Another Day in Paradise

Morning: Eggs, toast, grapefruit on the front porch. The weather is cool and crystal blue. The next-door neighbor, Tom, stops by to ask how Dave's parents are doing. He seems shocked by the suddenness of their move, but we explain how it happened -- Dave's dad's back injury, and how it left his mother (who has her own mobility issues) unable to care for him. Tom goes into a monologue about his Dutch heritage and his history in Michigan.

When we later tell Dave's parents about Tom's visit, they roll their eyes. "That guy likes to talk," they say.

Dave's sister leaves to take the parents to some doctors' appointments. Dave and I drive out to Anna Maria Island to see the hurricane damage. On the Cortez waterfront, the Seafood Shack stands decimated -- "crushed by the storms," as my brother wrote earlier. We all ate here as children. Now it's going to become a public dock and marina.

And of course, the Rod N' Reel Pier, which I wrote about last fall after Helene damaged it and Milton destroyed what was left. The sign says they intend to rebuild. A guy in biking gear is taking selfies next to the fenced-off pier entrance, decorated with wreaths and flowers. He shares his stories of fishing here with friends while growing up in Bradenton. I share mine of late nights with college friends, sitting on the end of the pier with bottles of Miller Lite, watching fish churn the water and a Space Shuttle launch on the other side of the state, blazing a trail like a shooting star in reverse.

Dave and I drive back to the mainland, navigating horrendous high-season traffic, to join his parents for lunch at Discovery Village. Dave and his sister go back to their apartment to assemble more furniture and fill out 10-page insurance forms that inexplicably come with multiple envelopes, yet all seem to be going to the same place.

I duck out for a Starbucks coffee and find this:

What is it about Trump that creates this kind of enthusiasm? People loved Reagan, Kennedy, Clinton, Obama, but none of them, to my knowledge, inspired their own roadside shops. Neither did Newt Gingrich, Barry Goldwater, Rush Limbaugh or other earlier heroes of the rabid right. I suppose it's because Trump is not just a man. He's an attitude.

I drive back to Discovery Village and we hang around until dinnertime, when we go to a nearby Italian restaurant. We find an easily accessible table and park Dave's parents' walkers next to a wall. A jazz band plays too loudly and I, trying to eat healthy, get the biggest, most ridiculous salad I have ever seen, topped with about half of a full-sized chicken (diced). I eat a third of it, bring home the rest and throw it away.

Today I'm off to Tampa to meet my brother for some family business before heading north to Jacksonville.