It took longer for me to perfect my book than it did for me to complete college and my master’s degree. Being a perfectionist causes two major problems. One, it made me chicken to be published—“What if” nightmares woke me many a night. The fear of not writing the perfect book, having one comma out of place, had me standing at the pantry in the middle of the night looking for something to crunch hard with my teeth. (If I write another book, someone please buy me a teething ring.)
This week, after years of deleting and rewriting, spending the same amount of money on reams of paper and gallons of ink that a cruise would cost, my “baby” arrived in the mail. I had barely opened the carton when eager readers were at my door wanting to be my first sales. Today, an email arrived from one of these readers, Jill D., that said. “Eda, warn your readers they’ll need a diaper while they read this book and not because of age but because of constant laughter.”
Hopefully, more comments like this one will bring an end to emotional eating and my pants will soon zip again without me having to lay on my bed to zip them.
Retired NOT Expired is available on line at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
In my satirical book, Retired, Not Expired, I share my experiences as I paddle upstream into a new “anything but dull” life as a retiree. Readers will enjoy learning how I handle the daily challenges that await the aging baby-boomers—entering the Dorian Gray Generation, the leading cause of heartburn—splitting very uneven restaurant tabs, planning the party they’ll never attend—their own funeral, and deciding if or when they should move to a retirement wonderland. And the readers DO NOT have to be on social security to enjoy the book. Not one of the below endorsements was written by anyone over (or near) the big 50.
“Retirement can be scary, unless you’re Eda Suzanne, a wise and witty woman with a can-do approach to life. Her book will warm your heart and make your belly ache from laughter.”
M.M. Anderson Author of Werewolf Dreams
“Eda Suzanne’s stories will keep you laughing whether you're 30, 40, or 70. It’s a great read and should be on every bookshelf, coffee table, and waiting room in the country!”
Elizabeth Bonet, PhD Marriage and Family Therapist
“Eda Suzanne’s writing shows a rare blend of humor, insight, and compassion. Sure her stories make you laugh, but they also portray a meaningful new approach to retirement.”
Sherry North Author of Because You Are My Baby
The book is in stock and ready to be shipped at Amazon. Let me know if you laughed because that was my goal.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Senior Phone
I only use my cell phone for making and receiving calls when I’m away from home or if my husband is using our house phone. That’s it. I’ve learned how to text but don’t. I prefer to read my emails while sitting at my desk. Discount store coupons are downloaded from my computer before I leave home. Talking on the cell while driving is not my thing—I’m a blue tooth failure. If I happen to receive a call while behind the wheel, I disconnect as soon as I need to change lanes. I never knew my cell phone could take pictures until my granddaughter asked me to borrow the phone so she could take a picture of something to show her mother. It’s the only time that feature was ever used. On the extremely rare occasion I find myself away from home and need SOS information from Google, I call someone, usually Florida son, who has immediate computer access.
Recently, a friend showed all the features of her new Smart Phone to a group of my friends. It has every gizmo on it from a way to store bar codes for shops she frequents to the ability to Skype. I’ve had a Skype for over a year on my home computer and have yet to learn to use it, nor have I received one call on it.
All I could think of while my friend proudly demonstrated her proficiency in maneuvering from one feature to the next and “everyone” was expressing a desire to get one like hers was security issues. What if it is lost of stolen? Does each site she uses have a secret access code protecting her confidential information, or will this private information literally be an open book allowing thieves to do her harm? (Those who follow The Good Wife know that stored texts are foreshadowing a future story line.) Will the information available on these phones become more lucrative to thieves than stolen diamonds?
While my friend continued to show all the phenomenal potential her phone has and I don’t want, my mind wandered back about 25 years to when Hubby and I went to buy my then 82-year-old mother her first micro. The salesperson advised us to buy a “Senior Micro.” He explained that old people have trouble with too many choices when they use the micro. Would this same salesman today call my simple phone a Senior Phone?
Well, if he would put my generation down, my peer was proving him wrong. Seniors don’t need simple “Senior Phones.” The only reason I don’t want one like my friend’s is I have no need for it. It has nothing to do with the fact that the first time I used my fairly new SIMPLE phone someone literally had to yell at me to press “send” when it was ringing, and I couldn’t figure out how to answer it. (My old phone had a “talk” button. )And it has nothing to do with the fact that I still can’t enter phone numbers in my phone. If I really wanted a very complicated phone, I’m sure I could master all that is involved. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Recently, a friend showed all the features of her new Smart Phone to a group of my friends. It has every gizmo on it from a way to store bar codes for shops she frequents to the ability to Skype. I’ve had a Skype for over a year on my home computer and have yet to learn to use it, nor have I received one call on it.
All I could think of while my friend proudly demonstrated her proficiency in maneuvering from one feature to the next and “everyone” was expressing a desire to get one like hers was security issues. What if it is lost of stolen? Does each site she uses have a secret access code protecting her confidential information, or will this private information literally be an open book allowing thieves to do her harm? (Those who follow The Good Wife know that stored texts are foreshadowing a future story line.) Will the information available on these phones become more lucrative to thieves than stolen diamonds?
While my friend continued to show all the phenomenal potential her phone has and I don’t want, my mind wandered back about 25 years to when Hubby and I went to buy my then 82-year-old mother her first micro. The salesperson advised us to buy a “Senior Micro.” He explained that old people have trouble with too many choices when they use the micro. Would this same salesman today call my simple phone a Senior Phone?
Well, if he would put my generation down, my peer was proving him wrong. Seniors don’t need simple “Senior Phones.” The only reason I don’t want one like my friend’s is I have no need for it. It has nothing to do with the fact that the first time I used my fairly new SIMPLE phone someone literally had to yell at me to press “send” when it was ringing, and I couldn’t figure out how to answer it. (My old phone had a “talk” button. )And it has nothing to do with the fact that I still can’t enter phone numbers in my phone. If I really wanted a very complicated phone, I’m sure I could master all that is involved. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
A Real Deal
“Look,” I called to my husband across the store in Paris. “Your favorite French aftershave is only 30 francs.”
He responded that after converting francs to dollars, the same product was $5 less in Macy’s.
We’ve made several trips out of the United States since the above incident, and Hubby’s job is to make sure I am aware of the real price before I buy something. I am not a good shopper, and I’m fully aware of it. I tend to buy by need, ignoring the cost. (On the bright side, I tend to shop for need not for something to do.) Once the cashier in the supermarket embarrassed me into not purchasing the fresh red peppers I wanted because the out-of-season price was “so ridiculously high, even the Rockefellers wouldn’t buy them.”
Our guide during our most recent trip warned us to be wary of the street venders since their merchandise was genuine copies. I warned my fellow travelers that the same scarves prominently displayed by all the hawkers were cheaper in various American discount stores. With the exception of three stops on our recent trip that sell high end merchandise—and you can put your own spin as to why we had to see how cameos are made or learn how to select real leather merchandise—little time was had to buy trinkets for our family, friends and ourselves. So, when the opportunity did arise to buy meaning remembrances that were under fifty dollars, (way under), I had to shop fast. With Hubby by my side making sure I understood the actual cost of each woolen scarf I examined, the local art work I liked, or wooden carvings in the original Pinocchio store I liked, my purchases were made. Other than Halloween, I never buy bars of chocolate, especially for souvenirs. What processed me to do so in Switzerland, I can’t answer. If Hubby hadn’t taken that moment to search out a “smilee,” (see last week’s blog) I probably would have placed the “great deal” back on the pile. It wasn’t until I was home that I realized the price on top of the box was in Euros, and I spent more on chocolate for my friends and family than I do on food some weeks in the supermarket.
After unpacking, my stash of souvenirs was piled onto my dining room table. Fortunately, since Chanukah was this week, many of the “why did I buy all of this?” items could be used as gifts. Hopefully my grandchildren can figure out what to do with the mini-clothes pin that is glued to a wooden character from the story of Pinocchio. I can’t. When I bought them, I thought they were refrigerator magnets and didn’t realize my error until I started to wrap them. After I was done wrapping and giving the gifts to various people, I was left with one extra Pinocchio dangling from a cord, one key chain, one of the clothespin gizmos, and two bars of chocolate. I thought that since everything I purchased was made in Italy, my presents would be unique and certainly cheaper than what I would pay here.
I was wrong. First my son teased me for buying him chocolate filled with American whisky. Then, when I was in one of the chain discount stores the other day, there was the same chocolate I lugged home from Italy—identical brand, bar, and ingredients. The only thing different was the price. It was less here, much, much less.
I won’t tell Hubby. I don’t want to ruin his good mood. The electric bill arrived today. It’s our first bill under three figures since we moved out of our one bedroom apartment back in the sixties! What a great deal. If we leave home for three weeks, we can actually save money—as long as we wait until we get home to buy the chocolate.
He responded that after converting francs to dollars, the same product was $5 less in Macy’s.
We’ve made several trips out of the United States since the above incident, and Hubby’s job is to make sure I am aware of the real price before I buy something. I am not a good shopper, and I’m fully aware of it. I tend to buy by need, ignoring the cost. (On the bright side, I tend to shop for need not for something to do.) Once the cashier in the supermarket embarrassed me into not purchasing the fresh red peppers I wanted because the out-of-season price was “so ridiculously high, even the Rockefellers wouldn’t buy them.”
Our guide during our most recent trip warned us to be wary of the street venders since their merchandise was genuine copies. I warned my fellow travelers that the same scarves prominently displayed by all the hawkers were cheaper in various American discount stores. With the exception of three stops on our recent trip that sell high end merchandise—and you can put your own spin as to why we had to see how cameos are made or learn how to select real leather merchandise—little time was had to buy trinkets for our family, friends and ourselves. So, when the opportunity did arise to buy meaning remembrances that were under fifty dollars, (way under), I had to shop fast. With Hubby by my side making sure I understood the actual cost of each woolen scarf I examined, the local art work I liked, or wooden carvings in the original Pinocchio store I liked, my purchases were made. Other than Halloween, I never buy bars of chocolate, especially for souvenirs. What processed me to do so in Switzerland, I can’t answer. If Hubby hadn’t taken that moment to search out a “smilee,” (see last week’s blog) I probably would have placed the “great deal” back on the pile. It wasn’t until I was home that I realized the price on top of the box was in Euros, and I spent more on chocolate for my friends and family than I do on food some weeks in the supermarket.
After unpacking, my stash of souvenirs was piled onto my dining room table. Fortunately, since Chanukah was this week, many of the “why did I buy all of this?” items could be used as gifts. Hopefully my grandchildren can figure out what to do with the mini-clothes pin that is glued to a wooden character from the story of Pinocchio. I can’t. When I bought them, I thought they were refrigerator magnets and didn’t realize my error until I started to wrap them. After I was done wrapping and giving the gifts to various people, I was left with one extra Pinocchio dangling from a cord, one key chain, one of the clothespin gizmos, and two bars of chocolate. I thought that since everything I purchased was made in Italy, my presents would be unique and certainly cheaper than what I would pay here.
I was wrong. First my son teased me for buying him chocolate filled with American whisky. Then, when I was in one of the chain discount stores the other day, there was the same chocolate I lugged home from Italy—identical brand, bar, and ingredients. The only thing different was the price. It was less here, much, much less.
I won’t tell Hubby. I don’t want to ruin his good mood. The electric bill arrived today. It’s our first bill under three figures since we moved out of our one bedroom apartment back in the sixties! What a great deal. If we leave home for three weeks, we can actually save money—as long as we wait until we get home to buy the chocolate.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Great Company, Great Smilees, Great Vacation
We’re back from a fabulous two-week bus tour of Italy. Kudos to our fantastic guide, Alfredo. Hubby and I saw and did things we no long thought physically possible, (keep your thoughts pure), and we ate every morsel put in front of us. My pants still zip—which proves daily walking the length of 10 football fields or more will keep weight off. A requirement for this trip was to have the ability to walk a football field without difficulty, but by the end of the first day, I realized the tour salesperson meant one field an hour, not a day.
My laundry is done and put away. Our pictures are developed—all 372 of them. Now the challenges are to mach the rocks in each photo to the correct ruin and tourist attraction, and what I should do with some of the stuff I brought home. (Next week’s blog will be about this.)
Every vacation we’ve gone on has had something that’s made it unique from all the others. This trip had two, and nothing to do with the amazing tourist attractions. One was the fantastic group of folks with whom we traveled. Within one day, our tour guide molded a group of strangers into a caring family, and he was the role model for all of us to follow. Not a dysfunctional “relative” was on our tour—and Hubby and I have been on some tours with passengers that made us yearn for the days of “walking the plank.” Our group picture is on my refrigerator along with my grandkids’ photos. Everyone knows that spot is reserved for “in” people— those you really care about and who care about you. It’s hard to believe 33 strangers rapidly morphed into a caring family and there was not one “nose out of joint” the entire trip. If everyone’s large, extended family holiday dinners go as smoothly as our peer relations did on this trip, our holidays will be beautiful.
The other unique memory for Hubby and me was Alberto’s name for the toilet. He didn’t refer to it by any of its common names such as “water closet” or “bathroom.” “When people, especially those who had great need, come out of the bathrooms, they smile,” he explained. “So I call them smilees.”
The new name caught on, and not just with our group. Evidently, the places he frequents with his tour groups use the name because when we walked into one establishment, the woman behind the counter took one look at my face and before I said a word, said, “The smilees are upstairs.”
There’s been a big change in European public smilees since our last trip to the continent. Our bus didn’t stop once at a glorified out house or unisex, minimum privacy, bathroom. The EU highway facilities in Italy accommodate the urgent biological bathroom needs and habits of pampered folks like me—plenty of free toilets and plenty of soft paper. Obviously, since almost everyone we told before we left that we were traveling abroad cautioned, “Bring your own toilet paper and make sure you have coins to pay to use the facilities,” I wasn’t the only one who has had a problem with European public toilet customs.
Only once was a relic from yesteryear sitting waiting for a tip, and I think the “donation” was given more out of pity for a person whose job no longer exists than out of a requirement to enter the smilee.
If anyone is planning a trip to Italy, remove toilet tissue from your packing list and forget getting the proper coins as soon as your plane lands. Finding smilees in tourist areas in Italy, be it highways, restaurants, or stores, is no longer a challenge. Take the roll of super soft American toilet tissue from your suitcase. However, make sure you pack the plug adapter for the camera battery charger. The concept of free smilees with plenty of soft paper maybe catching on in many European countries, but different electrical currents are still the cause of frownees for Americans who forget that plugs made for AC outlets don’t fit into those made for DC outlets. (You have one guess as to what I didn't put in the suitcase.)
My laundry is done and put away. Our pictures are developed—all 372 of them. Now the challenges are to mach the rocks in each photo to the correct ruin and tourist attraction, and what I should do with some of the stuff I brought home. (Next week’s blog will be about this.)
Every vacation we’ve gone on has had something that’s made it unique from all the others. This trip had two, and nothing to do with the amazing tourist attractions. One was the fantastic group of folks with whom we traveled. Within one day, our tour guide molded a group of strangers into a caring family, and he was the role model for all of us to follow. Not a dysfunctional “relative” was on our tour—and Hubby and I have been on some tours with passengers that made us yearn for the days of “walking the plank.” Our group picture is on my refrigerator along with my grandkids’ photos. Everyone knows that spot is reserved for “in” people— those you really care about and who care about you. It’s hard to believe 33 strangers rapidly morphed into a caring family and there was not one “nose out of joint” the entire trip. If everyone’s large, extended family holiday dinners go as smoothly as our peer relations did on this trip, our holidays will be beautiful.
The other unique memory for Hubby and me was Alberto’s name for the toilet. He didn’t refer to it by any of its common names such as “water closet” or “bathroom.” “When people, especially those who had great need, come out of the bathrooms, they smile,” he explained. “So I call them smilees.”
The new name caught on, and not just with our group. Evidently, the places he frequents with his tour groups use the name because when we walked into one establishment, the woman behind the counter took one look at my face and before I said a word, said, “The smilees are upstairs.”
There’s been a big change in European public smilees since our last trip to the continent. Our bus didn’t stop once at a glorified out house or unisex, minimum privacy, bathroom. The EU highway facilities in Italy accommodate the urgent biological bathroom needs and habits of pampered folks like me—plenty of free toilets and plenty of soft paper. Obviously, since almost everyone we told before we left that we were traveling abroad cautioned, “Bring your own toilet paper and make sure you have coins to pay to use the facilities,” I wasn’t the only one who has had a problem with European public toilet customs.
Only once was a relic from yesteryear sitting waiting for a tip, and I think the “donation” was given more out of pity for a person whose job no longer exists than out of a requirement to enter the smilee.
If anyone is planning a trip to Italy, remove toilet tissue from your packing list and forget getting the proper coins as soon as your plane lands. Finding smilees in tourist areas in Italy, be it highways, restaurants, or stores, is no longer a challenge. Take the roll of super soft American toilet tissue from your suitcase. However, make sure you pack the plug adapter for the camera battery charger. The concept of free smilees with plenty of soft paper maybe catching on in many European countries, but different electrical currents are still the cause of frownees for Americans who forget that plugs made for AC outlets don’t fit into those made for DC outlets. (You have one guess as to what I didn't put in the suitcase.)
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Head to Toe and Away I Go
I think I am falling apart. Last week I was diagnosed with the Shingles for the third time. That’s right. Three times. Perhaps it will be like baseball and the Shingles virus will have been struck out—way out of my body. As usual, my symptoms were atypical, so atypical it took visits to two dentists (who thankfully refused to pull out all my upper teeth to relieve the pain), and two doctors until the verdict was pronounced. The medicine is working—a sure sign the fourth professional made the correct diagnose, which was hard because the rash was not in plain sight. It was hiding in my mouth, out of plain sight even to me.
With the pain in my head decreasing daily, today I went back to the foot doctor to find out why my toes still felt numb.
“Your shoe is too confining,” the doctor told me. “That’s why the toes aren’t healing.”
“But you told me I had to keep my sneakers on all day in order for my heal to heal,” I responded in a most confused voice.
I have a heal spur on one foot and some sort of cyst between the toes of the other foot that needs plenty of space—no squishing of toes like sneakers do—to go away.
Could someone—anyone—please tell me how I’m to go on my upcoming, long-awaited vacation by wearing a sneaker on one foot and sandal on the other? Am I to tell the gawkers that it’s a new style created in South Florida?
On the up side, even though my shoe-style is laughable, my illnesses are curable.
I’ll be away from my computer for a week or two for all good things. I’ll keep you posted as soon as I can. Be well, and remember, my book Retired, Not Expired will be read sooner than I think!
With the pain in my head decreasing daily, today I went back to the foot doctor to find out why my toes still felt numb.
“Your shoe is too confining,” the doctor told me. “That’s why the toes aren’t healing.”
“But you told me I had to keep my sneakers on all day in order for my heal to heal,” I responded in a most confused voice.
I have a heal spur on one foot and some sort of cyst between the toes of the other foot that needs plenty of space—no squishing of toes like sneakers do—to go away.
Could someone—anyone—please tell me how I’m to go on my upcoming, long-awaited vacation by wearing a sneaker on one foot and sandal on the other? Am I to tell the gawkers that it’s a new style created in South Florida?
On the up side, even though my shoe-style is laughable, my illnesses are curable.
I’ll be away from my computer for a week or two for all good things. I’ll keep you posted as soon as I can. Be well, and remember, my book Retired, Not Expired will be read sooner than I think!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Punctuation Ogre and the Letter Lapper
Remember Thermostat Jeannie, the one who moves my home thermostat up to Hubby’s comfort level? Well, her two best friends, Punctuation Ogre and Letter Lapper, live inside the grammar and spell check feature in my Word program.
When I write anything, be it a blog or article, as soon as I hit “Save,” the two of them get to work. Punctuation Ogre moves commas, or even worse, inserts them in places they don’t belong. I know the proper use of commas—I taught that skill for 35 years. Then she turns quotation marks, especially the end quotes, in the wrong direction. Her other tricks are switching commas and periods, sprinkling quotation marks around words, and misuse of the parenthesis.
Letter Lapper devours letters from words, leaving them grossly misspelled. Sometimes she only nibbles part of a letter, thus changing an “e” to a “c” or an “m” to and “n.” The other day, I typed the word FUNdraiser on a flyer, a word one of the charity organizations in my Seniorville uses. The next day, I received an email saying I omitted the “d.” I know the letter was there when I hit “Save,” but alas, it wasn’t when my friend received the flyer to proof read.
Errors in print mortify me. One reader asked if I ever heard of the grammar and spell check feature. He didn’t believe me when I told him about Punctuation Ogre and Letter Lapper.
I recently received the layout of the manuscript for my book via email. I opened it up to see and voila—each page contained proof Punctuation Ogre and Letter Lapper performed their destruction once again. Since I know the errors were not there when I hit “Send,” the damage had to be done in cyberspace while the book made its way to the publisher. With tears in my eyes, I realized I could no longer fight this war by myself. I sent out a call for the Punctuation and Spelling Warriors.
The Four Star General of Punctuation and Sensible Sounds responded—perhaps because his wife loves my blog and knows how the Ogre and Lapper have frustrated me since I’ve started to write. He carefully fixed the wounds in my manuscript, making him eligible for the Proof Reader’s Medal of Honor. Now if only he would develop a foolproof grammar and spell check program to be installed in all computers, he could be richer than Mark Zuckerberg, My number one fan deserves such a reward!
When I write anything, be it a blog or article, as soon as I hit “Save,” the two of them get to work. Punctuation Ogre moves commas, or even worse, inserts them in places they don’t belong. I know the proper use of commas—I taught that skill for 35 years. Then she turns quotation marks, especially the end quotes, in the wrong direction. Her other tricks are switching commas and periods, sprinkling quotation marks around words, and misuse of the parenthesis.
Letter Lapper devours letters from words, leaving them grossly misspelled. Sometimes she only nibbles part of a letter, thus changing an “e” to a “c” or an “m” to and “n.” The other day, I typed the word FUNdraiser on a flyer, a word one of the charity organizations in my Seniorville uses. The next day, I received an email saying I omitted the “d.” I know the letter was there when I hit “Save,” but alas, it wasn’t when my friend received the flyer to proof read.
Errors in print mortify me. One reader asked if I ever heard of the grammar and spell check feature. He didn’t believe me when I told him about Punctuation Ogre and Letter Lapper.
I recently received the layout of the manuscript for my book via email. I opened it up to see and voila—each page contained proof Punctuation Ogre and Letter Lapper performed their destruction once again. Since I know the errors were not there when I hit “Send,” the damage had to be done in cyberspace while the book made its way to the publisher. With tears in my eyes, I realized I could no longer fight this war by myself. I sent out a call for the Punctuation and Spelling Warriors.
The Four Star General of Punctuation and Sensible Sounds responded—perhaps because his wife loves my blog and knows how the Ogre and Lapper have frustrated me since I’ve started to write. He carefully fixed the wounds in my manuscript, making him eligible for the Proof Reader’s Medal of Honor. Now if only he would develop a foolproof grammar and spell check program to be installed in all computers, he could be richer than Mark Zuckerberg, My number one fan deserves such a reward!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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.
“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.
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