Visit with Bob 2 February 2020 Bradenton, Florida

February 18-21, 2020

Wells Wood in Pennsylvania and

Bob’s Condo in Bradenton, Florida

Dear Ellie,

I hope you are well and enjoying your animals. While I type this note to you, Gilbert, one of our three tabby brothers, is laying across my shoulders.

The morning Spence and I got ready to fly to Florida to visit my brother, Gilbert’s brother Rills jumped onto our kitchen table. While I cleared breakfast dishes, Rills, the smallest yet most aggressive cat, put his paws on my shoulders. I picked him up for a goodbye cuddle. He had a different idea. He rubbed his nose against my nose and cheeks—hard —leaving his scent markings on my face. I laughed, set him down, and didn’t think about his headbutting until twelve and a half hours later when I collapsed into an easy chair in Bob’s living room.

His cat Lottie jumped onto my lap. She rubbed her nose against mine—gently—and purred. I assumed she’d received the message from Rills.

While we visited, Lottie spent a lot of time sleeping under Bob’s dining room table or on his bed. She also checked on the humans. When she padded to the porch, she watched me do yoga or play cribbage with Bob. Then she monitored mockingbirds flitting across the yard. When Spence worked on his computer in Bob’s kitchen, Lottie jumped onto Spence’s lap. She purred, looked at the computer screen, then rubbed her whiskers against the edge of the computer—no doubt sending a message back to Rills and Gilbert.

Love,

Janet

February 18 and 21, 2020

Pittsburgh and Tampa Airports

Dear Lori,

I hope this card finds you healthy and content mixed with a manageable amount of excitement.

When Spence and I flew out of Pittsburgh, TSA provided more excitement than I’d planned. I stepped into the body scanner, and an agent asked if I had anything in my pockets. “Only my handkerchief.” Not metal, no worries. But she said, “Take it out and hold it in your hand.”

I obeyed, watched the machine lights arc in front of me, and stepped out of the scanner.

A second agent held up her hand. “I need to check you. The machine detected something in your groin area.” Had it detected the pantyliner I wear for old-lady-sneeze-protection? The woman pulled on plastic gloves. “I need to pat your groin and back.” My eyes must have enlarged to ping-pong-ball-size because she added, “We can go to a private room.”

I spread my legs. “Do what you have to do.”

While she patted my back and between my legs, a second female agent glanced at my backside. “Your pockets have rhinestones. They could set the machine off. It has no fashion sense.”

The first agent ran a wand over her gloves and let me through.

On the way home, I wore plain-pocket pants for the scanner. A female agent said, “I need to touch your ankle.” Had my arthritis or the warm socks for deplaning up north set it off? She grabbed my ankle. “Your fine.” So, Lori, wear unfashionable pants and thin socks when you fly.

Love,

Janet

February 21, 2020

Atlanta Airport

Dear Nancy,

I hope you are well and enjoying lots of visits with your granddaughters.

When Spence and I flew south to visit Bob, we had a two hour layover in Atlanta. Lightning flashed, and rain pounded outside. To pass the time, I read the novel, I Did not Kill My Husband.

A football-tackle-sized man walked off the carpeted gate area and collapsed onto the tile concourse. A young woman jumped out of her seat—being careful not to step on his legs—and yelled, “We need help here!” She swiveled to survey the crowd. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

Airport employees and passengers circled the man. Worried-faced passengers whispered, “He fainted.” Were they thinking of COVID-19? After a twenty-minute vigil, people helped the victim into a wheelchair, our plane taxied to the gate, and a volunteer pushed the man away.

Passengers deplaned. The C9 gate agent didn’t call us to board at 5:05 as scheduled. At 5:10 she announced, “We have a maintenance check delay.” At 5:25, “The plane can’t be fixed. It was hit by lightning. We’ll get a plane from the hanger.” More worry crossed passenger faces. Not mine. I figured other people landed safely so we would too. At 6:06 the agent said, “You can fly on a plane coming from Pittsburgh, but you have to move to gate C13.”

We finally boarded at 7:00, the time we should have landed in Tampa. Though the layover lasted twice as long as scheduled, it wasn’t boring.

Love,

Janet

February 19 and 20, 2020

Bob’s Condo in Bradenton, Florida

Dear Reid and Claire,

I hope this card finds you in satisfactory health and enjoying plenty of comfort food.

When Spence and I visited Bob, I’d packed recipes for a strawberry pie and a chicken pot pie.

Bob suggested I use his convection oven. A fan circulates heat, it bakes in 60% of the time, and the kitchen doesn’t heat up. Imagine—not wanting to heat your house in February. I used Bob’s White Lily Flour for the strawberry pie shell. Unlike whole wheat flour dough, this dough worked up like mashed potatoes. I whipped it into shape with a rolling pin. His oven didn’t heat the kitchen or bake the crust. My fault. I’d lowered the recipe’s temperature after burning a crust at home. I cooked the filling, lined the crust with berries, and shoved the pie in the fridge.

Then I tackled the chicken pot pie. Filling and mashed-potato-like-crust concocted, I stuck the pie into the convection oven. The 60% time worked, but the smoke detector blared. A crumb burnt on the oven bottom. Bob swatted the detector with a dish towel until the blaring stopped.

With a flaky crust and meaty middle, the pot pie tasted great for dinner. As leftovers for the next day’s lunch? Yuck. After my fourth attempt to warm the pie, Bob ate his cold. “It’s fine. It tastes like chicken salad.” Alas, I’d put the pie in the convection oven, not the microwave.

And the strawberry pie didn’t set. I scooped runny filling with a spoon and slurped. Grainy, undissolved cornstarch scratched my tongue. Bob must think I’m an idiot in the kitchen. For my next visit, I’ll bake cookies at home and pack them instead of recipes.

Love,

Janet

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Manatee Beach, Anna Maria Island

Dear Addy and Amelia,

I hope you like school, Addy. I hope you can play outside, Amelia.

When Uncle Spence and I went to Florida to visit my brother, we had an outside adventure. We went to Manatee Beach on the Gulf of Mexico. We didn’t see Mexico or any manatees.

Beside the parking lot is the Beach Cafe. Behind the cafe, people crowded around tables on a patio. They ate pancakes or burgers and fries. Old men played a modern version of Dixieland jazz. A boy, about your age, Amelia, sat on the beach beside the patio. He scooped sand into a wide funnel top. Then he tipped the funnel and let the sand pour out of the narrow bottom. He also bounced his head and sun hat in time to the music.

We didn’t stay with the band and the boy. We walked.

Our feet sunk into the soft, white sand on our way to the water. The water stretched as far as we could see. Spence stayed on the hard wet sand at the edge of the waves. I waded. Waves swished and slapped my legs. They rolled back leaving white foam on the beach and pieces of broken shells in my beach shoes. Seagulls waded with me. They pecked the wet sand for food. Other seagulls soared overhead and shrieked. People who passed us smelled like suntan lotion.

After walking, we stretched a beach towel on the sand, sat on the towel, and watched the sunset. The sun hid behind the clouds for a little while. Then it dropped into sight. The glowing, golden ball seemed to sink into the water. Your uncle joked, “Can you hear the sizzle?”

Love,

Aunt Janet

February 18-21, 2020

Bob’s Screened-in Porch

Dear Jeanette,

I hope this card finds you content and rested.

We had a restful visit with my brother. When I rolled out of bed, I slipped into shorts, a t-shirt, and knee sleeves. Barefoot, I padded to his screened-in porch—my favorite Florida hangout. While a red-bellied woodpecker hammered on a Norwegian Pine, and the breeze bounced dwarf palm fronds, I greeted the day stretching to Adrienne’s Energizing Morning Yoga video.

Bob and I also played cribbage on the porch. A mockingbird sang. People chatted on the shuffleboard court in the oval behind his condo. After a couple of cribbage games, Bob monitored stock prices on his phone—gentle rises and falls then a scary drop over COVID-19 news. I enjoyed his explanations of the jobless vs. unemployment numbers, selling vs. buying options, and price to earnings vs. price to cash flow ratios.

We even ate our meals on the porch. The neighbor’s air conditioner buzzed, but we enjoyed the breeze. One night after dark, sprinklers hissed. I asked, “Why is the system sprinkling after dark? Pooling water can make breathing difficult for plants.”

Bob said, “I don’t argue with the condo Nazis.”

Friday arrived. After sunny 84° F and 80° F days, the temperature dipped to a morning low of 59° F. Gray clouds spit a chilly drizzle. As much as I enjoyed Bob’s porch, I practiced yoga in the bedroom and ate breakfast inside watching TV news.

Love,

Janet

February 19, 2020

Bob’s Living Room in Bradenton

Dear Julie,

I trust you are well and following the Presidential campaign like Aunt Marge taught us.

When I visited Bob in Florida, I hadn’t expected him to watch the Democratic Presidential debate in Nevada.

“But you’re a Republican,” I sputtered. Marge had taught him to sleep outside on Grandma’s porch, not to be a Democrat.

“It’s history,” he said and waved his hand at an easy chair for me to join him.

With Spence’s snores floating down the hall from the bedroom, I watched with Bob. Our partisan flags waved momentarily when I saw Elizabeth behind a podium. “Ooh Elizabeth!”

Bob groaned. He didn't share my passion for seeing a female President before we die.

For the next forty-five minutes we sat quietly. I hand stitched the binding on an Ohio Star wall hanging and gawked at Bob’s wide screen TV. It’s high tech magnified the details of the candidates' makeup. Peachy cream dotted with rouge smeared their pale faces. They looked like corpses ready for coffins. I had to give all of them kudos, however, for looking slim and trim.

The second half of the debate, Bob quietly challenged the candidates. “That’s not right . . . not true . . . who will they target next?”

Bob and I agreed on several things. Bernie pointed his finger too much, Amy’s makeup made her look like a jack-o’-lantern, and Pete looked too young.

Bob asked, “How’d you like Bloomberg?”

“Not impressed.” I yawned and trudged to the bedroom to elbow Spence so he’d stop snoring.

Love,

Janet

February 20, 2020

Bob’s Condo Pool in Bradenton

Dear Sophia,

When you play outside in February, do you bundle in winter gear and make snow angels?

I put on my bathing suit to go outside when I visited my brother Bob in Florida this February. While my husband worked on his computer at the house, Bob and I walked on a sidewalk through the green oval behind his condo. I gawked at towering trees. The Norway pine had two tops, like a headband with bopping shamrocks. Dwarf palm fronds arced against the clear blue sky. And a jacaranda tree had foot long, compound leaves with little leaflets making them look like ferns. It didn’t have any purple flowers—yet.

A block down the sidewalk, sunshine sparkled off the pool. Bob sat in the shade. I climbed down the ladder and removed the rope so I could swim laps—breaststroke, sidestroke, and elementary backstroke. Water swished and gave off a faint scent of chlorine. When I swam on my back, I forgot to watch the sides to guess the end of the pool and banged my head against the cement wall. I didn’t forget again. None of Bob’s neighbors came while I swam.

Bob called, “Did you ever think you’d be swimming outside in February?”

His question confused me. Sunshine and blue skies. Warm air and warm water. Wet body and no shivers. How could it be February? I glanced at the palm trees and remembered—Florida.

“No,” I said and dove under the water to enjoy my solitary swim before I had to fly back to the snow in Pennsylvania.

Love,

Janet

February 20, 2020

Bob’s Screened-in Porch in Bradenton

Dear Norma and Bob,

I hope you are surviving the Buffalo winter and enjoying your family.

For his Christmas present, Spence requested a trip to Florida to visit Bob. That worked for me. Much of the delight—next to the obvious sunshine and brother-bonding-time—was seeing our nephew Robert. He joined us for Spence’s tasty, from-scratch-pizza dinner on Thursday. We sat on Bob’s screened in porch while a bluejay squawked in the poinciana tree outside the door. We encouraged Robert to tell stories of his chef job at Sarasota Hospital. He and one or two helpers cook a thousand meals a day—including fresh zucchini or carrot pasta and slow cooked roasts. I’d asked how long he worked to peel and cut carrots for that many people. He didn’t. A team of prep cooks get the ingredients ready the day before in a kitchen four floors below Robert’s.

When I asked about hurricanes, he shrugged. “We get locked in. I work long shifts then sleep on my office floor.”

The sun set and the sky darkened. A critter that sounded like an insect chirped. I didn’t know which insect. Spence suggested the animal could be a tree frog. Robert researched Florida chirpers on his smart phone and advocated for a katydid because crickets sing in the daytime. I jotted notes, and Robert looked up from his phone. “She’s writing down what we say. Are we going to end up in her book one day?”

Bob and Spence exchanged wry grins. Robert had guessed what they already knew.

Love,

Janet

February 21, 2020

Bradenton to Tampa

Dear Sister Julie,

I hope you are content and warm.

Spence and I recently returned from a visit with my brother where sunshine and eighty degree days warmed our winter-weary bodies. But, the Friday we traveled home dawned cloudy, windy, and with a high of 61° F—too cold for barefoot yoga on the porch. After breakfast and cribbage with Bob, Spence and I packed and headed toward Tampa airport across the famous Sunshine Skyway Bridge. Wind buffeted the Toyota Corolla rental car when Spence drove over the 430 foot high middle, but he drove with no scary moments for me gazing at the view. I’d wanted to get a picture driving across the bridge earlier in the week, but the green lights along the cables blurred into a mess against the black night sky. The charcoal-gray skies above the green-gray bay were too drab for daytime photos driving back—even with curling, white capped waves.

After leaving the bridge, the road wound around Tampa Bay. Ahead I spied a flock with huge wings. As we sped closer, I told Spence. “Those are large birds!”

He muttered, “That’s nice, dear,” and kept his eyes on the traffic.

They weren't birds. Windsurfers took advantage of the wind and waves. I marveled that their lines and arched kites didn’t tangle.

Outside Tampa, a flock of pelicans, actual large birds, rode the wild wind and dove for fish.

Love,

Janet