Hometown? Hmmm

“Where are you from?” a new friend asked my visiting cousin.

“How far back do you want me to go?” was my cousin’s response. He was born in one city, went to college in another, and lived in two other cities where he did graduate work before settling in the Midwest 40-odd years ago. So where is he from? His multiple moves are par for many, including me. I have two states and several areas within those states that I refer to as, "hometown," depending on the questioner.

After my brother’s and my families moved to the same area on Long Island in the 60’s, a mutual new friend said to me, “I thought you and George were brother and sister?”

Since we are, his question made no sense, and I said so. He replied that my brother said he was from Brooklyn, whereas I claimed Queens as my home. We moved out of Brooklyn when Big Bro was ready for college, but I still had Junior High and High School to attend. Hence, I consider Brooklyn as my place of birth, but Queens, where I spent my teens and college years as the place where I'm from.

I’ve been in South Florida for over half my life. My sons grew up here. Florida is one of the states like California where many people my age were born somewhere else. Occasionally I meet folks who were actually born here—occasionally. Yes, they are true natives. But what should I answer when asked where I’m from? The place I lived for 30 years before I moved South, or South Florida, the place I lived for over half my life? A comic who entertained in my development a few weeks ago settled the issue for me.

“You’re a native Floridian,” the comic told his audience of retirees,” if you were here before I-95.

Those in the audience like Hubby and me who qualified as Floridians according to his definition howled. The others had a blank look on their faces. They were clueless that all the interstates weren’t in South Florida until around the turn of the century—just a bit more than ten years ago, right around the time many in the audience relocated south.

When we moved here in ’73, from Long Island I was amazed that Florida was not crisscrossed with highways and parkways as the tri-state area of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut was. The last “rail” of I-95 that connected the northern part of the country to South Florida was completed about ten years after we arrived. I-75, wasn’t complete until around 15 years ago. Florida’s turnpike extensions to bring it to the tip of our peninsula shaped state also weren’t complete until long after our arrival.

I have friends that won’t drive on an expressway—and some hail from Manhattan and never owned a car until they retired! To me, driving for 45 minutes on a highway is as easy as walking across a room. Learning to enter and exit highways was part of my driver’s ed. Did all the years of accepting bumper to bumper traffic for hours until I reached my destination—usually work or visiting “nearby” relatives, zooming onto an expressway at 50 mph to merge with traffic prepare me to view an hours drive as “nothing?” Yes. And I definitely didn’t pick up those skills in Florida. There were no highways here when we arrived. I brought them with me, along with the attitude that a 30-minute trip doesn’t require an overnight stay.

So, when asked where I’m from, I may answer South Florida, but my driving ability and outlook as to what constitutes a “long drive” definitely demand I give the city of my early years proper recognition.

Florida Votes - Nothing's Changed

“Can’t you Floridians learn how to vote?” a Northern friend teased when she called me the other day.

She was referring to the fact that our hour’s long wait to vote early had made national news. Since hubby and I had voted that afternoon, I confidently replied, “No.”

There was only one reason for the wait: the length of the ballot. The poll workers were friendly and efficient and doing their best to make lemonade out of a lemon. They even had chairs available for those who could not stand. After our almost two-hour wait, it took another half-hour to “bubble-in” the bubbles on both sides of the five pages – and we had “cheat” sheets on how we wanted to vote for all the amendments, judges, etc. When done with step one, we then had to scan our five answer sheets into the scanner. My poor husband bubbled out of the oval in one spot, so the scanner refused one page of his ballot! His choice was to return to “go” and start the process again or not vote for some of the amendments. At that point, sadly, neither of us cared about the amendments and we left.

I miss the old pushpin ballots. People with minor tremors in their hands didn’t have them rejected because they “bubbled out of the lines.” The “hanging chads” did that method of voting in. I miss the computer touch and vote machines that replaced them. Both systems allowed voters to select their language and not be confused once the actual voting process began. However, orders were given to the powers in charge of elections to come up with a system that had a paper trail. The solution is the present ballot written in three languages. Does it sound confusing? Believe me, it is.

Okay, America, Broward County supposedly now has a foolproof voting system, and according to one poll worker, “It is perfect unless someone misplaces the boxes with the ballots.”

If I were a betting person, I would make a wager that we’ll be up late next Tuesday because people will still be on line in Broward waiting to vote. In fact, I predict we’ll still be voting long after California will close their polls. Hopefully, since I don’t like to be teased about my home state, I won’t win my bet!