the universe.
Then the lamps were turned back on, the barstools were turned back inwards, the music was turned up and the magic moment was gone, but for what it’s worth, I did think of you in Midhurst.
Keep in touch with Kate at www.fagalde.co.uk

John and Kate at the Hollywood Florida Mardi Gras

Surviving Valentines Day and Mardi Gras

I feel like a bad correspondent making excuses for not having written sooner, but I can only blame this on Mother Nature. Normally by now, I would have recounted tales of daring-do as we coped with yet another series of hurricanes, but despite everyone preparing to batten down the hatches and test out their new storm shutters, nothing happened. The hurricane season came and went and proved to be a damp squib, but maybe even Mother Nature couldn’t bring herself to terrorise the battered population of New Orleans and Florida with someone called Beryl, Patty, Sandy or Tony. Mind you, we all thought that Katrina was a sweet sounding gal and look how she turned out!
Now we are contending with what is laughingly called “winter” here in Florida. Temperatures drop from the mid 80’s down into the low 60’s resulting in the “snow-birds” who are currently taking shelter away from the trials of a bitter winter up north, adding yet another brightly coloured layer to their already brilliant plumage of matching shell suits, and they scorn the Floridians who shiver and shelter from the elements, while marching manfully up and down the beach boardwalks, displaying their peculiarly orange-hued suntans.
The babble of Quebeçois French is barely recognisable to my French speaking husband as he strains to understand the patois that has become a soupy mix of various and ancient languages. In addition to this, we try and keep pace with gabbled Hispanic conversations, the rise and fall of Creole tones, the overlay of Russian, and the heavily accented voices of the “Noo Joisey” retirees who hale from New York. For some, Florida means hot tubs but we have found that it is more a case of being immersed in a melting pot of people from all corners of the globe.
With the carefully labelled “Holiday Season” over and done with, Florida at this time of year launches itself into the ancient festivals of both Valentines Day and Mardi Gras. On Valentines Night, we danced under the stars at the Hollywood Open Air Beach Theatre while a couple of singers who pre-dated the Beatles by a good fifteen years, gave of their sugary best. Couples both old and young, held hands and moved to the music, happy for once to forgo the usual Country and Western beat that sends them into serried ranks of line-dancing. This was romance at its best with no place for Hip Hop, Garage and the other peculiar types of computer-generated noise that encourage the gyrations of the young Miamians, and which leaves anyone over fifty looking mystified and slightly bored.
The onslaught of flowers, chocolates and over-stuffed crimson heart-shaped cushions had hardly ceased before Mardi Gras weekend got into full swing. Because of its geographic situation, South Florida, which is home to a vast number of South Americans, Cubans, and Bahamians, has taken Mardi Gras to its multicultural heart and for the four days leading up to what is known as “Fat Tuesday” or Shrove Tuesday, anything goes. Parades provide a golden opportunity for dressing up in anything that sparkles and glitters, all the while shouting and yelling and performing wild acrobats in order to capture a string of shiny beads thrown from a passing float. The more heavily garlanded with strings of beads, the better one has proved to be at catching both the eye of the thrower and the airborne missile. The “Krewes” who both build and man the floats are skilled in the art of hurling the beads, and Judges of the various floats need protective armour to shield them from the blizzard of jewellery and tiny teddy bears. The West Indian beat of the music, the skimpily clad feathered dancing girls, the shrieks and screams of the over-excited onlookers all combine to create an atmosphere of joyous abandonment, and in order to stave off the hunger pangs, stalls serve steaming plates of Cajun food with such appetising names as Deep Fried Alligator and Boiled Mud Shrimp, all of which might sound unappealing, but which have customers queuing around the block.
The long weekend rounds out with Presidents Day which is the trigger for every major retail outlet and vehicle sales forecourt to have a massive “Presidents Day Sale”, and the beat of Mardi Gras continues until Tuesday night, and then we can all heave a sigh of relief, eat our pancakes and settle down for Lent. We might not have gone through a hurricane season, but after this past week, we feel as though we have!
www.fagalde.co.uk

Kate - August 2006 

Jean on Waterview balcony. August 2006 

Kate - UK April 2006 

Keith and Liquorice 

Being Granny On the Murray River 

From Miami to Melbourne

“Welcome aboard Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Our flying time from Los Angeles to Melbourne will be fifteen and a half hours with good luck and a following wind. Right now we have head winds so I hope you've all brought along a good book". A dry chuckle went round the cabin of the Boeing 747-400, and I eyed my cramped seating space and guarded every inch jealously. I had no idea that the Pacific was so vast and was mystified that somehow I managed to lose an entire day in crossing it.

'Welcome to Australia Madam" chirped the nice lady on the immigration desk a day later. "You must be one of the visiting grannies. I reckon over half the plane was filled with grandparents today". I look around at the queue of my tired but cheerful travelling companions and I realise that I am among the youngest although right now I feel distinctly frail around the edges. I pass through customs stoutly declaring that I have not had any dealings with a cow, pig, chicken or a plant of any description, safe in the knowledge that I left my last three rice cakes on board the plane rather than risk being incarcerated for the crime of entering Australia with foodstuffs. I've done it, I'm in and ahead of me are a sea of faces but I can't recognise anyone. Suddenly two small boys detach themselves from restraining hands and hurtle towards me followed by a wide-eyed shyly smiling little girl. They are followed by my daughter with arms outstretched and closely in her wake comes my son. After a year of sea-changes throughout the family, we are once again united, albeit on the far side of the world.

That evening, I sit in a blissful daze cuddling my five year old grandaughter, listening to an incomprehensible description of computer games from my six year old grandson, and watching as the two aforementioned little boys aged three and two repeatedly attack each other with rubber swords showing no real animosity but exercising a great deal of bravado. Overlayed are conversations with my son and daughter and my son in law and daughter in law while a glass of excellent Australian chardonnay is placed into my hand and as I look at all of them, I know that the twenty four hour journey has been worth every single moment.

The days go by and Melbourne begins to take shape. It is a city without any pretensions. It has the standard selection of high rise glass buildings, but hidden away are exquisite little Victorian cottages wreathed in intricate wrought iron balconies all swathed in roses. Everyone proudly points out the Melbourne Cricket Ground and the Yarra River winds past the vast sporting facilities that await the arrival of the 2006 Commonwealth Games. Claire and Pete both live out in the eastern suburbs a half hour drive from town, and I tend to turn my eyes to the forested slopes of the Dandenong Ranges rather than the city. Tabitha and I go into the heart of Melbourne and up the Rialto Tower on a peerlessly clear day. From this viewpoint we can see way out across the bay, where the sheltering arms of the Mornington Peninsula wrap around as if in a caress. Off to the west the bay curves towards Geelong and the Ocean Road and northwards, the Great Dividing Range beckons invitingly. Suddenly across our line of sight flies the enormous new Airbus that is on its trial flight into Melbourne. This aircraft will carry nearly double the number of passengers that were aboard my plane and I fail to see how on earth it is ever going to get airborne. I daresay that in a year or so I shall find out for myself.

A camping trip has been planned and I go ahead alone with a car loaded with equipment and a map of Victoria. I feel as though I should be setting out with a mule, a shovel and gold panning equipment as I pinpoint Echuca and the Murray River. Staying clear of the main route, I wind my way across the Macedon Ranges, falling madly in love with beautiful homes set in what looks like English countryside. I pause to photograph Hanging Rock and stop at Maldon and chat with a man called Keith who is accompanied by a sheep called Liquorice who wears a luminescent orange raincoat. When I voice faint surprise, he merely points out that it is a shame that I missed the girl with the mule. People in the small towns are friendly but appear to have very little interest in the world beyond their shores. Quite frankly when viewed from the top of the Great Dividing Range, the rest of the world with its troubles and woes seems comfortably far away and relatively insignificant.

The Australians give the impression that they dearly love their country, are passionate about their sportsmen and women; are unimpressed with "big talk", and have a wry humour both about themselves and about those who are less fortunate than they are; i.e. anyone who hasn't been lucky enough to be born and raised an Australian. The scenery often reminded me of South Africa and I was blessed to be there after good rains. Victoria was as green and lush as England during a wet summer, only here it seemed to rain during the night leaving the days sparklingly clear. I shared in the lives of my children and grandchildren for three wonderful weeks, doing the school run, going to swimming classes, practising reading, and watching 'Cinderella' a dozen times but loving the cuddles that went with it. A day spent with Claire touring down to Sorrento and another day spent with Pete viewing the magnificent Ocean Road were gifts beyond value. They all work hard but their leisure time is filled with sunshine, sea and sand and good friends. Education standards are high, their quality of life is good and above all, they are together.

Would I move to Australia? In a heartbeat. Would I live in the city?- probably not, but just tempt me with a few acres of land out near the Yarra Valley with a pony in the paddock for the grandchildren and a couple of Weimeranners lying at my feet. This is one Matilda who would waltz off to Oz with her jolly French swagman without a backward glance. A few more years and we would qualify for a Granny Visa and Pete and Tabs bought me the right hat just in case!

Katrina Pays Us A Visit

A week ago, I went for a swim in our large condo pool, and as I lay on my back in the warm water, gazing up at the peerless blue sky above, I counted my blessings at being able to live in the wonderful state of Florida. This morning, I returned to the pool and repeated the procedure, but this time I counted my blessings carefully.
Looking up at the twenty four storey building in which we live, I could see the torn mesh and tattered storm blinds that still hang limply from some of the balconies, and below in the car park are the remnants of broken branches and palm fronds lying about awaiting the landscape team who will return us to a state of pristine beauty in no time. Vehicles move through the streets slowly, confused at the lack of traffic lights, and the swans on the golf course are revelling in the extra space afforded by the flooded lake. For two days last week we had done the Floridian thing and ‘hunkered down’ listening with trepidation as the huge glass windows in our apartment creaked, and the wind screamed and harried at any object that lay in its path. Storm shutters shuddered and shook and the lights flickered while daylight was turned into an evil mix of dark clouds and a white-out of rain storms. In the north of Miami, Katrina blew with intense force and then she turned southwards where she dumped incredible amounts of rain onto already sodden ground, turning streets into rivers.
But we were not enough for her. We were just a dress-rehearsal; a chance to flex her muscles and to tease and torment the residents who had cowered at her arrival. She had bigger fish to fry than us, and having jinked her way back out into the Gulf of Mexico, she set her sights on that pearl of the Gold Coast, New Orleans.
The television coverage is all that we see of Katrina now, but the exhausted tearful voices of previously hardened reporters tell of families drowned inside their own homes, of children left stranded and alone on railway lines, of the still rising water and of the thousands who now have no homes to return to. Stephen Spielberg in all his wild imagination could not have come up with a scene of such destruction and misery, and right now, the world waits to see if New Orleans will sink back into the waters from which it was wrested.
It is a humbling day for Americans. This was an attack of enormous brutality and it came from a source against which they have no recourse. But I have no doubt that the inherent good-neighbourliness that we have come to appreciate will surface, and in the same way that South Florida is slowly rebuilding, so will the shattered lives of New Orleans and its surrounds.

In the wake of Wilma 

A Week After Wilma

We have just cycled to the supermarket which in itself is an odd thing to do in this petrol-driven country. In the elevator I met a woman who gasped in amazement when I told her that I was sprouting my own beans and eating them with brown rice and that they were delicious. ‘Where do you grow them?’ she queried and looked horrified when I said that they were doing famously on the balcony. I think she had visions of me up there with a ton of topsoil and a mechanical digger instead of my dinky little sprouter. We set off around Country Club Drive that has been cleared of fallen trees, snapped-off lamp posts and mounds of broken storm shutters, and realised that instead of cars racing past us they normally do, everyone was moving at a slow steady pace. These are the gas hunters, and the SUV’s (Sports Utility Vehicles) are moving slower than most. A week ago, they were the Miami status symbol, but now they are an albatross around the neck of the owner. The millionaire houses that lie between our high rise condo and the beach have no electricity as despite their grandeur, they are only single family units, and the power company is desperately trying to reconnect the larger buildings that house more people. The owners of these luxury homes now need gas to fill their expensive generators but first they need gas to drive their SUV’s to get to the gas station to get gas for their plastic drums. You see what I’m saying. Suddenly from being at the top of the financial pecking order, they have plummeted to the other end of the spectrum, and find themselves queuing in the hot sun alongside the lower income group. We made it to the supermarket and chained our bikes to a pole. They don’t have bike racks – nobody ever expected that a customer might cycle to the shop. Marching in with a back-pack, we foraged among the half empty shelves. At last fresh produce had appeared but now our shopping came down to how much weight we could carry. In the normal course of events, the only time a shopper touches his shopping is when he takes it from the shelf and puts it into the trolley. It is then transferred by the packer and taken to the boot of the car where it is offloaded into another trolley at the condo and taken upstairs in an elevator. Back onto the shelf went the wine, the milk and the orange juice. The cereal came out of its excessive packaging and the back-pack was carefully filled to capacity with immediate necessities. This time the credit card machine was working and cash back was available. This is great because cash is needed to purchase the limited amount of gas that might become available, but in the meanwhile, we cycle everywhere and conserve the half tank that we have got. Stories are now being told of bikes being stolen and gas siphoned out of cars at night. It’s becoming a dog-eat-dog world but I have found that the best currency is a smile and a sympathetic ear. Everyone’s got it tough, and right now we measure our luxuries in electricity and running water. That puts us in the millionaire bracket and for once, the millionaires envy us. So you see, it wasn’t just the dustbins that got upset during Wilma’s visit; the social order went for a bit of a loop as well.

I Left My Hat on Bom Bom Island

This poem was written after an exciting trip ashore by tender from the “Caronia” while anchored off Bom Bom island off the West Coast of Africa You know when you're sitting relaxing, and dangling your feet in the pool The last thing you think is to put down your drink, and to rush off would be really cruel. And so we all sat about laughing, enjoying a tonic and gin When somebody raised an arm skywards "That black cloud is looking quite grim". "I suppose we should head for the tender", so we gathered our towels and our shoes But we hated to race from this beautiful place and the thought of it gave us the blues. As we started to cross the long causeway I paused to take just one more shot Of the sparkling sunlight that gleamed on the bay, of the palms trees, the reef, the whole lot. Ahead of me strode Jess and Peter, I could tell it was them by her hat But a rain laden wind sliced between us, and her hat it was gone, that was that. We forced our heads into the monsoon as we struggled to get across fast When out of the rain came a desperate voice "Please show me your ship boarding pass". "You jolly well have to be joking" but our words whipped away on the wind, Did she think we were trying to smuggle aboard, if she did, then I'm sorry, we sinned. We all found a seat on the tender which was lashed by strong rope to the dock But we soon realised that this wasn't too wise as the waves made us shudder and rock. "We'll have to get clear of the quayside" and the crew gunned the engines and turned, We watched with sad heart, it was time to depart, and for more terra firma we yearned. There were only a few of us passengers, there was Peter and Jessie and me, And the gang from West Enders, a few other folk, I suppose all in all, twenty three. The most comforting sight was a pineapple, "We'll keep it in case of dire need, I've got a sharp knife, it belongs to my wife, we can cut it, and have a good feed". "You're not going to eat my pineapple" said Jill who had bought it that day, "It cost me a lot and I don't care a jot, you can eat him instead, that's OK" She was pointing to one of her fellows,a lovely guy,Terry by name" I'm really not tasty, so don't be too hasty and I also don't think that I'm game. You should first eat the biggest and fattest" (I tried to hide under the seat) "They'll taste so much better and take up less room and there'll certainly be much more meat". We decided that singing was safer and struck up a few jolly songs But we soon found that some of the singers were really not singing along. One by one, their colour was changing and a couple leaned over the side I think they were trying to fatten the fish or decide if they liked them deep fried. But we sang just to show we were British, and to show that we weren't going to panic We sang hits from the shows that everyone knows but decided to pass on 'Titanic'. It was then that the crew had a brainwave and produced an enormous great tub Oh good, time for lunch, we could do with a munch, they must be providing the grub. But it didn't turn out to be salads, roast beef or nice pudding that fills, Instead on the side writ in letters quite wide were the dark words for us "Sea Sick Pills". Well some of us got out our cameras, and some grabbed a pill in each hand And although we weren't scared, the one thing we shared was a longing, for ship board or land. Still the waves grew in size and in motion and the crew steered a course through the storm And we sang and we laughed and we cheered and we barfed, but complaining would just be bad form. It took time but we got there quite safely, and were met with strong arms and warm towels Which was really the best thing to give us, as we looked like a batch of drowned fowls. But a strong cup of tea, a hot shower, and an insight of storms close at hand Had cemented our friendships, created a bond and we felt like a special brave band. And we knew that from Captain to deck hand, everyone had done all that he could To get us back safely and care for our lives and had always looked out for our good. So remember when you are back home again or feeling a little bit lonelier That you proudly can say " I remember the day that I made it - "Bom Bom to Caronia". Dedicated to Captain Nick Bates and the crew of the Number 10 Lifeboat 27th March 2003

And A Healthy New Year To You All

It’s January 2006 and we are just back from shopping. We spent Christmas week camping in the forests of the Big Cypress Seminole Indian Reservation, and the joys of having a supermarket nearby were distinctly lacking, with the nearest one an hour’s drive away. I do pride myself on being able to pack enough food for a week so that frequent trips to that cornucopia of American living wasn’t necessary, but it was nice to nip round the corner this morning and stock up. Shopping for food early in the New Year is a very different thing to the mad scramble of ten days ago. Shoppers pause and read the calorie count, add up the carbohydrates and worry about the chemicals. Baskets are now laden with fresh fruit and vegetables instead of cake and coke, and there is far more activity in the fruit salad section than in the ice cream area. Everyone seems to have a guilty conscience with regard to their weight, and with the added horror of the recent Tsunami in the Far East, people realise that maybe the rift between the “have’s” and the “have-nots” is far greater than they had thought. So this is the time to dust off the bikes, join the line-dance class, walk twice round the park and carry the shopping inside instead of using the trolley. This is the week when we all move swiftly and firmly past the bakery section and the biscuit shelves, avoid anything to do with fizzy pop and sweets, and choose the pre-skinned chicken and the low-fat everything. This is the time when registration at health clubs and gyms are at an all time high and the racks of magazines at the check-out are emblazoned with “Lose Weight Now” articles, showing us the sylph-like hips of some film-star who claims to have lost half her body-weight since Christmas. Oh sure, it will last for about two and a half weeks, and then, feeling that we have earned a reward, we will dive back into the gallon tub of ice cream and order a pizza. At least we don’t have to listen to “Jingle Bells” being mangled by an electronic synthesizer any longer, and if we manage to stay out of the shops for a another week, the endless queues of people returning the gifts that other people queued endlessly to purchase will have shortened, and the Absolutely Final Grand Sale of the Year will be over and life can return to normal. I can report that we finally enjoyed a dozen carefully rationed mince pies that were delivered from the delightful Hubbards Cupboard in South Miami. Our Christmas lunch was a huge success and with our three Jewish guests, it turned out to be a fusion celebration after all. A Very Happy New Year to everyone.

Evening on our Waterview balcony 

A Quiet Sunday

One of many things that I love about Florida is that you can pack so much into a day. With temperatures that seldom slip below the seventies, and sunshine that is never far away, it is possible to plan and achieve all sorts of things on a weekend. Take a normal Sunday in December for instance; before the sun had gained any real strength, we were out on our bikes peddling the three mile circuit around our neighbouring golf course, dodging the runners, walkers, roller-bladers and bikers. Considering it was a Sunday morning and the road traffic was minimal, it was amazing just how busy the walking path was and in the end, we gave up the effort and peddled along the road itself, there to be overtaken every so often by an extremely svelte “pelaton” of lycra clad cyclists on bikes that made ours look like Penny Farthings. Not being ones for going to excess in our sports outfits, we trundle along quite happily in our old cotton shirts and somewhat dilapidated farming shorts from the old South African days, and we still get the mileage under our belts. After lunch, we joined up with our good friend Mary and headed north towards Fort Lauderdale to find “Bone Appetit”, the doggie shop with a difference. None of us are fortunate enough to own dogs as Mary works all day and we are in a “No Pets Condo”. I have been aware of the odd parrot and turtle hiding out in the building but certainly no canines have made it past the surveillance cameras to my knowledge. I understand that it is possible to buy large soft shoulder bags for the express purpose of smuggling your pooch or puss into such buildings but I would live in fear of being exposed by a muted miaow or a wayward woof. Condo rules are something that need to be espoused and taken seriously. We are not owners of our “unit” and we tread carefully lest we be seen having illegal barbeques on our balcony, stepping into the building from the pool deck in our costumes, conducting any sort of business from home (although I hear the place is riddled with Property Dealers who all work on their computers without trace) or in any other way upsetting the all powerful “committee”. We have quickly learned to steer clear of the blood –letting that can go on at General Meetings and we never get embroiled in the latest tussle and try to play Humpty Dumpty as much as possible. Until we make the journey across the draught-board of American life and reach the nirvana of the all important Green Card, we keep our cards close to our chests and our eyes averted. But why the trip to “Bone Appetit” you may ask. Mary has an acquaintance who has found a novel way to write a novel. Every so often, Elaine Viets will take on what she describes as “a dead-end job”. Either operating as a tele-marketing salesperson, working part-time in a book shop, or in this case helping pet owners to choose the correct clothing and delicacies for their four legged offspring, she gathers together sufficient background knowledge and sets about writing a jolly good murder mystery. The party was in full swing when we arrived and there were more breeds of dogs being paraded by their owners than you could shake a stick at. Shar Pei’s looked dolefully at primped poodles, and beagles nudged at labrador pups urging them to further mischief. The owners were having as much fun as the dogs and in amongst it all was a wonderful lady giving out chocolate covered strawberries while opposite a guitarist entertained everyone with songs like “Mellow Yellow”. Considering we were in the heart of a very busy section of Fort Lauderdale, it was really a bit like being at a village fair in England, and all that was missing were the gumboots and the rain. From here we went to show Mary our favourite park where most weekends when we aren’t camping, we go to cycle and picnic and watch the world go by. The Hugh Taylor Birch Park was established by a man of the same name who was determined that Floridians in that area should be able to see what Florida looked like before the developers got into the act. Buying up coastal acres of land at a ludicrously cheap price during the early part of the last century, he insisted that everything be left just as it was and a simple one-way road encircles the park, allowing people to either walk, cycle or drive (extremely slowly) under the canopy of trees, or merely sit and enjoy the passing show. One section lies alongside the Intracoastal Waterway and here the fabulous millionaire yachts of Fort Lauderdale parade past on a Sunday, each one draped with bikini clad golden bodies and laden with expensive picnic baskets. In another area, it is possible to hide away and imagine that you are deep in the Everglades, and on the eastern side of the park, a tunnel leads under the busy coastal road and gives access to a wonderful stretch of yellow sandy beach and the warm blue sea. But we could not tarry long, and having walked around the massive banyan tree that has now grown to an enormous girth thanks to the strange roots that hang from the upper branches and sink into the earth beneath, we headed north once more for Tradewinds Park. It is here that each year, the trees in the park are dressed in fairy lights to create a twinkling wonderland of colour. An avenue of green and blue oak trees will give way to a row of deep red ones and all around are magic castles, weird and wonderful animals and everything that is connected to Christmas and the holiday season. Entrance funds go to help charity work and a never-ending stream of cars process through the park each night throughout December, culminating hopefully in a large amount of money and some tired but very satisfied volunteers who work extremely hard to bring about this amazing sight. Between parks, we had sat and watched the sunset across one of the many inland lakes while being mildly pestered by a rather shaggy goose who came ashore at the first sign of a sandwich. We raised our glasses to my father and to Jean’s daughter both of whom had upcoming birthdays the following day, and reckoned that we had managed to fit in a fair amount for a quiet Sunday in Florida.

Under the Boardwalk

“Under the boardwalk” we all sang in unison waving our arms in the air. “Down by the sea” we warbled as we took two steps to the left and clapped and then two steps to the right and clapped. There must have been a hundred people under the stars at the Hollywood Beach open air theatre on a Tuesday night completely impervious to the fact that the entire nation was awaiting the results of one of the most bitterly and closely fought elections in recent history. Republicans sweated and sidestepped while Democrats got in a bit of fancy footwork but on the whole, everyone was working hard to put together a fairly well orchestrated dance routine, led by the young man on the stage wielding a microphone and backed up by a huge electronic music machine. For all the mud-slinging that had gone on prior to the actual election date, it was now in the lap of the Gods, and for most of us, the evening was spent leaping about like teenagers, laughing and colliding with our neighbours, and desperately trying to copy the sharp line dance routines going on around us. I couldn’t help feeling that Hollywood is a melting pot of the Americans that we come into contact with. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, the faithful are seated early on the rows of “aloominum” benches awaiting the arrival of whichever group or solo performance is booked for the evening. There is a wide concrete dance area that separates the onlookers from the stage, and on either side of the dance floor, ropes separate the watchers from the dancers and prevent the casual bike riders from peddling through the midst of the entertainment. The stage is curved, painted with a vast seascape and stands with its back to the sea, and a small door at the back of the stage is left open in order to allow a cooling breeze from the water that keeps the musicians from dissolving into a puddle of sweat. It is easy to spot the old Hollywood residents. They stick to the same seats each night and dance in the same area of the floor. Dressed in t shirts and flip-flops or turned out in silky tops with a dab of gold jewellery they can look like any other normal couple until the gentleman turns his back to the audience to reveal a waist long plait. There are the elderly retired couples who sit down for all the fast numbers but who never fail to get onto the floor for the waltzes. Arms about each other with a misty look in their eyes, they move with the music as the memories flicker across their faces. In one corner there will be a Dad with a small child perched on his shoulders, or a young couple with a child between them, the little one standing on Dad’s shoes and clutching his knees as he dances with his parents. The middle aged bracket still kick their heels up to the 60’s music and a few brave ones take on a pretty nifty ragtime beat, and are at once transformed into servicemen and women from the wild days of the war years. The youngsters have given up on disco music that merely requires them to stand and wiggle various bits of their anatomies, and join in the joyous free style, dodging the line dancers and weaving in and out of the waltzers. The audience applaud the musicians and the dancers alike and woe betide the band who makes a lot of noise but fails to produce the rhythm that gets everybody up on their feet. I have yet to know the weather to put a damper on things and invariably the stars are shining, the moon beams down on us all, while the wind from the sea brushes the palm fronds at the edge of the beach. The music ends at the reasonable time of nine o clock and people depart, some of them still dancing, towards the car park or the ice cream shop. Small children loll sleepily on their parents shoulders, elderly couples walk arm in arm and the youngsters hold hands and drift towards the beach. I didn’t hear a single mention the election on Tuesday night at Hollywood, but I heard the sound of combined laughter, saw the delight on people’s faces as they finally caught the rhythm and watched a hundred people all in step singing “Under the Boardwalk”. I know that in some form or another, this scene is being re-enacted all over America by people who have a common cause. All they want to do is to dance in step with each other just as long as the band leader is playing the right tune.

John at Hollywood Beach after Wilma 

Florida on the Cheap

It is a misconception to think that Florida, by virtue of being a holiday destination must be an expensive place to stay. “ It ain’t necessarily so” as the song goes. We have discovered that some of the best things to do are not only cheap, but in many instances are totally free. Take the beaches. Once you have decided on which one you wish to frequent, it is simply a case of paying four dollars to park (unless you find one with parking meters which is a bit more of a pain as they need feeding with “quarters”) and for that one outlay, you can arrive at 8am in the morning and leave at sunset. During that time, the beach, the sea and the sunshine are totally free, and as long as you come equipped with a large umbrella, a couple of comfortable beach chairs, a supply of cool drinks, nibbles and a good book, there is nothing to beat it. Parks are another good investment. If like us you enjoy walking or cycling, then head to one of the many excellent State run parks which in some cases, only charge a nominal entrance fee at weekends. Having left the car in one of the ample parking areas, you are free to follow trails which run through exotic stands of trees and shrubs, and often lead out across boardwalks which take you to the very centre of the mangrove swamps with maybe an alligator and some exotic bird-life thrown in. Alternatively you can lay claim to one of the large table/bench combinations, set up your picnic and watch the world go by and relax with the morning paper Flea Markets are another splendid free outing (as long as you are possessed with an iron will) and apart from occasionally paying one dollar to park, you are at liberty to stroll the hundreds of stalls and rummage through the incredible variety of items that range from high end antiques down to the one dollar stall. During what Floridians laughingly call “winter” when they shiver as the mercury plunges to the mid sixties, (around 20 C) many of the “snow birds” find their way down here from the frozen north and set up home until the chill of winter releases Canada from its grip. Suddenly there is an increase in the gabble of Quebecois which is a fractured language that my French born husband battles to understand, and clothing becomes a riot of palm-tree bedecked shirts and occasionally a rather frightening line in shorts. Many bring with them an assortment of goods in the hopes that sales at the Flea Markets will be sufficient to pay the bills for the coming four months until it is warm enough to retreat northwards once more, and the whole atmosphere of the market changes to simulate a farmers market in Provence. We live in a condominium (as the apartment blocks are called) and happily, it comes complete with a large swimming pool, an open air hot tub, a well-supplied gymnasium and a sauna. This is considered the norm, and if one takes advantage of all these extras, then it is a bit like living at a private health spa. It certainly doesn’t cost extra to use them and we find that lying back in the hot tub as the last golden rays of sunset paint the sky and the lights start to flicker on, is a very pleasant way to end the day. It’s also a good place to get to know people and very often the “hot tub” turns into “the melting pot”. There is also free open air dancing up at Hollywood Beach. Three nights a week, a variety of bands entertain the large crowd who either relax on the rows of benches or get up and “shake their boogies”. The music ranges from excellent to slightly disorganized but nobody worries as long as there is a decent beat, and dancing to a slow waltz under the stars as a cooling breeze drifts across the sand is equally as good as paying out vast amounts to dine and dance in some expensive restaurant down on South Beach, and instead of a tux and an expensive hairdo, here at Hollywood, t shirts and sneakers are de rigeur. There are bikes to hire for five dollars an hour, wide sandy beaches where you can sit and enjoy your own pizza and wine while watching the cruise ships sailing away towards the Bahamas, and if you are a people-watcher, there is a never-ending procession of promenaders who wander up and down the long stretch of boardwalk, all enjoying the warm air and the easy atmosphere. So Florida doesn’t have to be Orlando, South Beach, expensive shopping malls and flash night clubs. Sometimes settling for less can give you a whole lot more and at these prices, hopefully we can afford to enjoy it for a long time to come.

America Au Naturel

Americans are by nature inquisitive; this probably explains their achievement in getting to the moon and their ability to discover the perfect ice cream. So when we are asked “Which beach do you go to?” we have learned that a single answer is never considered sufficient. “We go to Haulover” we say vaguely, knowing already what the next question will be. “But which end?” Geographically our nearest beach is Sunny Isles, but thanks to Donald Trump and his merry men, the millionaire hotel/condominium buildings that now line that particular stretch of seashore have resulted in access to the beach being limited to those who are prepared to park some distance away and then cart all their paraphernalia with them. The next closest (and for my money by far the nicest) is the north end of the two mile stretch of Haulover Beach - so called because in years gone by, the fishermen would literally haul their boats over the beach to the adjacent inland waterway. Here there is plenty of cheap parking, and a tunnel walkway that cuts under the busy US1 bringing you out onto the beach walk. It is here that you are confronted by signs that read “Beyond this point, you may encounter clothing optional beaches”. In other words, you are about to walk through the high growing screen of bush and emerge onto a wide clean white sweep of sand which appears to be dotted with people who are all wearing the same flesh coloured swimming costumes. Sun umbrellas, some standing alone and some in huge clusters, announce the arrival of the aficionados of Haulover, and once you get used to the fact that this is the only protection they have between them and the sun, it is pretty much like any other beach. Nudity or naturism is of itself a fairly personal choice and never more so than here. There are those who choose to wear large hats and nothing else, some sport string bikinis that quite frankly leave nothing to the imagination, others have shirts on to keep their shoulders protected but nothing lower down and some look as though they have been staked out by some ancient tribe and left, spread-eagled, to be baked alive. But the most important thing is that nobody actually cares less what his neighbour is either doing or wearing (or in this case – not wearing). Nudity en masse is the most levelling of pastimes and quite frankly, once you are up to your neck in the warm waters off the Florida coastline, it doesn’t matter much anyway. On one unusual occasion, we were floating about enjoying the gentle ebb and wash of the waves when someone shouted that a manatee was swimming by. I can only think that from her viewpoint under water, she must have felt as though she had swum into a pod of her own kind judging by the width of some of the posteriors wading out into the crystal clear sea. There are very strict rules enforced by not only the beach inhabitants themselves, but by the eagle eye of the lifeguard who is in instant radio contact with a fast moving police patrol and anybody indulging in what could be construed as anti-social behaviour is immediately ejected from the beach to loud applause from all sides. According to rumour, there are actually “plain clothes” (for that read No Clothes) police who wander about making sure that there are no illegal immigrants who might have washed ashore overnight and who are seeking to mingle into the crowd and disappear later on. They would certainly have to be travelling light to go unnoticed in this neck of the woods. People are creatures of habit and each week you will find the same group in the same place. The tops of umbrellas are occasionally decorated with a small flag and all the Brits congregate side by side with the Americans and a great deal of good hearted banter goes on as people create an amoeba of arrivals and departures throughout the day. Some make do with just a towel and a good book and others haul cool boxes on wheels, massive umbrellas, snorkeling equipment and enough tanning lotion to coat most of the populace. Nobody plays a radio above acceptable decibel levels and apart from the occasional tinkle of a mobile phone, everyone behaves in a thoughtful easy-going fashion. Of course in this land of superb plastic surgery just now again one cannot help but notice some bits that defy gravity, but on the whole, we are a middle aged slightly lumpy and bumpy cheerful bunch who are more than happy to admit that they go to “the north end of Haulover”.

Camping at Big Cypress Campground 

Halloween, Hedgehogs and How to Vote

Flamingoes and Hedgehogs By Kate Fagalde 847 Words So there we were, playing croquet by the light of the silvery moon, and the game was made a whole lot easier by the fact that the croquet balls and hoops not only lit up but also flashed. It occurred to me that this might be a somewhat strange pastime but just then, Alice and the White Rabbit wacked a ball straight at my hoop and I knew it was time to grab a flamingo and make it three all. We had been invited to a Halloween Party, the theme of which was “Alice in Wonderland” and having decked ourselves out as the gardeners who were frantically trying to paint the white roses red before the Queen descended on them, we arrived at a house in South Miami that was guarded by Old Father William and a large flamingo. As the crowd grew, I found myself wondering about the homeward journey and whether the Miami Traffic Police would be slightly more lenient if they were to catch the White Rabbit in a speed trap who pleaded “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date”. The Red Queen who was hosting the party had outdone herself on the culinary side of things. Everything that one could expect to find at a croquet tea party was present including a magnificent red rose cake and heart shaped sandwiches. People could quote large portions of the Jabberwokky and Old Father William was word perfect, delivering the lines “Be off or I’ll kick you down stairs” in such tones as made me glad that we were enjoying the festivities in a single story house. It’s no secret that preparing for a costume party is half the fun, and I had approached a very bewildered man who was busy painting yellow lines in our condo carpark, and had talked him into parting with his two empty paint tins. I only had to say the words “Halloween Party” for the light of total understanding to pass across his face and it is so nice to feel that for this weekend at least, the whole country can behave like cheerful idiots and nobody will think any the worse of them. We need a weekend of idiocy before the upcoming week of the election. Within the next five days, one assumes that we will know the outcome but I fear there are many obstacles to overcome before we know the fate of the nation. How much easier it would be to put the protagonists into a darkened room, shut the door and let them slog it out, but instead we are bombarded on a 24 hour basis with never-ending television coverage of who said what and who failed to do what and who would do the better job for the next four years until it was time to go through the madness once more. I did notice a flamingo getting rather hot under the collar last night and was glad when a passing caterpillar poured conversational oil on the somewhat troubled waters. Americans are very forthright in their political leanings and expect you to be so as well. “Who do you vote for” is not a question that is often heard in the Home Counties of dear old England, and despite never having been in the right place at the right time in order to put my tick in the appropriate box, I would feel more comfortable asking someone about their inside leg measurement than I would asking them which side of the political fence they came down on. I have finally gotten to the bottom of the peculiar “Exit Polls” which I discovered requires the voter who has just stood in a two hour queue (if he is lucky) and has finally got to make his private political statement, to now set about filling in yet another long involved form giving his name, rank and number along with a whole lot more personal information which he then deposits in a sealed ballot box, and it is these polls made by those exiting the voting booth that can give a fairly strong indication of which way the wind is blowing. Whatever happened to the good old days of “Let’s wait and see”. By the time the polls have been gathered together and the “Poll of Polls” is up on the score card, nobody can remember what the initial poll was. Like the dear elderly lady who, on being tactfully asked by her loving son as to whether she would prefer to be buried or cremated at the time of her passing, she patted him gently on the hand and said “Why don’t you surprise me dear”. I fear the only surprise we might be in for is the fact that it all went swimmingly well and the result is as clear cut as the crystal waters off the coast of poor dear much maligned Florida. Sadly, looking out of the window, I can see that the waters are still much ruffled and murky following the recent spate of hurricanes; life imitating art perhaps!

A Bear In The Woods

“Oh sure” said Bill the manager, hitching up his pants and swapping his tooth pick from the left to the right corner of his mouth. “Sure there’s tons of bears in the woods, snakes too, but they’ll hear ya comin’ before you see ‘em”. Dropping off a load of firewood and two huge bags of Florida oranges, he wished us a “great day” and trundled away on his golf cart. Somehow his easy-going attitude did little to allay the fears that I was feeling while Jean and I crept a few hundred yards into the thick forest that backed onto the camp ground where we were spending the week. One moment we were within view of the gleaming ranks of RV’s as the massive mobile homes are called in America, and in the next we were lost in a densely overgrown frond-laden forest where the ghosts of ancient Indian tribes inhabited the dark recesses. Only the night before a large dog fox had appeared with silent stealth not ten feet from our campfire and I found myself fantasizing that he could well be the spirit of the old Indian Chief whose battered statue we had rescued from a fly tip only that afternoon. With the full moon climbing up from behind the forest, throwing the ancient trees into stark silhouette, it was possible to imagine anything. People go “camping” on very differing levels in America. At the top of the gilded heap are those who merely lock the front door of one home and enter an almost identical one with the exception that this one has wheels. Every possible “mod con” is installed from air conditioning, satellite tv, hot and cold running everything and a fridge that could house a small family. With this home-from-home, they are able to leave the frozen northern states of Canada and the USA and head down south like the snowbirds after which they are named. Year after year they return to their summer resting place and pal up with all the other returning snowbirds, and here they spend their days in chattering, chuckling groups, all dressed in a similar attire of shorts, tee shirts and the occasional splendour of an evening outfit of matching shell suits. Some bring their bicycles with them, some don their track shoes while others meander at a slow pace around the extremes of the campsite, each doing his chosen form of daily exercise before retiring behind his mosquito proof screens to catch up on a bit of telly. For those who only intend to stay for a few days, before either moving on or returning home, there is what is commonly called “a pop-up”. These folding caravans do excellent service, containing as they do a small fridge, a gas stove, two lots of beds and bug proof windows. Towed along by the family car, they can be parked into any fairly small spot, plugged into the water and electricity points, and once “popped up” to full size, a relatively comfortable home is established. Jean and I place ourselves among the third and hardiest of the groups. We have no gleaming RV and no economical Pop-Up. We belong to that lowest of life forms on the camp ground – the tent camper. To the utter amazement of 90% of our acquaintances, we actually arrive with a full “trunk” as the boot is called, with two bikes lashed onto the frame at the back, and from these humble beginnings, we construct our home. Admittedly my camping list is slightly shorter than the Gettysburg Address but not by much. However, the upshot is that we want for nothing. A camping list must of necessity contain such things as tent, poles, pegs and guy ropes, but it takes a true professional to remember the myriad of small details that turn the discomfort of living on the ground into a weekend spent relaxing in a hammock with a good book while the strains of Mozart drift about ones ears and a cool drink is at hand. But back to the bears. Not being ones to shrink from the thought of a little adventure, we have discovered the Big Cypress Seminole Indian Reservation Camp Ground seventeen miles north of the colourfully named “Alligator Alley” that links the East and West Coast of southern Florida. Efficiently run by the ever-friendly and accommodating Barbara and Bill, the camp ground is one of the best kept secrets in camping circles in South Florida. Being far from the sea and not close to anything much in particular, this vast grassy area surrounded by woodland gives everyone the space to spread out and enjoy life at whatever pace they choose. There is a pool and a hot tub, an eighteen hole putting course that has brought out the competitor in both of us; that “must-have” for all RV parks – a shuffleboard game, and a well stocked social club which can produce anything from five star meals to a vast selection of jigsaw puzzles. If you are lucky, your weekend away might coincide with a visit from “Crackerjack and the RV Drifters”. This group of musicians who hale from far and wide across the USA converge on one of the campsites up near Lake Okechobee, and for three months of the year, their numbers swell and decrease like some musical amoeba. We were fortunate to catch one of their performances and it was an insight into the part of America that we never get to see in Miami. The music is a mix of Country and Western and Bluegrass, and although at times the vocals were sometimes hard work for our un-tuned ears to pick out, the instrumentals had people on their feet and dancing. The combined years of the six players had to be somewhere around the four hundred mark but the sheer enjoyment on the faces of both musicians and audience alike ensured that they would be welcomed back time and again, and I found myself wondering if Barbara who got up and sang a couple of great songs, didn’t sometimes long to follow in the footsteps of Loretta Lynne rather than having to keep the Big Cypress campsite operating so smoothly. Life in camp moves at a delightfully slow pace. Morning walks can turn into long sociable chats with fellow occupants and shady trees and a good book are another easy option. There are tracks through the forest and along the canals for intrepid walkers and bikers offering the reward of a myriad different birds and the sighting of idle alligators. Wild flowers and air plants and a huge variation of trees make it ideal for the naturalist, and apart from the occasional buzz of a moto-cross bike that has strayed from the big circuit three miles up the road, or an aircraft making an unscheduled stop on the long tarmac strip adjacent to the site, there is very little by way of excess noise. Just three miles further on is the Billie Swamp Safari camp and this is well worth a visit if only to wander about and see the bear and the panther in their enclosures and to visit the boardwalk that takes one deep into the watery heart of the Everglades. All sorts of eco-tourism is on offer and this can be viewed from either the airboats that ply their noisy spray-filled trade or the high swamp buggies, each operated by rangers who know all the inside stories of the area. Opposite the camp ground is the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum which gives an excellent overview of what life was like for the Seminole Indians who managed to evade capture and deportation and who to this day pride themselves on being “The Unconquered Tribe” . We also paused and wandered around the little Indian cemetery. In some respects it was similar to the old graveyards hidden behind ancient churches in England, but the names spelled out a history that made for exciting and riveting reading. Names like “Tigertail” and “Otter Clan”, surnames that rang the bells of history such as Osceola, the tribal chiefs of Billie and Frank and all too often, the graves of little children bedecked with large soft toys. Each one slept peacefully under the boughs of the Live Oaks that shade the area, and it was a privilege to see it. And so we crept into the forest and paused and listened. The susurration of the leaves high in the cypress trees, the rustle of the palm fronds, the tap tapping of the wood-peckers all sent their message. This was a place of shelter and refuge, a place where bloody battles had been fought and where warriors and soldiers had died trying to lay claim to a land that would ultimately belong only to itself. The sunlight flickered through the upper branches and dappled its way across the bracken fronds and there was a crackle of snapping undergrowth. Was it a real bear or was it a member of the Bear Clan slipping away into the depths of the forest. We looked at each other and wordlessly retraced our steps, leaving this magical mysterious place to its true owners.

Playing Cowboys and Indians in Florida

It was cold and I had forgotten to pack the blankets. OK I might have looked silly with a clean pair of my husbands cotton underpants on my head but at least I wasn’t freezing. The light of a half moon bathed the tent in a silvery glow and I knew it was the footsteps that had woken me. Five distinct steps passing by crunching the dry grass and leaves underfoot and then the sound disappeared. The next morning we crawled out to make hot coffee and I realised that there were no dry leaves and grass; everything was green and dew laden and there were no footprints. Perhaps it was the ghost of one of the hidden Seminole Indians doing sentry duty along the edge of the forest, ensuring that the soldiers hadn’t come to drive his people north. We had gone to visit the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki museum, to learn about the history and traditions of the Seminoles; the only tribe that remained unconquered in the dark days of the early 1800’s when so many thousands were driven from their hiding places and either killed or forced northwards in the white man’s hunger for land. Fighting a running battle and creating casualties hitherto unseen in the American army, eventually the Seminole tribe were left deep in the heart of the forests and swamps to eke out a subsistence living, and it is here in this same area of central southern Florida that the Big Cypress Reservation still exists. Driving west from Fort Lauderdale and then turning north from the heart of the sawgrass plains, we found ourselves in a part of Florida that is as far removed from the glass and concrete of Miami as it is possible to be. Fields of cattle and horses, stands of lush woodland, and acres of grassland were a joy to see. The houses dotted alongside the road indicated that the high monthly allowance paid to the Indians was being well spent in “white goods” as dish washers, fridges and general household effects are called. Every vehicle that passed us was a massive four-wheel drive truck, and for local running about, everyone seemed to own a four-wheeler motor bike, apart from the youngsters who roared around on moto-cross trail bikes. We passed a square block building that proudly announced “Suds R Us” and which seemed to be the local Laundromat, and lined up alongside the road were twenty to thirty post boxes, making the delivery of mail a far easier job for the postman, rather than having to make his way down endless dirt tracks into the woods to find his customers. The museum was fascinating, showing the history of this determined people. An insight into the Corn Dance, basket making, beadwork, the use of medicinal plants and the structures for shelter and daily living are all well displayed and explained. We sat and chatted with an Indian woman who told us that as a child, she had grown up in the community style of living where the thatched shelters called Chickees were the focal point. Raised about two feet from the ground in order to avoid the rising waters of the everglades, and presumably the unwanted attentions of alligators, she showed us how the sleeping arrangements worked, explained the pecking order of eating, and how the food was prepared. Dressed in the simple cloth decorated with patchwork and embroidered edging and wearing strings of beads, she could have been there for a hundred years, but she spoke of the new generation that had to be taught their history, their language and their skills before it all died out. Indians can live on the reservations or make their home outside. They can vote in an American election but have their own sovereign government. The casinos built on ancient tribal land that is now near to the vast cities bring in massive amounts of revenue and life appears to be fairly undemanding for those that choose to stay. We stayed at the Big Cypress RV and Tent campsite and were delighted to be shown to a wooded area where we were away from the gleaming massive “home from home” recreational vehicles that fill the camp sites of Florida during the winter months. Known as “Snow-birds”, retired couples from the frozen north make their way down here each year and will stay for up to five months, meeting old friends and making new one, playing games of crazy golf, shuffleboard, having social get-togethers and enjoying the gentle warmth. Peddling their bikes around the campsite, waving to their pals and calling in for a morning chat, their lives move at a delightfully slow pace, but thanks to the modern facilities of internet, there are those who bring along their laptops and continue their businesses, keep in touch with their families and order goods to enhance their lifestyle. There is no need to undertake the long haul back down to Weston in the South or up to Clewiston on the banks of Lake Okechobee in the north to seek for groceries and goods. Everything can be ordered and delivered removing the need to ever stir from this haven of peace and tranquillity. We had taken our bikes and were delighted to find tracks leading out into the forest and alongside the canals. The weather is cooler at this time of year and thankfully the alligators which populate the canals never stir. Lying dormant they wait for the sun to heat up the solar panels on their backs, without which they are unable to so much as open an eye, let alone stir themselves to take a snap at a passing cyclist. A variety of fishing birds line the banks awaiting their chance and overhead, the vultures and eagles hang on the air watching for a rabbit or a mouse who should venture out into the open. We only stayed one night but before we settled in for the evening, we drove the three miles north to Billie Swamp Safari camp which in an Everglades eco- tourism resort. Here it is possible to go on an airboat trip or ride on the massive high swamp vehicles and listen to the ranger explaining all that you see about you. With the sun lowering into the western sky, we looked at the panther and the bear in their enclosures, while they in turn looked somewhat longingly at the goats in the next pen. Thatched chickees line the waters edge and from here one could sit and enjoy the sunsets, light a barbeque and settle back to listen to the sounds of the night. But we had our own campsite to return to, and our own chicken kebabs to cook over an open fire. There is a social gathering place at the campsite and we wandered over to see if anyone had appeared. There was just one woman there, similar in age to my mid fifties, doing her nightly exercise on the treadmill. Over the course of the next hour, we heard a history that seemed to paint a picture of the lives of many “middle American” families. Born of a mixture of Cherokee, Italian and Irish forebears, she had wanted to teach dancing, but had joined the police force. Her son had been born but due to a lack of medical treatment at the hospital he now suffered from cerebral palsy. At the age of thirty four, he has the mind and body of a ten year old and requires constant care and attention. She had been attacked by a group of prisoners who were being held at her police station and had been so badly injured that she had to be pensioned off. And here she was, uncomplaining, hard working, living in her RV along with her husband and her son, moving from one end of Florida to the other as the temperature rose and fell. She made the most of what she had and I had the feeling as we sat quietly and listened to her story, that she didn’t feel as though she had drawn the short straw of life. They had seen most of America in their mobile home and as long as they stayed together and cared for each other, they could take their son wherever a wheelchair could go, and cope with the hand of cards that life had dealt them. The following day, we saw the effect of some of the other cards that had been dealt when we drove northwards and reached Pahokee on the shores of Lake Okechobee. Here the hurricanes have wreaked havoc and everywhere there are piles of rubble, boats blown up onto the shoreline, factories smashed and homes ripped apart. Almost every business down the length of the main street has been closed and only the constant rumble of the sugar cane trucks hauling their endless loads to the processing plants out in the farmlands seems to keep the thin lines of commerce open. This wasn’t the America that we have seen so far. This was a struggle to make ends meet, to cope with what nature in all its cruelty has dealt out to them and somehow find the wherewithal to start up again. Entire mobile home parks have been flattened, and each pile of rubble represents a family that has lost everything. Occasionally we passed signs that read “Thanks Jeanne - thanks a lot” or “To hell with you Frances”. On a beautiful old wooden boat, endearingly called Lily the Pink out of Gibralter, now lying on her side up on the rocky shoreline of the lake, the owner had hung a sign that read “Mr Postmaster, have you noted my change of address?” This seemed to sum up the determination of the people to soldier on, to use humour rather than anger and to try and rebuild their lives before the season strikes again next year. They might get hit, they might get away with it; who knows. If it’s not them, it’s going to be one of the communities that live in the cross hairs of the hurricanes here in South Florida, and now it seems that even the insurance companies have turned their backs on them. We drove home towards our seventeeth storey condominium with its view of the sea, its hot and cold running water and its space, light and luxury, and thought about the Indians who had survived one of the cruellest period of history, and who had made a home in that lovely part of the country. We thought about the hurricane victims who battled on, rebuilding their lives from the scraps that lay about them, and the woman who carried her son and placed him lovingly in a wheelchair day after day, and we realised that we have never had it so good. We are going back after Thanksgiving, and we are going to spend time in our hammocks under the palm trees, catch up with our reading, look up the names of the different birds that we see and maybe this time, we will see, by the light of the full moon, the Indian warrior who patrols our neck of the woods.

Who Cares Anyway

The following article was written and published in England after a rather trying time earning my keep as a Carer. “WHO CARES ANYWAY” By Kate Fagalde (Published in Saga Magazine UK – September 1999) I might be nearly 50 but I’ve just joined the circus. Really I have. In no time at all, I have learned to walk the tightrope, do juggling acts, balance on my head, avoid the heights and dive into the depths. I have trained wild animals, cried through the greasepaint, glued a fresh smile on and never asked ‘how high’ when the whip cracked. Which circus did I join? I joined the Carers Circus. Never heard of it. Read on and see if you want to apply. Wanted: Carer/Companion. Country Home. Interest in Country pursuits. Long term position. Cotswolds. It sounded ideal and once I had met the Ring Master and the crew and been introduced to the animals, I thought that the road to fame and fortune was secure. I didn’t live in a caravan as most circus staff do, but had a very cosy bedroom and bathroom of my own. A bolt hole, a safe haven, a place to go and pull the pillows over my head where I could keep out the voice of the Ring Master whose cut glass accent could turn my name into a positively nerve tingling sound. Day One and I start to learn new tricks. The departing clown has left me with a sad smile and the whispered words “Hang in there” as she disappeared over the horizon. I was too blinded with thoughts of all that lay ahead and of the chances to show off my abilities to pay much attention to her departure. However, in retrospect, I do recall that her back was somewhat bowed. But now it was my chance to shine. Who would be able to resist my smile, my friendly personality, my sense of humour, my skills as a good cook, my reputation as a hard working, caring person? The Ring Master – that’s who. Day Two. First Mistake. Never presume that in a past life you have ever been in the position to even so much as breathe the same rarefied air as those in whose home you now find yourself. Your place is below the salt and, as such, you should move about quietly with a bowed head, a soft voice and an air of being unbelievably grateful to have been given a bed and a crust. You will be taken out under controlled circumstances where you will mingle with others who breathe the same rarefied air. They will look at you with all the fascination of a schoolboy regarding a dead ant. They will ask you searching questions about your past and say “Sorry what did you say your name was?” and then drift away before you have a chance to reply. Once they have realised that you are the person who is attached to the wheelchair in which the object of their affections is being transported, you are greeting with open arms, only the arms are for the occupant of the chair and you might just as well be the motorised engine that moves it about. You are sent to sit in the back of an uncomfortable four-wheel drive vehicle behind a metal grill on a hard dirty seat, along with a set of muddy-pawed dogs who sniff at you as though you are a recently gunned down pheasant. As you bounce across the ploughed lands, you are fascinated with the lively and educated conversation coming from the front of the vehicle. “I say, isn’t that old Johnny Flinders – Gad, I thought he was dead. Always was a rotten shot; deserves to be dead. How’s that dreadful wife of his – still boffing away with the stable hands?” There will be a break in the slaughter and you are released from inside your cage long enough to stand in the freezing wind and pour mugs of steaming hot coffee which will then be passed in through barely open windows. The only contact with those in the front is the pair of expensively-gloved hands that reach out to take it. No-one has seen your face or uttered a word of thanks. You might be some moveable vending machine for all they would know. At length, the empty cups are passed back to you and once they are stowed away in the picnic basket awaiting your ministrations on your return home, you are permitted to clamber back in with the dogs and resume your back-breaking journey across the county. I had never realised that I was in some way “see through”. Having pushed and pulled my charge in through a pair of heavy medieval oak doors which threatened to slam in our faces and knock me off my feet and my charge out of his wheelchair, I was so happy to see a line-up of strong if somewhat chinless sportsmen who would obviously reach out a helping hand to hold a door or relieve me of my walking stick or pair of gumboots. How could they? I didn’t exist. I was some unseen being holding up their erstwhile but now sadly octogenarian sporting companion. Once seated at the long lunch table, I am allowed to perch at his elbow and be issued with a plastic plate, a piece of bread and two small sausages. A mug of soup and a chocolate biscuit and I had been fed and watered and presumably will find my own way to the bathroom. I know the staff loo is near the back door but unwilling to run the gauntlet of 20 pairs of gumboots, two dozen walking sticks and three wet hungry large dogs, I find my way upstairs and use the family facilities. I feel the icicles settle on my shoulders as the horrified glare of the hostess tells me that she had seen me descending the staircase. I have invaded the Holy of Holies. I have sat on the wooden throne where his lordship sits, and have gazed out over the wet muddy fields that made up his fiefdom, and rested my weary aching head on the cool marble of the basin and regarded my red-rimmed eyes in the mirror that hangs on the opposite wall. How was I supposed to look. I had enjoyed no less than three hours of broken sleep the night before, and for three nights prior to that. Nights interrupted with squeaks, snores and frequent demands from the speaker system next to my bed. Until I had learned that these noises could be read like a Morse Code, some requiring an answer and some that could be ignored, I was up and down the stairs every half hour, stunned from lack of sleep and dreading the moment when daylight appeared. This is the time that the resident dog begins its insane yapping, warding off the postman, the paper man, the dustman and anyone who dared to walk past the house. It is my job to rush down and pacify him, race back upstairs and check the bath water, roar back down and relieve him of the post and papers which he is threatening to devour and then return to a now tepid bath. Then it is time to face the day. Time to take in the papers, take out the dog, take through the tea and pick up the dirty clothes. Lay the fire, throw out the ashes, straighten the cushions and open the curtains. Make the beds, help with dressing, clear the breakfast away, issue the pills, clean the kitchen, clean the bathrooms, cook the lunch, clear the lunch, mend the clothes, shop for the groceries, run the bath, make the supper, watch the TV regardless of the rubbish on it, and all the time, smile, smile, smile. Smile but don’t speak unless spoken to. Listen and laugh obligingly at the endless stories of fortunes lost and won, of grand houses and grander people. Wear a crash cap to avoid the dropping names that fall like confetti from the sky. Be suitably impressed at all times and smile, smile, smile. People are coming for lunch. What fun. Lay the table, prepare the vegetables, heat the plates, cook the food, serve it up, clear the table, wash up, put away, serve coffee and smile, smile, smile. Did someone speak to me just then? “Oh, Let’s ask her. You must know about the new potato peelers that they have just invented”. “No Madam, I know about the state of the world in general, the falling gold price, the words of Alfred Lord Tennyson and who has recently been nominated for Best Actor in a Foreign Film, but new potato peeler. I’m sorry Madam but I can’t help you”. The light in their eyes that flickered for a fleeting moment fades, and I fade with it, back into obscurity. I slink back to my dishwasher and give it a gentle pat. At least it understands me. A new game is being played. They are moving both the salt and the goalposts. I was better off when I knew that I was beneath anyone’s notice. Please don’t be nice to me and suddenly become friendly and encouraging. It’s like patting a dog. It wants to jump up and lick you and be terribly grateful to you for paying attention to it. But deep down, it knows that the minute it jumps up, it will be smacked for putting dirty paws on unsullied clothing and for making both a noise and a mess. No it is better that you leave me where I belong in the kitchen or sliding quietly down the back passage to my hideaway. Let me be the shadow on the wall who mysteriously produces three course meals, obligingly answers the telephone, humbly welcomes visitors, ensures a supply of clean clothes, remembers medication, runs hot baths and uses soothing hands. You don’t have to care. I’m the one who cares. Remember me, I’m the Carer. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”