I hated getting phone calls from my Florida friends and relatives. They started innocently by asking what the weather was like here. Usually, their calls occurred during a New England snowstorm or blizzard. Oh, those folks who moved to Florida were so cunning. After reluctantly telling them it was 20 degrees below and we got 24 inches of snow, they would say to me in a sing-song voice, "Well, it's 82 degrees here, and I'm sitting by the pool with a nice glass of iced tea". They would also refer to "watching the palm trees sway in the gentle breeze." Well, let me tell you, I bought into their sales pitch and moved to Florida. Now I feel I must tell you the truth, not only about the weather but about the other "residents."
In November 2003 I packed up my car and, with my sister's help, we drove to Florida. After we crossed the Florida state line, we went to a welcome center. The sun shone through the palm trees. We got a free glass of orange juice and looked at the tons of brochures describing the wonder and beauty of every square inch of Florida. Birds chirped as if on cue while we walked to our car. I was high on the anticipation of life in Paradise - until I arrived at my niece's house in Port St. Lucie. We made the stop before heading to my brother's house in South Florida. Nancy's home should have had a huge sign out front "Debriefing Center."
Nancy had a lovely house with a big yard. She escorted us to the 'lanai', which apparently means "patio with pastel cushions and white wicker furniture." Oh, those clever Floridians had fancy words for everything, I would later learn. We sipped some iced tea, and Nancy offered to take us for a walk around the outside of her house to see her plants, and "oh, don't step on any ant hills," she said. How sweet, I commented, her concern for living things. "No, there are red ants, and if you step on the hill, they'll crawl up your legs and attack you." I stopped in my tracks as Nancy continued to point out hibiscus plants to my sister. For the rest of my time in Florida, I would walk everywhere with my head down terrified of these evil little beings making a snack out of my legs. Nancy was explaining how her dog runs around in the yard. "It must be a pain to clean up after him," I said. "No. Dung beetles deal with that". Dung beetles? I glanced at the cat‘s food bowl. There was a half inch wide, nine-foot-long trail of ants, not the evil ones, leading from outside the lanai into the cat food bowl. I pointed it out to Nancy. "Oh," she chuckled, "we can't leave any food down because the ants get at it." What I want to know is this: how did the ants know in less than five minutes, and what must have been to them a long distance, was a tasty treat? Is there anything more frightening than intelligent bugs? That night, I had nightmares about welt-covered legs, genius ants with GPS units attached to their belts and industrious dung beetles in janitors' uniforms, feasting on pet waste and smoking cigarettes.
The next day, I arrived at my final destination, my brother Mike's house. I mentioned my nervousness about bugs. "Oh, those are just some critters. Wait until you see the Palmetto bugs." What a pretty name, I thought. Maybe they look like butterflies, with colorful wings flying around. My brother laughed when I mentioned this. I was first introduced to one while trying to help the neighbor's cat down from a tree. Some black oval disc the size of a brooch landed on my arm, and I brushed it off. I was glad it was dark out. I mentioned the incident to Mike. "That was a Palmetto bug." Another encounter took place when I was sweeping the living room floor. I saw what appeared to be a small black sock in one corner. When I approached it, I realized it was another Palmetto bug. Luckily, it was dead. I told Mike about it. "Ya, it flew in, and I killed it." Flew in? The bastards can fly! This one was so big you could strap a saddle on it and ride it to work.
But this would not be the end to my up close and personal account of what I now call the Critter State. As I walked Mike's dog, Bowser, different critters would jump out and run across the sidewalk. To my credit, I stopped screaming after the ninth time it happened. Some of these critters were geckos. Now, I have to say I liked the geckos. Maybe it was the car insurance commercial with that cute talking one that softened my heart to them. But what I liked most about them is that they feared me and didn't attack me or my cat's food or waste. Those criteria helped me to enjoy the small tree frogs I would see in the doorway at night. The same little silver-green one would appear near the door each night, with a one-eyed, cheerful wink as if to say, "Hey, how'd work go today, Ruth?". I named him Willy. It saddened me when one day he disappeared, replaced by a big, ugly bullfrog, the size of a large orange, who had a mean, pissed off look on his warty face. He would glare at me as if to say, "So, I ate your friend Willy. Wanna make somethin' out of it?". Mike further educated me that these frogs have poison on their back. What joy!
I figured there just couldn't be any more critter surprises left. I was wrong. I forgot about mosquitoes. Now, we have mosquitoes up north, but these Florida ones are a lot more clever. One night I made the mistake of walking home with a sleeveless blouse on. I counted 22 mosquito bites on my left arm only. How do you think they decided just to bite one arm? That night I dreamed there was a mosquito party. They all sat around a cocktail bar passing around tiny bottles labeled "Stupid Yankee blood, 2004, left arm". And it left yet another pest, um, a critter to encounter. The aptly named no-see-um. I do not know if this is the official name of this tiny flying bug. I know they travel in packs and enjoy invading your eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and hair. A swarm splattered me one afternoon when I went bike riding. Looking in the bathroom mirror later, I looked like I had the black measles.
I've written a lot about Florida critters; now it's time to expose Florida weather. It is, for most months in Florida unbearably hot. You could emerge freshly showered, step out of your air-conditioned house and within 60 seconds you will produce a gallon of sweat and return to your pre-showered state. Air conditioning in Florida is like oxygen in space: it is necessary for your survival. Maybe your happy little Florida friends will chit-chat about the beautiful weather during a few winter months, but I suggest you call them in August and ask them how long they spent outdoors that day. If they say anything longer than five minutes, they're lying. I called my friends back north when I was wearing shorts on Christmas day, not to brag but to lament about it not feeling like Christmas. There is just something wrong and unholy about wearing shorts on Christmas day.
Also, it doesn't rain properly in Florida. I drove down a highway one time, with perfectly blue skies. Within seconds a torrential rain poured down. It rendered my wipers on their highest speed useless. I had to pull over until it stopped because I couldn't see. Other drivers seemed used to it, calmly driving along. I thought the world was ending. As quickly as it came in, the rain left, and the sky was blue again as if the cloudburst never happened.
Oh, don't forget about the hurricanes. Florida gets them often. I experienced four. What gets me about them is the places that have tracking maps so you can track exactly when your home and possessions will blow away. I would stay up all night alone watching the weather–Mike worked the night shift–and waiting to see if I needed to evacuate. Mike's home had metal shutters that covered all the windows. It could be night, day, sunny, raining outside but I wouldn't know. I felt like a can of tuna.
I gave up on Florida after a year. I cried tears of joy when I drove through the state line of New Hampshire. Today, I happily watch it snow, offering to shovel entire driveways and smile as I chop four inches of thick ice off my windshield. I can take frostbite in winter and an occasional bug or two in summer. Florida, you can keep your heatstroke and evil critters.
