Before the storm it was 95 degrees and our detention pond was dry.After the storm it was 65 degrees and our detention pond was a trout farm.
9/30/22
Three-fourths of the Earth’s surface is covered by water. Sixty percent of the human body is made of water. The first thing restaurants serve you is water. We can’t get enough of it.
In fact, sometimes we drive way out of our way just to be near it, like when we go to the beach. You don’t even have to swim in it to have a good time. Being close to it is good enough. Sometimes we get so obsessed with water that we buy beachfront property just so we can brag that we have the best view of it. But when the sky pours water on our heads, suddenly we’re not so thrilled with it.
In Florida radar estimates suggest that Hurricane Ian dumped well over 12 inches of rain in just 12 to 24 hours in a wide swath from Port Charlotte to Orlando. In some of the hardest-hit locations, Hurricane Ian produced 1-in-1,000-year rainfall, according to data from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.
Some researchers have even said that this storm was 10 percent wetter due to global warming. But I had a hard time measuring that with my eyes as we drove around The puddles in the road could’ve been 10 percent bigger. But we were too distracted by all the fallen trees, the widened potholes, the many traffic lights that didn’t work, and the riots in the streets to notice.
Well, I can’t honestly saw I witnessed riots. But my neighbor’s son said he witnessed people fighting at the gas station. We went their today (without incident) to get gas for our generator because we still have no electricity and will probably be living in the dark for some time. This is what our power company texted us this morning: “…our first focus is to restore power to critical services. Work in individual neighborhoods will begin after the larger infrastructure is restored or rebuilt.” Translation: “Take a number. We’re working by candlelight too.”
So, dear audience, I ask for your patience during these extraordinary times. I’ve got a lot of debris to clean up. But at least I don’t have a pond in front of my house. My friend Juan, who lives in Orlando, took this photo of his neighborhood. I love the For Sale sign. I can only imagine what the listing description says: “Lovely house for sale. Pool included. Access to pond just steps from your front porch. P.S. During hurricane season your porch may be used as a boat dock.”
Forgive the quality of this post, but I think it’s significant that I write it, even though conditions are less than optimal. Hurricane Ian hasn’t left town yet, but I feel a huge sense of relief as I sit in my rocking chair on my front porch writing this. It’s too dark to write inside the house. Hurricane Ian has left us without electricity and broken a great many things outside the house, but we’re grateful for the light at the end of the tunnel. Thank God.
The wind on my face feels good, even as it splashes me with still falling rain. I’ve had my cereal. Now it’s time to write…but just for a few moments. The storm woke us at various times in the night. We’re exhausted. Ian was ferocious. I can’t believe he’s still here. It’s Thursday afternoon, you bastard. Go away.
I’ve already taken a quick walk around the house. I’m stunned my chainlink fence is broken. And what’s the hood of my chimney doing on the ground?
In the distance I hear sirens. Someone needs help. But really we all do. The sound of a chainsaw follows it. There’s no shortage of tree limbs to cut up. But for now I have to get the generator out of the shed. We’ve got some work to do consolidating the food from two refrigerators into one. Then before night falls, we have to figure out where we’ll be sleeping. We’ve got family nearby, so that shouldn’t be a problem. If the aftermath of this storm is as bad as the storm itself, we may be without power for more days than we’d like.
But for now, the power company has been alerted, everyone is well, and we have a general plan. Best of all, we have the support of family and friends. What more can you ask for at time of crisis? I’ll write when I can, dear audience. You take care now.
The dentist told me to open wide while she readied her instruments.
9/27/22
I woke up in a bad mood. Going to the dentist will do that to me. They always charge too much. Worse than that, they always try to upcharge. But first they compliment you.
“You’ve got lovely teeth. Would you like us to simonize those for you?”
No, I would not. Yesterday the dentist casually mentioned that my bottom front teeth are crooked. First of all, dentists need to come up with another word for “crooked.” I’m not five years old anymore. Second, I’m aware of the current state of my crooked teeth. I’ve passed in front of a mirror a time or two. If I’d have wanted them straightened, I would have scheduled an emergency appointment.
“Hello, dentist? Yes, I need to come in urgently. After 62 years of living with my crooked teeth, I can’t take them for another second. They’re hideous. Of course I can take out a second mortgage on my house. Why do you ask?
So, there I was at the dentist, watching the little TV they’ve set up at the bottom of the chair to distract you into relaxation. Except it’s hard to relax when all those TV stations are showing the same thing: the approach of Hurricane Ian, which is now a Category 4 hurricane.
The guy on the TV announced that the airports and schools are closed, tolls have been suspended, Disney is closing (but only for Wednesday and Thursday), the Artemis moon rocket has been rolled back into its hangar (that thing is never taking off), and…wait. What did he say? Waffle House is closing. Oh, this is getting serious!
My dental hygienist was a nice lady from Pakistan. She told me she was a dentist back in her country but couldn’t get certified here because of all the hoops she had to jump through. I couldn’t help but think that she’s maybe still a little bitter about that, especially when she started jabbing at my gums with that pointy instrument. I don’t know what they call it, maybe the bleeder because that’s what it seems to be used for. Now matter how many times I jerk up in the chair, she keep probing me with it. (Read the room, lady. That hurts.)
She makes small talk with me about the hurricane, about how she’s got to hurry up and get to the store before all the essentials are gone. Now I’m worried that she’s bitter and in a hurry. Bad combination. She’s only lived in Florida for eight years, so she doesn’t have much hurricane experience, she said. I told her about the four hurricanes we lived through in 2004. Now why did I have to go and scare her? I thought I saw her hand shaking after that.
She scraped a bunch of stuff off my teeth, then pointed out to me all the spots that my cleaning routine has overlooked. (Thanks for making me feel like a failure. Can you please take this bib off me, give me my balloon, and let me go home?)
“We’re almost done,” she said.
Have sweeter words ever words ever been invented? (Okay, maybe “we’re done” would top that.) Then she put that candy-flavored polish on my teeth. Now I really feel like a kid.
As she set my next appointment, she mentioned her to-do list for the afternoon, which included walking around her home and hurricane-proofing it by pruning back branches and removing objects that could become projectiles in a high-wind situation. Hurricane Ian’s winds are up to 155 mph in the south Florida area, the roads are clogged with fleeing vehicles, and a few cities have run out of sandbags. But at least my teeth are in tip-top shape.
The YouTube video below shows Lake Monroe while things were still calm yesterday.
We’ve all had it drilled into our heads that if you have an emergency, you should call for emergency services. That’s what the police, and hospitals, and the fire department get paid for, right? Of course. What a “duh” statement. But did you know there are certain situations when you’re not supposed to call for help? I discovered that one night in 2017 as we hunkered down during Hurricane Irma. The storm pounded the neighborhood with fierce wind and rain. But we were safe as long as nothing fell on our house and, of course, if we didn’t go outside. But outside was exactly where we would end up.
We could scarcely believe our ears when we received the call from our neighbors, Bev and Steve.
“We have a fire.”
Yikes. So, instead of one emergency, now they had two. Doesn’t that qualify as double jeopardy or something? We raced out of the house to lend aid. Fortunately, the wind and the rain had slacked off. That’s because the eye of the storm was reported to be passing over us. But there was no telling when that eye would blink, and the storm would rage again.
We spotted our neighbors in their driveway. Steve was holding a garden hose and Bev looked frantic. A powerline had fallen on their back fence. When the wire sparked, wood caught fire. Steve knocked down the fires with the garden hose, but the series of events just kept repeating themselves.
I looked down and found myself standing in a puddle of water in my neighbors’ driveway. Something vibrated being my feet. It felt like electricity, so I moved. Bev told us that she’d called the fire department, but they said it was too dangerous for them to send anybody out.
Too dangerous? Isn’t that what the fire department is supposed to do, face down danger? You know, save people? Steve shouldn’t have had to fight a fire by himself with his garden hose. We were sure there’d been a mistake, so we ran inside the house and called the fire department ourselves.
But we received a similar response. Unbelievable. So, we Googled other numbers. While we did, we saw the following statement on our city’s website: The fire department cannot respond during a hurricane.You mean they’re not allowed? It was news to us. But we couldn’t just stand around and do nothing. And grabbing another garden hose wasn’t the answer. No matter how much water Steve splashed on his fence, the wires kept sparking and starting new fires, even in the drizzly rain. It was a stalemate, one that our neighbors would eventually lose if they didn’t receive help. The eye of the hurricane was passing as we made our calls, which meant the storm was about to intensify. It was time for desperate measures.
You know the saying, “You Can’t Fight City Hall”? Well, we had no intention of fighting city hall, but we could certainly call it. We knew someone who worked there (I can’t say who), someone with some authority. So, we called their home number. We explained the situation. We had a fire on our hands and the people in charge of putting out fires weren’t cooperating with us at the moment.
He assured us that he’d make some calls. We ran back outside to report the news and found that nothing had changed. Despite the increased rainfall, the potential for the fire to jump from our neighbors’ fence to their house remained. Steve continued to employ the garden hose. But how long could he keep that up?
When we saw the fire truck lumber up to the front of the cul-de-sac, we were amazed. Knowing the right people does help! But our happiness was short-lived. The truck seemed in no hurry to approach, no matter how many arms we waved. The storm was picking up momentum, but the fire truck moved in slow motion. Finally, a single firefighter ventured from the truck. We pointed and gestured at the problem. He cupped a hand around his eyes as if he couldn’t see.
“Just walk right down the driveway and you’ll see it.”
But he stopped. Maybe he’d felt the electricity under his feet as I had. Then he took a step or two, craned his neck in the direction of the sparking wire, saw what he needed to see, and walked back to the truck. Apparently, our phone call had only been enough to get someone to take note of the situation. The rules for fighting a fire in a hurricane hadn’t changed.
The fire department cannot respond during a hurricane.
Well, in our case, they had responded. They just hadn’t responded the way we would’ve liked them to have responded. We stared at the truck as it pulled away.
That night we learned the meaning of that old saying about dragging a horse to water but not being able to make it drink. When it comes to hurricanes, rules are rules. I understand, but it still makes you feel very helpless. All those calls we’d made were a waste of time.
And what happened to Bev and Steve’s fence fire? Thankfully, the loose electric wire stopped sparking shortly after the fire truck turned tail and drove off. Maybe the firefighters placed a call for us, or maybe the power company noticed that they were losing power somewhere and flipped a switch.
So, what are we going to do if Hurricane Ian starts a fire tomorrow by our house? Would we make the same calls? Probably. Since 2017, a lot of new power lines have been installed in the neighborhood. I guess it’s time to get the garden hose ready.
In all seriousness, my daughter sent me the TikToc video below about how to tell how dangerous an approaching hurricane is. It’s worth a watch.
We’re used to hurricanes. I’ll never get used to sharks.
9/26/22
Florida is known for hurricanes and sharks. We live in Volusia County, which is the Shark Bite Capital of the World. It’s not the Hurricane Capital of the World, so we’re not that worried about Hurricane Ian. It’s projected to become a hurricane and hit Florida in about two days. But if there’s one thing we’ve learned in our 20 years in Florida, it’s that you can never completely predict what a hurricane will do.
Currently, the storm has winds of 75 mph, but it’s projected to become a Category 4 hurricane with winds that could reach 150 mph. But that’s not a given, nor is the location where it will make landfall. What we do know is that it will approach from the western edge of Cuba before strengthening in the Gulf of Mexico. All of Florida is under a state of emergency because the hurricane could go left, right, or center once it gets close. So, we should evacuate, right? Not so fast. You have to consider the downsides of leaving vs. the downsides of staying.
We thought about leaving town one year, but we stuck it out. That year the hurricane didn’t do much damage, but it did chase all those people who abandoned their homes and headed north on the few highways Florida has. Imagine seeing a hurricane in your rearview mirror as you try to flee while traveling 10 mph. The news was full of stories about horrendous traffic heading out of Florida and about hotels being sold out in every state up the coast.
That’s why we don’t plan to evacuate, and we don’t know anyone else who’s leaving. It’s just too inconvenient. I know it sounds odd to talk about a dangerous storm like it’s an annoying relative coming to visit. But once you’ve lived through a few years of hurricanes, you learn what it takes to endure them, maybe even enjoy whatever time off you get from work or school.
But first you have to prepare for hurricanes. You especially have to prepare for those people who overprepare for them. Approaching hurricanes make Floridians behave in the weirdest ways. They instantly start hoarding grocery-store items, and not the kind of things you’d expect, like canned goods, flashlights, or gasoline. We’ve already seen reports of eggs, water, and toilet paper disappearing from shelves.
But our biggest concern is damage to the house. We’ve had two trees fall down in our yard in the past two months, so I’m grateful they collapsed before a big storm could knock them down. We don’t have that many trees left, so we should be okay. Of course, I’m not counting the giant magnolia tree in our front yard, because if I counted that tree, we’d all be in trouble.
But the magnolia tree is like us. It doesn’t overreact to storms. After 20 years, it’s seen it all. It’s as solid as the new roof we put on the house last month. So, we should be fine. That is, unless we lose power, which is a real likelihood. Our overhead powerlines are no match for a good windstorm, or even squirrels, for that matter. They’re constantly committing suicide by touching our transformers, putting us in the dark.
When that happens, we’ve got no choice but to crank up the gas generator. It can supply enough electricity to power fans, the fridge, and the TVs. But being without electricity for any amount of time is a miserable existence in Florida’s hot and humid weather. Our record for being without power is about 10 days, which occurred in 2004. I’ve tried to block that year completely out of my mind.
We would’ve never left New York if we’d known what was coming our way in 2004. That was the year of Hurricanes Charley, Jeanne, Frances, and Ivan. Four hurricanes hit Florida in six weeks. Ivan hit the Florida Panhandle, but the other three hurricanes decided they wanted to see Disney World, which is on the same track with our house. To this day I’m still finding pieces of roof shingles in the yard. (FYI, as of this moment, Disney has still made no announcement about closing. The Mouse must have a heck of a raincoat.)
If Hurricane Ian is anything like the storms of 2004, let me just say what a pleasure it’s been to share this blog with you. I’ll try to stay on the air for as long as I can. Just watch the news and think of me. I’ll be thinking about sharks.
I stayed up too late. I’ll admit it. I took my phone to bed instead of taking me to bed. I was trying to get on the internet, but the reception is bad in the bedroom. I kept having to move around. I finally ended up in a chair across the room watching Donna sleep and wondering, “Why am I not doing that?”
Too late. The damage is done. I stayed up too late. Now it’s morning time. I’m tired. But Donna is awake. I’ve got to sync up with her. It’s time for me to start making some decisions.
I don’t mean to suggest that I’m in the middle of planning some major life event that requires heavy decision-making. I’m talking about your everyday decisions, including the ones you don’t even know you’re making. Research indicates that we make 35,000 “remotely conscious” decisions a day. Of those, 226 of them are related to food alone.
Decision number one comes at me quickly when Donna asks, “Do you want to go to Cracker Barrel?”
I know, I know. For some of you that doesn’t even qualify as a decision. It’s more of an automatic response. No thinking involved. Oh, of course, you want to go to Cracker Barrel. But that’s not how my brain works. I’ve got 34,999 more decisions to make after this one, so I want to get off on the right foot and make a good decision.
It’s not that I’m indecisive, it’s just that my automatic-response mechanism may be broken. I like to think about my answers, even the ones to the most obvious questions. The gears in my head start spinning. I’m not even sure Donna is aware that a second has passed and I haven’t answered. The TV is on, and it may be distracting her. I spend the time coming up with an answer.
Here’s the conversation I have with myself: “Okay, guys. What’s it going to be? Cracker Barrel or what? What’s in the cupboard? Oh, yeah. I have that Great Grains cereal. It was pretty good yesterday. But that’s a pretty selfish thing to focus on. She’s asking if YOU want to go out, which means SHE wants to go out. What’s that thing that I’m automatically supposed to do when she indicates she wants something? Oh, yeah. Now I remember, I’m supposed to give her what she wants.”
I answer before too much time has slipped off the clock and Donna hits me with a delay of game penalty.
“Sounds good. Whatever you want.”
She seems satisfied for the moment, so I get up to start my day while she stays in bed to finish watching that TV show that’s distracted her. But just as soon as I start moving around, my body starts talking to me. “Feed me,” it says, just like that plant in Little Shop of Horrors. My usual routine is to grab a bowl of cereal the second I pop out of bed. It provides me with that instant burst of energy that other people get from coffee.
Some people may consider cereal a child’s kind of breakfast, but I don’t eat the real sugary stuff, so I don’t feel too guilty. Great Grains cereal is fine with me, and my effort at self-sufficiency allows Donna to get some extra rest while I start my writing routine. When she gets up, no more than half hour later, she’ll usually make herself some coffee. Sometimes she’ll make breakfast. That’s when I’m faced with my second decision of the day: Do I indulge in a second breakfast? That one’s more or less an automatic response. You know I’m going to say yes.
But for today, I have to tell my inner plant monster, “Shut up. I can’t feed you cereal today. We’re going out to breakfast.”
Cracker barrel here we go. But first I have to decide what to wear. I burn about 1,000 decisions on that. All the decisions that go into driving and parking burn off another few thousand. Finally, I have to make a menu choice. I go with the build-your-own breakfast. Lots of decisions go into that. I pick something that’s not too heavy on calories, about 1,000 vs. the 500 I would’ve consumed if I’d of had my cereal. But I’m happy with my efficient use of decisions so far. I’m way under the estimated 35,000 decisions that I’m supposed to burn through.
Home at last. Time to sit at the computer and get this blog post out. Oh, boy. There goes my allotted decision budget. Each word is a decision. And when you count the words I delete and multiply that by the number of times I delete them, I think I’m way over 35,000 decisions.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve always been exceptional.
A memorable moment can happen at anytime, like hearing a song or catching a breeze off the water.
9/24/22
On a balmy night, as I sat in my car parked off Lake Monroe, I turned off the engine and listened to the silence. No bad, I thought. I should do this more often.
I had driven Donna to Sanford to show a condo to some friends. I love being her chauffeur. It makes me feel important. But when she went upstairs, I stayed behind in the car. (Sometimes I go with her on a showing, sometimes I don’t.) I played with my phone, but, as usual, the battery was dying. So I abandoned it and started listening to the silence, until it wasn’t silent anymore.
A trumpet has a distinct sound, so when I heard it, there was no mistaking it for anything else. Enclosed in my car, I tried to make out the song. Someone was cranking up the volume on one of their favorite tunes, and I wanted to get in on it. I opened the door for a better listen. The trumpet sound hesitated, then hit me like a breeze, delivering the coolest sensation.
I wondered if I was listening to someone playing live, a soloist sitting high up above my head on a balcony, just letting it fly. I listened closer and heard nothing but the trumpet. No vocalist, no bass, no background instruments. It had to be live, except the music was so smooth. No flubs or restarts. Just a rendition of a song I couldn’t place. I began to walk toward the sound. It was coming from the water.
The building I was parked outside of butts against the Sanford Riverwalk, and there on the corner, right by the water, I identified the location of the trumpet sound that was killing me softly. I followed it to an outdoor seating area, where I saw a few people moving their heads. And then I saw the trumpet player. He sat at one of the tables, set off to the side, with his back against a pillar, him and his trumpet taking up all the space in the world.
The marquee about the area read, “Executive Cigar,” so I wondered if he was a paid performer. But his song ended just as soon as that thought had begun. I raised my hands and clapped, to which he raised a thumb. But he didn’t raise the trumpet again. I waited. Still nothing. Bummer. What a short concert. Just one unnamed song but played so smoothly, like a song from Earth, Wind & Fire or Kool & The Gang or Chicago.
I’ve always been a sucker for that trumpet sound. Maybe that’s why I love the group Cake so much. Cake is an alternative rock group, and their songs almost always include the funkiest trumpet player I’ve ever heard. The YouTube video below is for a song called Short Skirt/ Long Jacket. The moderator of the video plays the song for people in the streets to get their reaction. My favorite quote is from the guy who says, “How much is this? I’ll take two.” It’s a funny video.
Cake also does this great rendition of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps. You should all know that one. It was written by Osvaldo Farres in 1947 as Quizás, Quizás, Quizás and sung by a million people in Spanish and in English—people like Desi Arnaz, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Ben E. King, and Doris Day. I’ve included Cake’s YouTube video for that one too.
I’m so glad I got to hear that trumpet in the night, even if was just for one unnamed song. But if I had to give it a name, it would’ve been “Just for You.” And it was.
We got together with Jack and Shelley at Genuine Bistro & Lounge in DeBary.
9/23/22
Ever hear a movie described as a feel-good movie? People talk about feeling good all the time, but how do you get to that state if you’re not presently in it? Sometimes we don’t feel good at all (emotionally or physically) and could really use a feel-good moment. Big hugs work wonders for providing that sense of satisfaction. But what else works?
People saying “thank you” or a random act of kindness from a stranger
Snuggling on the sofa with a loved one
Doing something for others
The clean feeling after a shower
When your favorite song comes on the radio
Talking to or playing with your pet
Rainbows
Doing exercise
But the most obvious simple thing that makes me happy wasn’t on their list: having a good conversation with friends. Donna and I were fortunate to have had the best lunch and the best conversation yesterday with two good friends, Jack and Shelley. As a realtor, Donna meets a lot of people, some memorable, some completely forgettable. Jack and Shelly are in a category all by themselves, and we treasure our time with them.
As usual, they wowed us with remarkable stories! They’re big fans of my blog and zinged me right away with a million puns about the blog post I’d written on coincidences? “What a coincidence to see you guys. We were just thinking about you.”
They hammed it up pretty good. I think they knew they’d end up in my blog. (Some people have no fear of notoriety.) Jack immediately launched into a coincidence-inspired story, although it’s really about providence. He talked about Sister Sheila, a nun that he and Shelley had once known in the 1990s (Shelley had worked with her in Florida). But 10 years had passed since they’d last seen her.
One day, on the way to visit their daughter in Pennsylvania, Jack and Shelley see a woman walking on the shoulder of the road. The resemblance to Sister Sheila is too much to ignore, so they pull over to discover that the pedestrian is indeed Sister Sheila.
Jack and Shelley are surprised and ask her what she’s doing way out in the middle of nowhere. Sister Sheila tells that she’s there to attend a silent retreat.
Oops. That conversation must’ve been a little awkward, like, “Yeah, well, I’m not supposed to talk, you know, because of the whole vow of silence thing. But since you kind of ruined that already, I’ll answer whatever other questions you have.”
As Jack and Shelley are engaged in this conversation with their old friend (I’m sure it was a feel-good moment for them), Jack good-naturedly exclaims what a coincidence it is to run into her. Sister Sheila has other choice but to correct him (with a stern face, Jack said).
“There are no coincidences.”
I guess the moral of Jack’s story is that if you ever encounter a nun walking along a dusty road in the middle of nowhere and she tells you that there are no coincidences, you should take her at her word.
But Jack saved his best story for last, the story about his Vespa, the one he drove to and from school (28 miles roundtrip) when he was 14. That’s Jack in the black-and-white photo with his sister Peggy Anne. He had eyes on the Allstate Cruisair model from the moment he saw it in the Sears window. He also knew that getting it for Christmas would be a long shot. But he imagined it happening anyway. No more taking the city bus or his well-worn bike to school. It was a lot to pray for, considering that it cost about $350 and that his parents had safety concerns. But the photo doesn’t lie. Jack got his wish. His parents found a way to pay for the Vespa. As far as their safety concerns, I’ll let Jack finish the story in his own words.
“One time, when Dad and Mother were at “The Old Spot,” the neighborhood watering hole; Dad overheard a man at the bar describing a morning experience he enjoyed. He told the story of seeing two little kids riding down the Orange Blossom Trail. He vividly told of how the boy driving the scooter had his little sister on the buddy seat, behind him, and how the little girl hung on with her arms around his waist. The man, Bill Dewall, told how he would drive behind the two and make sure they made it safely as far as he went. He spoke tenderly and with amazement and Dad let him talk, obviously enjoying the story, and then, at the appropriate time, proudly announcing, “those are my kids!” I always knew that God surrounded us with his guardian angels.”
And that’s why having a conversation with good friends is my number one way to enjoy the simple things in life.
In July I mailed a package to a friend. The post office returned it to me yesterday. Where has it been since it left my hands? That was 81 days ago. That seems like a super long time for the post office to hold onto something mailed locally (to someone in my same state). I’ll contact my friend and let him know that the package came back to me, even though I’m sure I addressed it exactly the way he instructed me to. I’ll have to peel off the RETURN TO SENDER stamp to see. Huh? Return to Sender is an Elvis song, isn’t it?
“Returned to sender…address unknown…no such number…no such zone….”
I could’ve sworn I was singing that song yesterday. Isn’t that weird? But let’s put that out of our heads for a minute. The package has been gone for 81 days, which is the square of 9 and the fourth power of 3, which is my favorite number. Shut your mouth.
But let’s put that out of our heads for a minute. What I found truly weird was that right before I walked into the house last night, as I was driving home from dinner, I thought to myself, “Whatever happened to that package I mailed to [blank]?” (I’ve blanked out his name because I don’t want to upset him by mentioning him in a post. Some people can’t handle notoriety.) I hadn’t thought about that package in 81 days. I had literally dropped it in the mailbox and forgotten about it. So why was it suddenly in my head, mere minutes before it showed up on my doorstep? What’s going on?
Are we talking about some random coincidence? Webster’s defines a coincidence as “the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to have some connection.” Connection makes it sound like I wished for the package to show up at that moment. The package was on its way back long before I thought about it. The coincidence is that the package was on my mind right before I laid eyes on it again, like it had called out to me to prepare me. I didn’t create the event through some unknown power. I didn’t will the package to be there. The package was in charge of the moment. It notified ME about its presence, like some kind of otherworldly delivery confirmation service.
Ding dong. Your package has arrived after an 81-day detour to the great beyond sorting station. No signature is required.
In my mind that not only qualifies the moment as a coincidence but a huge coincidence, if we think about coincidences as purely mathematical. For example, you may have heard the question, “How many people need to be in a room before there’s a 50/50 chance that two of them will share the same birthday.” The answer is 23. But calculating the odds of anything more complicated than a birthday match is almost impossible.
But let’s put that out of our heads for a minute, even though I would definitely say that my coincidence falls into that impossible-to-calculate-the-odds-for category. I know, I know. It sounds like I’m bragging, like I willed this thing to happen with my amazing X-Men abilities. But science says that coincidences are in the eye of the beholder. Our egos are the thing that decides when we’ve just experienced a coincidence. We’re the ones who determine whether something rare has happened to us or not.
I’ve referred to my coincidence as weird, but some people may find it less surprising. It’s like the way we feel about dreams. The odds of you being as fascinated by a dream that I had last night are pretty low, I would imagine. Donna might be a little fascinated, but the rest of you just want to know what I’ll be writing about tomorrow. FYI, you’re just going to have to wait and see. (Boy, wouldn’t that be a crazy coincidence if someone guessed correctly, when even I know what I’ll be writing about?)
Maybe it’ll be a post about my friend thinking about the meaning of coincidences at the same time that I was writing about coincidences. Speaking of my friend, it occurs to me that I haven’t heard from him in a bit. Yikes! I better find out if he’s okay. I’m also going to do some research to see if the post office has invented some new ESP delivery confirmation service.
Seeing him was like seeing a more colorful version of Bigfoot.
I’ll never forget what I saw.
9/21/22
If you’re not familiar with my Modelo Man story (the story is so old it was first written in hieroglyphics), please take a moment to get acquainted with it. The YouTube video below tells the story set to photographs of NYC’s subway system. I’ll wait until you’re done.
One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…. All caught up? Great. Let’s move on.
Writing about the NYC subway system comes easy to me. I guess that’s because it was the only transportation I used when I was growing up. My parents never drove me or my siblings to school. So, the only time I didn’t take the subway was when we lived close enough to walk to school (grades 1 through 6 for me). After that I became a subway warrior. (I only attempted to sneak past the turnstiles once and was promptly detained by a police officer who informed me that a life of crime wasn’t for me. I took his advice.)
In addition, I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 21, so I went on dates all over the city using the subway. New Yorkers think nothing of hopping the train. Six days ago, the subway set an all-time ridership record, 3.7 million riders in one day. The system itself has over 665 mainline track miles, which laid end to end would stretch from NYC to Chicago, and nearly 7,000 train cars.
The point of all the numbers is to demonstrate what a rare day it was when I saw the Modelo Man (of all the 7,000 train cars I could’ve walked into). It was May 23, 2022, and I was in NYC for a reunion with my 1980s softball buddies, the fearsome Outlaws. Donna and I had flown into town the day before just as the news was breaking about the random subway shooting death of 48-year-old Daniel Enriquez, a Goldman Sachs executive. Leading up to that shooting, the NYC subway system was plagued with violent crime, including an incident where a woman met her death when she was shoved onto the train tracks and another where 16 people were injured when someone set off two smoke bombs inside a subway car and started shooting.
And then there was the Modelo Man, whose appearances in the subway probably never made the news, but a more odd character I’ve never set eyes on. He broke the law in his own unique way. Although drinking alcohol on the subway is illegal, the punishment probably isn’t severe. But what do you charge a guy with for simultaneously drinking six Modelo beers? It was an impressive feat, as was the fuchsia suit the Modelo Man wore.
At first my retinas couldn’t process what looked like a man in a pink suit. I couldn’t get over the bold color, which I identified later as fuchsia, which is darker than pink with purple undertones. And the matching fedora atop his head was beyond stylish. It was blogworthy. (When I got back from NYC, I immediately launched my blog.) I only wish I’d taken a photo, but the spectacle froze me. A man is a fuchsia suit drinking a six-pack of Modelo while trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube will do that to you. But no one was looking at him except me. Was it because subway riders have a warped sense of reality from spending so much time underground?
That day on the subway, I saw how many extra police there were on the platforms. I knew they’d be gone in a few weeks but not the Modelo Man. He’ll be out there forever. He’s achieved legendary status with me (and if he’s an accountant in real life, I don’t ever want to know). I just want to picture him riding the subway for as long as I can, bottle of beer in one hand, a Rubik’s Cube in the other, a figure stuck in time, turning no one’s head but mine.
