We're All Bridgtenders...

 

 

This was the old Vilano Bridge before it got replaced by that high arch bridge on the right. It's a fishing pier now, dotted with concrete benches along the walk out to the end. Hard coquina stations that accommodate sun-fried anglers during the day and homelessness wrapped in soiled layers, at night.

Seagulls fight over the detritus both leave behind.

That oversized Bluebird of Happiness behind us is in training to be a Walmart greeter. Living successfully for many years at the infamous Magic Hotel, up the street, the Bluebird eventually became homeless himself. Life’s twists, turns, and a pickup truck, brought him to reside here, with his peeps.

During the 1990’s, with good friends who lived a few blocks away, we often spent weekends hanging out at their house or at Vilano Beach. A Steve Earl/ Lucinda Williams soundtrack, beer, seafood, beer. The kids spent endless hours in shallow pools, dark browning like so many water chestnuts bobbing in frothy waters.

One Saturday, when the girls decided to spend the night, I went home alone, beer coursing through my veins, driving an old Subaru with my sound system cranked up to “wow!”.

There was less focus on the evils of drinking and driving back then, and I was less focused on that day.

Steve and the Dukes were knee deep in snakes on Copperhead Road when the old bridge traffic bells joined in, clanging out a high harmony. The entire road in front of me started to rise, just a few feet, but enough for me to see the water below. I saw how the raised tarmac would decapitate me on the way down.

The bridge came to a jarring stop that shook my car like an earthquake. Turning down Steve and the boys, I heard more of the alarms screaming at me and saw the manic waving of the bridge tender in the big aluminum windows of his observation tower over the roadway.

Apparently, I’d driven past the crossing gates just when they were closing, as they were then, behind me. The bridgetender saw me too late…he had already pushed the “rise” button on that old vertical lift bridge. Panicking, he immediately slammed the “stop” switch.

Everything shuttered and froze, including me.

I took a breath, the bridge and bridgetender took a breath, and a few seagulls who had briefly frozen in mid-flight, became liquid on their breeze once again.

Bridge locked down tight, traffic arms up, all green lights…I slowly started driving. Driving and breathing.

Leaving Copperhead Road in the rear-view, I invited Louis Armstrong to sing me his version of “It’s a Wonderful World” as we drove home…he did, and it was.

Still is.

 

Chromesthesia …

My favorite “Desert Island Classic” … just the ticket for this kick-back, take me back, afternoon. I embrace and identify with this music as much as any, much more than most.

When they drop me on that desert island, challenged to survive on my own from that point forward, I’ll need a few things: A solar turntable, speakers that I can move around, and an original vinyl copy of the Derek and the Dominoes “Layla” album, oh, and maybe a nice grape Nehi.

Al Wheeler, a college roommate who was never my roommate, turned me on to the album in 1970. Everyone had to pay for a room on campus to reimburse the college for the new dorms they built, but Al rented a place in town too, so I had a private room.

“Layla” played in rotation for months at my place. Occasionally some of us would go over to Al’s for more of the same. He lived on the second floor of a huge old Victorian with several cavernous rooms defined by 12-foot ceilings that framed art gallery walls that showcased their peeling plaster. Each chip, like a concave half peach in an archaeological dig, revealed color from an earlier time, conjuring images of homeowners of an era now known only in old stories and history books.

It was a great place. Al’s small kitchen was more than enough for him, the rooms all tall, bright, and breezy…and somewhat surprisingly, the toilet worked. It was an oasis, an escape from the paranoia that was a very real part of life in North Alabama fifty years ago.

That Layla album played 24-7 over there too. We crushed up some Mescaline, shaking it violently into large bottles of cheap wine, a necessary staple that fueled epic paint parties. Chromesthesia, sound becoming color, was responsible for turning that music into memories that have become welcome kaleidoscopic flashbacks.

My faded T-Shirt shapeshifts into an amazing technicolor dream coat, a time machine and painter’s smock, with the first seven notes of Clapton’s opening riff.

I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now...

 

2016,  Flagler Hospital ICU

In and out of consciousness, blood clots were doing their best to kill me. Pain from no longer having blood flow freely through my body, was excruciating. Everything was shutting down. Clots backed up at an IVC filter in my chest like traffic at the Mexican border. They stretched down into my legs which were swollen to twice their normal size and looked like they were going to split open. My kidneys, and everything else, were blinking out, as clots populated downward. Blocked traffic became a parking lot, no movement.

It was as if my life was on a dimmer switch and someone was turning it down, way down, until the light was almost out, and I had no control at all.

Although I had always assumed that I would live into my late 80’s or 90’s as my parents had, I was OK with the very real possibility of imminent death, but then every three hours a nurse came in and injected a dose of morphine into my drip line. The pain immediately drifted away as I floated above it all, untouchable.

No wonder some people become addicted to that stuff.

Even more comforting than the morphine though? Knowing that Carla was close by, working in the hospital and that either Ruth or Hannah were right there in the ICU room with me the whole time. They slept on the couch. That meant everything to me, even though I had told them not to come. “I’m in good hands and there is nothing more that you can do.” I said.

I was wrong.

All my life I’ve prided myself on being independent. A rock. I didn’t want to lean on anyone. I’ll take care of myself. It was fine for me to be the dad or husband, in charge, caring for my family, but not the other way around.

The whole experience changed me, opened me up. It’s been different since then. I’ve accepted the fact that it’s a two-way street, we give and take. I took care of them when they were young and now they can begin to return the favor. I’m fine with that. Ruth, Hannah or Carla can share driving duties, literally and figuratively. I’m happy to sit in the back seat. I don’t always have to be in charge.

The girls are beginning to understand that they’ve created a monster though. As it is with the dogs, it can be hard to get me out of the car.

I’ve learned that sometimes, the back seat is the most comfortable seat in the house.

 

Meaning of Life...

 

At the end of my days, as I lie in a hospital bed with only a few hours left before I'm called to leave the building, the question may be asked:

“After all these years, what was the best part? Is there one single moment in your long journey that immediately pops up and comes to mind?”

Certainly, you would expect me to speak with great love for my daughters, my wife, maybe some of those wonderful dogs along the way… But as my family is gathered bedside in hushed silence, somber and hanging on every word I manage to get out, I would have to say:

“That piece of Salmon I had for breakfast on July 4th, 2001. It was fresh caught, wild. Lightly dusted with Paul Prudhomme Seafood Magic, and fried in olive oil with the help of my Grandmother’s cast iron pan. Drizzled with a squeeze of fresh lemon, I can almost taste that crispy skin, so fat with flavor, layered, luscious flaky bites of delicious Salmon that transitioned into the very rare center, almost like sushi, creamy and exquisite.”

“Oh, and Carla, you Ruth and Hannah are wonderful. Please tell the dogs I said goodbye. But man, I wish I still had a picture of that Salmon to show you guys before I go!”

-----------------------------------

Fade out.

 

Rebirth…

 

Thomas Wolfe may have said “You can never go home again”, but in memory and dreams, we do it all the time.

Quite often, we wish we could go back and relive part of our life again, knowing what we know now.

With every new day, a rebirth, we are given that chance.

Screaming through the glass doors, first sun silhouettes slats on a bench, casting sharp lines across my legs, dressing me in striped prison garb as I stand here looking East over the water, hypnotized by the distant tree line, its hair ablaze with the fire of sunrise.

Reflected prisms quiver on the ceiling in multicolored chaos, like wine glasses joyfully smashed overhead to help me celebrate the moment.

A new day.

Dogs on short leashes pull and strain as they burrow into the uncut grasses that surround the lake’s smooth tonsure. Faint recollections of ancient lives, filled with drama, cause them to lift their noses into the shellfish breezes, fueling that familiar wish for total freedom…an unfettered life that they happily distain in exchange for the pleasures of their somewhat monotonous comfort.

I understand.

They know now to avoid the front end of the snake. To gobble down quickly whatever rotted deliciousness they find, before I have a chance to stop them.

I avoid people and situations that could be toxic, but too frequently jump at the opportunity to devour things that I probably shouldn’t.

Moderation in all things, including moderation, right?

Excited for the reboot that is each new day, I’ve learned how to do it all over again, but better.

The one unshakable quality carried from then to now is gratitude. No need to go back for that, it’s always present.

A celebration of life.

It's a very short ride, revel in the moment, bask in the sunshine.

Enjoy this new day... you just got your wish.