There was an article today on
page 24A of the Milwaukee Journal/Sentinel headlined “Obama wins Florida in
close final tally.” Five days after the presidential election, Florida finally
finishes it’s count. This is in an age of computer tabulation and instant
results. In years past I would have viewed this with a bit of derision,
commenting on Florida as a “third-world” state. But the parts of Florida we
like are not really in the first world--they are part of the Caribbean. You are
on island time. It is a different ethic. Normal is far from it, and it’s the
reason we put up with 51 weeks in Wisconsin, so we can be there for one week in
October. But I digress. This week other things came to light that cause me to
realize I should not throw stones.
In a bid to refinance, the
bank sent an assessor to our beloved 1882 Queen Anne. Head shaking, this arbiter
of value proclaimed “you live in a duplex. Nobody wants a duplex.” Considering the tone of his voice he
could have been saying “trailer home.” The reclaimed tin ceiling—meh. The
$15,000 new roof? “So what--I don’t like the looks of the 15-year-old cedar
shingles on the turret.” In short, we won‘t be refinancing, at least not with
those guys. Hey y’all, watch this.
 |
| Fully loaded dog-bus |
Jumping ahead to today, Dan
is outside running the gas out of our 30 year-old motorcycle. Our newest car is
10 years old with 127,000 miles. Our best car is 18 years old with 122,000
miles and is stored every winter. Dan chooses to drive a winter beater, a 1995
Aspire, with the back seat removed. He added a cheap faux Oriental rug from
Hobo to help the dogs keep traction. The car refuses to idle and won’t go over
65. The dogs ride shotgun with Dan on errands and to the gym, always hoping
with canine optimism that all trips will end at the dog park. I shake my head
as Dan drives away in a 2086-lb car with 200 lbs of Doberman (250 if he has
picked up Finn, the neighbor’s neurotic Yellow Lab), rolling down the street in
what is affectionately and mercifully labeled, The Dog Bus.
I have driven enough trash in
my life that, with rare exceptions (sorry Ashley), I refuse to drive it. I have
driven cars that had home-made sunroofs. Strings you needed to pull to engage
the choke. I refuse to ride in Dan’s pride and joy (our fourth car), his
53-year-old Ranchero with the solid steel dash and aftermarket lap belts. Once
I had earned a college degree or two, I was done driving crap. But the crap is
in our four car garage and I pay the registration and insurance. In short, I
fund and enable Dan’s latent White Trash habit.
When we moved from the “Sout’
Side” we made a conscious effort to leave the vernacular of that part of town
behind us. “Aina hey” was a term we grew up with and was used by beloved relatives. We taught our boys to say “that” and “there”; not “dat” and
“dere”. While we reject much of the sout’ side legacy, we are acutely aware of
one differentiator. Dan’s dad, a plumbing contractor who is still working as he
approaches 80, told us when we moved from the Sout’ Side to Tosa: “North of
Bluemound Road you are The Help,
and you will not be offered a soda or coffee or a glass of water. South of
Bluemound Road you are a peer, and you will be offered a sandwich or a coffee
or whatever. Remember.” Since
moving to Tosa, we have honored this, much to the surprise of more than a few
contractors. Dan restocked the huge cooler daily as nine workers stripped six
layers of roof off our three story home (two 30-yard dumpsters) and installed a
pristine roof that would be looked at as worthless just two years later.
So, as I sit here trying to
find a point to this blog, I need to ask: Are we defined by our degrees? Our
zip codes? What we drive? Our ability to not end a sentence in a preposition?
No, we are judged on how we treat each other. By how much we can laugh with our
friends (especially about ourselves.) Do I want to throw stones at Florida’s
inability to count votes? Not anymore (um, OK, maybe just a little). Some of
our best friends hold opposing views, but we love them and I Just Don’t
Care. My brother (and Dan’s brother) passed too soon and we learned from that.
I refuse to let crap get in the way of us having fun in the days, weeks, months
and years we have left on this far-too-cold rock.
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