Last blog from Paradise

The last thing I should be doing is writing, but shoulds should be eliminated.(Yes, I meant it to read that way)

Packing day, beautiful, sunny in the 80's, much like NY City.

Skip enjoyed his Jet Blue plane trips and time with his kids in MA. He is off at the Waffle House with Kay and Neil for breakfast. I just successfully balanced my checking account. I'm about to clean out the refrigerator, except for dinner stuff, throw or pack clothes, books, papers and collectibles into bags. If the Buick is overwhelmed there is always UPS, a route many people take.

If there were only more time...... I'd photograph some wonderful, (recent purchases are always wonderful, aren't they?,) in-expensive, but can't-live-without purchases. The fake snowy owl, looking like a stuffed owl, probably made out of pigeon feathers, with bright yellow eyes, perched on a fake log. ($15.00) It replaces or stands in for the painting that hung in the kitchen at 11 Spruce, the Beardsell of the Snowy Owl, primitive style, not exactly folk art. I think Virginia Beardsell was a trained artist. I hoped the family would leave a couple of her paintings, but I understand why they didn't. A WELCOME ABOARD life preserver, priceless, but actually ten or fifteen bucks. Other five to fifteen dollar items. The Weiner-mobile plastic bank was a great find. Years ago, in the 70's when I was collecting stuff, good stuff, postcards, photo cards, photographs, books, etc. a friend and I opined about the fact that someday people would be collecting plastic.

Back in the 70's postcards could be bought for $0.10, that's right ten cents. Now any slightly interesting card I've seen lately is a few dollars. Never thought I'd be the person talking about the good old days or as it's said now, "In the day." They weren't necessarily good old days. They were simply different days. As in, it is different now than it was then.

Cutting this short. Terrific day alone yesterday birding the North end of Fort DeSoto with many male, hooded (look it up in a bird book to get a visual, Olive back,Bright yellow underneath with a (duh) black hood, yellow cheek patch, much brighter in real life than in books, the contrast between the yellow and black is striking)warblers hopping around on the ground, in the trees at eye level or below. Beautiful views of Prarie warblers, bright yellow black stripes on their sides. White-eyed vireos, male and female. Bald Eagle, yellow crowned Night Heron, Reddish Egret doing its feeding dance, White ibis, wood storks, King birds, a Brown-crested flycatcher, a life bird for me and the best sighting of the day, nearly - a yellow rat snake.

It crawled out from behind a small palm tree, stretched itself across the dirt path many beachgoers were taking to the beach. I took some photos I'd like to send to you, if I only could get this blog/photo thing to work. I guarded the snake, knowing some, (I'll try to be nice) "kindly" old guy would come over and try to beat it to death with a stick.

The not-so-kindly grey-haired elderly "gentleman" came over as predicted, picked up a stick and began to poke at the snake. I spoke up, "You wouldn't like someone poking you with a stick, would you?" (I could have chosen my words better, but I was speaking first, thinking later) He looked at me, not too kindly.

He thought it might be poisonous. He was going to save others from getting hurt. I told the man, "This snake has as much right to live as we do. They are beneficial creatures. I don't think it is poisonous. I think we should leave it alone."

He, at his wife's urging went off looking disappointed, his opportunity to help others, poke a snake and who knows what defeated. As he left he said over his shoulder to me, "If someone steps on that snake, gets bitten and dies, it will be your fault."

I said, "That doesn't make a lot of sense."

At that point a nice family arrived, father, mother, a couple of kids. I suggested they walk around the snake. The woman said, "I hate snakes!" Not helpful. Everyone walked around.

As I stood there wondering what I was going to do a man came rushing up in a white shirt all excited. He had seen the snake from a distance. The snake was about three feet long, yellow and brown stripes totally spread across the path, maybe a couple of inches around, sort of. Other people went around, this guy started talking. He used to catch snakes as a kid, brought one in the house which crawled into his mother's bed. he was grounded for two weeks, etc.

Turns out his name is Mark. He's 54. I don't know why he told me that, except he mentioned that in relation to the fact he was out trying to get in shape, doing his "thousand steps" when he was accosted by three black men. "I try not to stereotype ( I think he said), but when that happens......" Luckily, he switched his thoughts back to the snake.

"I can pick it up and get it out of the way, where it won't get hurt," he said. "Hooray," I thought. I like snakes, but I have little expertise picking them up.

He picked up a stick, but he gently persuaded it to move out of the path. I had nudged it's nail to get it to move a little earlier, but it seemed quite content on the white, sand path. The snake coiled up, raised it's head and looked a little threatening. About then a huge truck pulled up with a park worker in it. Mark, optimistic Mark, thought the park guy would come over and help the snake. The park guy didn't like snakes. He was there to cut up some tree that had fallen somewhere nearby.

The snake, which I surmised might be a rat snake, too big for a garter snake, had come out in the sun and it almost looked like it had a diamond pattern inside the brown stripes on its side. "That could by a pygmy rattlesnake," the park worker informed us. "Did you see the signs about rattlesnakes over in the trees?"

I had spent the last two hours walking around in sandals under the trees, looking up at birds, occasionally down to avoid the fire ant mounds. I had seen no snakes and no signs about rattlesnakes. Facing off against a pygmy rattlesnake sounded like a bad idea to me, but Mark was undeterred. "Stay where you are," he shouted, I've got something in the trunk." He ran off. I stood by the snake, out of striking distance, I hoped.

He returned with some snorkel equipment, a white plastic bag and his cell phone. "Would you take a picture of me and the snake?" he asked. "I want to show this to my wife." "Of course, " I replied.

Mark, whose name I did not know yet, positioned himself near, but not too near to the snake. In the view finder of his cell phone I could not see the snake. I told him that. He seemed very dejected. "I'll take some photos with my camera and send them to you," I told him. "Would you?" "Great."

Hoping this was not a pygmy rattlesnake or if it was I was hoping this guy, Mark, was not going to be bitten by it, I positioned myself, as best I could to get the two of them in the photo. I took one, Mark didn't have his glasses, couldn't see in my viewfinder. I took another.

Just after the photo session, a woman approached me, seeing the binos around my neck, my long pants, long-sleeved shirt, etc. "Where were you seeing the long-billed curlew today?" she asked. I told her I remember where it was seen a couple of years ago. She smiled. "There are so many people on the beach I doubt it is in this vicinity," I suggested. She agreed and went off in another direction. She told me it had been sighted two days ago. As she left she said, "Nice yellow rat snake." "Yes!" I thought. None of us will be taken to the ER, at least not from this snake.

About then the snake, without the benefit of Mark's attention, uncoiled and started to slither. I guessed it was a climber. "You're right, You're right!" Mark, who talks as if he's in the middle of an emergency situation at all times and not handling it too well, calm as he was with the snake, sort of. The snake climbed the small palm and started up the oak tree. "Take a picture." Mark nearly shouted at me. Dutifully, I took a photo and a few more for good measure.

Mark gave me his e-mail address when I pulled out pen, paper. "Just like my wife." he said. "She carries everything with her." Turns out he lives in Newburyport, MA. He was married in Hellcamp Swamp on Plum Island where I've done a lot of birding over the years. He's a landscaper with 3/4 of an acre and a small white house he bought a year or two ago. "I waited until I knew I could afford it." He's built a huge butterfly garden everyone is amazed at, besides planting a list of plants he rattled off that didn't even sound vaguely familiar. "I love nature" Mark, picked up his snorkle stuff, his white plastic bag that was going to hold the snake while he transported it over to a more snake-friendly environment and headed for the beach where his wife was probably beginning to wonder what had happened to him. "You made my day," he shouted over his shoulder. I smiled and took one last photo of the snake sprawled across the branches of an overhanging tree, out of sight of beach goers.

Gotta go. Gotta pack. FAN

Truce

After some reflection, not a lot, no input from others, I've decided to establish a Moratorium on negative thoughts about Republicans, members of my family or other families, friends, strangers, etc. This isn't going to be easy. I'm not even sure it is possible to accomplish, but I know it is worth trying.

Negative thoughts, expressions, actions, don't help me on my journey. It is easy to be negative. It is easy to find fault with others or oneself. Complaining doesn't go very far toward solving problems. Thinking of solutions, taking positive steps to solve problems makes more sense to me. Stop bitching and do something!

After making this decision earlier today or yesterday or whenever it was, I was walking through the parking lot at Crescent Beach, Siesta Key, this evening. The beach nominated or designated as the Most Beautiful in the contiguous 48 states recently. It's O.K., but I like Katama or any beach on the South shore of the Vineyard as much or more than Crescent Beach. Crescent Beach is certainly wider. The sand is very fine, like powder almost. I like the sand I grew up with on the North Bluff or South Beach or The Bend before it was replenished.

But I digress. Walking through the parking lot with Kay, soon to be 85, Bradford, I spied a bumper sticker that said, "Think of something to do, Do it and Don't Bitch about it." Right On!

Why do I mention Kay's age? Because at almost 85 she is younger than a lot of people I know who are in their 50's or 60's. I wanted to go the the Sunday drumming event, which I've missed each Sunday. About 2 hours before sunset people arrive at the beach, some with drums, some without. Tonight there must have been a couple of hundred people. More dancing than drumming, but you get the picture. Guys in dreadlocks, women in tie-dye. Men with grey hair, women with jangley stuff around their hips doing a little hip-shaking. Young, teens, twenties, men, women, little kids dancing to the beat of all the drums and percussion instruments. Kay and I stood behind a line of drummers who had their back to us facing the dancers.

A policeman brought a beautiful child about 6 with jet black hair in curls though the crowd carrying her on his shoulder. The drums stopped. She was lost. A call went out, "Is anyone missing this child?" No response. The young girl looked over the heads of the dancers, drummers and bystanders. She was not smiling, but she did not look scared or teary. She looked around, no one came forward. Another call, "Is anyone missing a child?" Finally from the direction of the water past the edge of the on-lookers someone emerged and a cheer went up as the young child was reunited with someone. The drumming began again.

Kay and I bounced gingerly up and down to the music. Too many people around us to really dance. The drumming was pretty monotonous, but very tribal too. As the sun began to set for real we walked away from the crowd to see the large red ball sink into the distant ocean. A few people nearby applauded. The drumming continued. Kay and I both wished we had drums. I began thinking about the kids in NY City who beat on plastic pails with anything they can find. That's what I would like to do. Find a good sized empty plaster pail and hit it with a stick. Maybe I'll try that when I get back to NJ or the Vineyard. Why not? The last thing I need is more stuff. A drum? Buy a drum? I don't think so.

Back to being nice, talking nice, writing nice. Being critical or judgmental? Leave that to the professional critics. Constructive criticism can be helpful, but tearing things or people down might feel like fun, but think again. What does it accomplish? Often tearing others apart serves some people's need to make themselves feel better, but is it constructive or destructive? To others? To oneself?

Good Karma. Don't we all want to have Good Karma, not Bad Karma? The old expression, "What goes around comes around." Be good. Do Good.

Be mean. Say bad things. Think negative thoughts. Take negative actions. It all comes back to bite you, as in Bad karma.

So today Kay went to Sunrise Services out in front of the condos by the large swimming pool. I was invited by a couple of people, but I told them not to count on me. I missed the sunrise by a few minutes. I heard the sun rose out of the fog, looking like it was rising out of the water. Too bad I missed that, but missing the services was a positive for me.

Kay had nothing to do today. Everyone, or nearly everyone here has family visiting so they are occupied. I had planned to go to St. Petersburg today on the last day of the Fernando Botero show. When I found out they had a brunch I asked Kay if she would like to go and she was delighted. I'm not one for going to brunches, but the Museum of Fine Arts in St. Petersburg had their brunch in a lovely setting in the foyer. Napkins the color of Easter Eggs. Lots of food choices. It was leisurely and fun.

After brunch, 11:30 to 1:30, very leisurely, we toured the Botero exhibit. I was totally unfamiliar with his "Baroque World." Born in 1932 in Columbia Botero lives in Paris, New York, etc. etc. Plump, stubby figures are peculiar to his style of painting. Easy to see his influences, spelled out for us by the wall signs. Sculptures in bronze, marble kinda smallish, but large paintings. I love his bold colors, but I'd like to read more about him and his art. I'm not an instant fan, even though I admire many of the artists he admires.

After a tour though the permanent collections we took a drive around the marinas, past the SPYC. Lots of large sailboats docked, not moving on a lovely, warm afternoon. As I walked into one gallery in the permanent collection wing, I found myself facing a painting of a woman standing in front of the Harbor View Hotel in Edgartown. That was a nice surprise! The artist, Joseph Konopka. The women, perhaps his wife, painted in 1969. The painting titled, Harbor View. It consists of a large face-on or front view of the Harbor View from the path to the lighthouse. The Hotel almost overpowers the woman in the foreground, at least for me, whose interest was in the Hotel, not the woman. 1969, the year Kennedy went off the Dike Bridge. Who is Konopka? What was he doing there then? Where is he now?

Gotta go. Always too much to do. I haven't cracked the Times. I'd like to get a look at the 6'8" woman basketball player for Baylor. I need to get up early to get to Fort DeSoto in order to catch warbler migration coming in from the Gulf before the beach goers hit the beach, etc. etc. To say nothing about the amount of packing I need to do. Ouch!

But, I've got to say as easy as it was to get into St. Petersburg, it was not easy getting out of St. Petersburg. Kay and I could not find 275 South. We asked fellows wearing t-shirts lettered, Puerto Rico, who consulted with other Spanish-speakers before directing us around corners, down side-streets, a fellow selling papers on the corner who directed us toward the Tropicana Dome or whateverit is, two cops who looked like they were in the middle of a drug bust- two cruisers, two unmarked cop cars outside a house with red flashing lights on the roofs of the unmarked cars, when I shouted, "We're lost. How do we get to 275 South?" The cop's reply, "We're a little busy here." Then he pointed back toward the way we had come, across Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., a fellow, who needed to zip up his fly, directed us down an alley, past the piles of clothes on the sidewalk outside a shelter and St. Vincent de Paul donation center, past a very pregnant woman, men sitting in the shade, until finally we found a sign we eventually led us to 275 South.

After a quick swim in the pool, shower, the drumming, sunset and some expresso chip ice cream for dinner, a load of darks in the washer, now the drier it's been a busy day. I'd like to make these posts shorter and more readable, but I don't have the time. FAN