Stock Island

I feel this need to wander Stock Island and take photographs. The future of this place hangs in the balance as Key West goes deeper and deeper into gentrification and locks out more and more working people.

Stock Island is where some workers live, the ones not pushed further out toward Big Pine Key 30 miles away. This island is where light industry still hangs on, welding plumbing electrical shops, boat parts and scooter repair.

Housing varies between relatively modest apartments and run down trailers and a few areas where single family homes dominate, mostly in the Avenues which are the numbered streets on the west side of the island..

Chickens roam though I was surprised to see this sturdy rooster loose when there is a powerful trade in roosters for illegal cock fighting.

Walking Stock Island and wondering how long things will stay this way is fruitless but I can't help but think that this lot will be replaced by hotels and shopping and so forth. A few years ago the newspaper showed how Stock Island was sold in huge swathes to developers. Not much has happened yet but I'm sure change is on the way and spare sheet metal and household fixtures lying around are bound to contravene some future beautification ordinance.

Nice  big spikes seem to be a useful reassurance around here:

Look what they pulled out of the ocean, some giant anchors.

Stock Island is urban all right but it's not incorporated so sidewalks and landscaping are nowhere to be seen. Some crazy people in Key West sometimes make noises about annexing this place but I can just imagine how excited everyone would be if they had to get their boat trailers off the streets- trailer parking isn't allowed on Key West city streets.

Viewing grandstand:

Low income house looks like it has a toe hold here. I wonder how the hotels will build around this:

Stock Island  will be this way for a while, hard scrabble and working class.

But things are starting to change, a couple of hotels some new places to eat and we can see the start of a new chapter being written here.

All I can do is keep walking and trying to record "the good old days..." which is now.

A Change Of Tires

From time to time one needs new tires. For those that think a motorcycle is a cheap alternative to a car, think again. True you can get better gas mileage depending on the car and the motorcycle. But on a car expect to get 40,000 miles out of the tires. 

 

That ten inch sucker cost me $58 and if I'm lucky I might get 4,000 miles out of it. 70 miles to the gallon of premium gas, negligible insurance and registration costs but tires...especially for scooters. Larger motorcycle tires last twice as long but cost...twice as much! 

 

The front tire should last twice as long. So every time I change the front tire I replace the drive belt. Automatic scooters are powered by a toothed belt that is gripped by a pair of discs and the faster you go the tighter they grip. No gears and constantly varying gears just by twisting the gas...ingenious, easy to use but there are those costs involved. 

 

For me the scooter is a fun ride. I have been denying age related arthritis in my left hand and wrist which makes riding a motorcycle tough for me now. The riding position and the need to pull in the clutch to change gears exacerbates the pain which I offset with exercise rather than the pills prescribed for me. The Vespa offers a bolt upright seating position and a soft brake lever on the left rather than a stiff clutch like my Bonneville. 

So I have to ponder my future rides. For now I rely on my Vespas and ride the Bonneville to work once a week to keep it active. At 500 pounds it's also a heavy lump to keep upright if I have to rely on my left wrist to keep it balanced and upright. A few times, more than I'd care to say I have feared dropping it as my wrist let me down. Jiri my practical Czech motorcycle mechanic said dryly "keep your car" as we discussed the choice of automatic motorcycles available. 

Rusty is the main reason I use the Bonneville very little these days. If I want to take a trip I like his company so I have to take the car. He isn't complaining. 

Mind you he likes hanging out in Jiri's air conditioned shop playing with Jiri's dog.  Which is leashed as he likes to chase passing unsuspecting cyclists. 

 

So now the oil is changed, the tires are new and I am good for summer. Maybe by Fantasy Fest my wrist will have regenerated tissue and all this talk of aging can be set aside for a while longer. I doubt it.

RIP Frank Deford

Frank Deford (December 16, 1938 – May 28, 2017) died in Key West Sunday. He was 78 so one shouldn't be surprised I suppose though his death is another marker on my journey toward old age. Manuel Noriega also died this week, another public figure who loomed large in my 30s when the brief war was fought to unseat him in Panama, yet unknown to the young people I work with. Unlike Noriega I enjoyed Deford's Wednesday commentaries on Morning Edition even though sports as a rule leave me cold. He was much amused by the loyal following he had among people like me who actually don't like sports. He told me so in 2008 when I went to hear him speak and I was armed with the best digital camera I could find at the time. Not great pictures but here they are from that long ago speech:

Frank Deford has been broadcasting sports commentaries on Wednesday mornings on NPR's Morning Edition since 1980 and I've been listening to him since 1982. Apparently he winters in Key West frequently and this week he gave a talk at the Tropic Cinema as part of the Friends of the Library winter speakers series.When my wife and I lived in Santa Cruz, California we expected our friends would be NPR listeners, which letters in the Reaganite 1980's were often taken to mean Nicaragua Public Radio. Public funding has shrunk since then, and corporate sponsorship has kept a more middle-of-the-road NPR flourishing, which has in turn rendered it less appealing to a listener like me who wants NPR to be a different voice in a media broadcasting world of blandness and sameness and ownership by the powerful. Oh well!

Frank Deford has kept on saying his sporting piece each week, ignored by long time Key West inmates who, over the decades had no idea who Deford or NPR were, as there was no non commercial radio in Key West. Only recently has WLRN in Miami arrived in Key West at 100.5 FM with all NPR news by day and jazz by night and reggae in the early morning. At my house 25 miles out of Key West I listen at 91.5 FM, Marathon is also 91.5 and Long Key is at 92.1 all part of a long string of translators down the islands.I used to work at an NPR affiliate and I submitted a number of reports to the network during the 1980's and once the thrill of hearing my name go national wore off I was left feeling bored by the formula, by the editing, by the sense that what was of value was only understood by the newsroom in Washington, not where I lived in Fruitcake, California. I stopped trying to please my masters in the network and retreated to making a nuisance of myself in local news and then, tired of the trivialization of news, I quit what my buddy, NPR newscaster Frank Stasio used to call "show biz." I am a happier man for it. Frank Deford has been heard on NPR every week since 1980 and he's still going strong. He has the longevity that confers greatness. As Woody Allen says 80 percent of success is showing up.Deford's talk was centered around his new sports novel called "The Entitled," exploring the role and meaning of the "sports superstar" in our world. Jay Alcazar is a young Cuban-American baseball player overseen by a tired second rate player called Howie who now manages the Chicago White Sox. The book apparently opens with a possible date rape by Alcazar, possibly witnessed by Howie and the plot thickens from there, which was as much as Deford told us, in between reading excerpts from the book. He did say much of the action takes place in Cuba a country he has visited twice and is apparently where his plot ends up.

Deford also narrated some much appreciated Key West related anecdotes concerning the man after whom Boog Powell sports field is named. This it turned out was man renowned for playing baseball well while he was in Baltimore, a place where he endeared himself to the locals by drinking beer on his porch where he strolled home after a major league game. Somewhat at odds with the modern image of the baseball player as an inviolable demi-god.Deford also told of a day when sports players and writers were invited to the Clinton White House for a reception. Deford told his wife he was sure Clinton would recognize him, as the President was a sports fan and Deford had just written a glowing piece about an Arkansas player. As luck would have it the president remained blank when the Marine Officer announced Mr and Mrs Frank Deford, much to his chagrin, but he added with a twinkle, Mrs Clinton interrupted his introduction to gush how his voice woke her every Wednesday morning. "So how are you voting?" asked a voice in the bowels of the Tropic auditorium. "Oh," said Deford, "I always vote for my listeners," to howls of laughter. "But," he allowed,"the other guy is okay too."Deford had some comments about free agency and how football television royalties are evenly split between teams, stuff I could barely grasp. He allowed as the Paris Open in June was among his favorite events, but he doesn't like soccer except the World Cup when seen live in a European city. he answered my question about NPR with his famous line that his most devoted fans aren't into sports at all, which brought another round of applause from the packed theater. he made a point about baseball that struck home with me. He said baseball is a great sport because unlike all other games baseball allows time for reflection, for commentary, for discussion between pitches. And I have surprised my wife a few times by seeking out the night time AM frequencies on a car trip to listen to some distant baseball game as I drive.In closing Deford suggested sports are important to use because they bind the country together in a way that other activities fail signally to do, he also said to loud laughter that sports allow men to argue which is important for them to do. And he made another of those interesting points that keep me listening to him on Wednesday mornings; he said sports unlike any other art form are thje place where the popular and the quality are allowed to rise to the top. He compared good teams to great movies, so rarely recognized at say, the Oscars, or where the best music isn't necessarily heard on radio playlists. In sports he said you have an art form where the best is always the most popular. Deford is a sports commentator alone in a crowded profession. How many writers do you hear use the term sui generis when speaking of a player? Deford is sui generisHe was of course mobbed by the old biddy snowbirds on his way out but he kindly stopped for my flash and I caught his bemusement at his popularity in this little resort town. Key West I think cherishes its brushes with interesting people because, for such a distant little town it gets the attention of people worth listening to, but they don't stay so you have to catch them while you can. And we do.

He retired from NPR a month prior to his death. Part  of his last commentary:

“I have survived so long because I’ve been blessed with talented and gracious colleagues, and with a top brass who let me choose my topics every week and then allowed me to express opinions that were not always popular,” he said. “Well, someone had to stand up to the yackety-yak soccer cult. And perhaps just as important, I’ve been blessed with you, with a broad and intelligent audience — even if large portions thereof haven’t necessarily given a hoot about sports. Nothing has pleased me so much as when someone — usually a woman — writes me or tells me that she’s appreciated sports more because NPR allowed me to treat sports seriously, as another branch on the tree of culture.”

Baltimore Sun.

Mangrove Views

I read a comment recently by sailor Webb Chiles riding into Key West from Marathon. He loved the turquoise waters but didn't think much of the scrubby land in between bays...Its a common reaction but I love these spaces! 

It's like so much else in Florida, not startling or overwhelming but it's unique across the entire continent and for me it feels like my space. Of course it's Rusty the dingo who loves running through these impenetrable bushes. 

 

For me these stubby little bushes represent the last remaining space where I can be alone. It's not always silent as the hum of endless traffic on US One travels across the mangroves for miles. 

 

It looks impenetrable because it is. Clearly. 

 

It's like walking through the desert. The wind blows over your ears creating that whistling blowing sound and your footsteps sound like drumbeats against the silence all around you. Coming from my job answering 911 calls all night a morning stroll through the mangroves with my dog is the place your mind can cast off the night stresses. 

 

I have walked Sequoia forests and eucalyptus groves. I've hiked the Highlands of Scotland and I've stood by myself in the silence of the Sahara. Great experiences all. I don't know how you grade these wildernesses and maybe I could use a bit more variety but like most things in the Keys where land is scarce you make do. I might not choose mangroves over a pine forest but this is what I've got. 

There are limited sight lines because the open space is flat naturally. And perhaps I make my own sense of being alone by walking when the rest of the world is only getting ready to wake up. I see signs others show up here from time to time. 

 

It's the end of the road so it has nice red diamonds to mark where the asphalt ends. I'm good. Rusty's panting. Time to go home. 

 

Boating From The Archives

From 2010 when we lived on Ramrod Key with Cheyenne...We used the boat to go out into Newfound Harbor to swim as our canal was busy and not terribly clean for swimming. Nowadays on Cudjoe Key we have no such destinations and I miss Picnic Island.

Picnic Island

It has been a delightful winter so far, a mixture of low humidity and bright sunshine, evolving into warm summery days with scattered rain, winds coming and winds dying down. And in the end one has no choice but to untie the boat and cast off. So we did.The canal was empty of traffic for the most part but even when one meets the occasional boat it's wide enough to pass easily enough in our little 14 foot long skiff.Flat waters, bright sunshine and a picnic with our goal in sight across Newfound Harbor from the entrance to our canal.It's a five minute ride across the protected waters of what is in fact not strictly speaking a harbor but a large basin protected from almost all directions by land. In the middle of this boating pleasantness lies a small sandy island, the result of dredging to clear a deep water channel up the south side of Newfound Harbor.The early hours of a Sunday morning are the perfect time to tie up at Picnic Island for the rest of the world is either on it's knees invoking God's favor or on it's knees trying to recover from last night's over indulgence. By the afternoon a few dozen boats, perhaps many more will be out here splashing anchors and playing loud disjointed music.
It's a popular spot, deservedly so with a fire pit,...and a grill and lots of shady sand to set up a picnic table and a couple of chairs and spread out with a thermos of something hot to drink and a newspaper to read.

Some enterprising people have planted palms on the island and by dint of careful watering they have taken root.

They are actually part of an elaborate monument to a former visitor.Every dog is a bestest dog so the sentiments strike a universal chord.Picnic island is a delightful spot, more so in summer when the waters are warm enough to swim. Right now they won't see 80 degrees again till late April, so we prefer to look at them rather than submerse ourselves in them.Cheyenne's picnic is a dollar smoked ham hock from Winn Dixie. These things keep her occupied for a few minutes, time enough to eat the sandwich my wife prepared, Canadian bacon and egg for us humans.This is my idea of heaven, no noise no obligations and the gratitude of a wife who had forgotten how pleasant this short boat ride is from our house.

Cheyenne needs a walk and she doesn't much like to go alone. I get to watch her cool off at the north end of the island, 25 paces from my tea cup.The island can be made to look huge with a small angle on the camera.There's not much going on at Picnic Island at the best of times but the waters around it are teeming with life even early on a Sunday.

It's winter so sailboats are moving around more with the diminished threat of hurricanes and the cooler temperatures. Fishing is always a fashionable activity.

This hovel craft has been hanging out by picnic island for a long time. Noise is a trade mark with a loud radio at every opportunity. It is possible to live on the waters of the Florida Keys and not be bothered by anyone. It is a rather aimless existence I should note, having done it myself.I prefer traveling to vegetating when I am living on a boat. Highway One is visible in the distance, the northern perimeter of Newfound Harbor.The southern tip of Ramrod Key is covered by a small island known to it's owners as Coupon Key. The Spottswoods have listed their slice of Paradise at 18 million dollars if interested. Power and water are piped to the island across the mangrove swamps but human access is by boat. The nice thing is we who live on their side of the canal get our power restored first on Ramrod after an outage. The Keys are nothing if not subservient to the moneyed class.The residents on Ramrod on this side of the island, the eastern side of the main canal, get to run their generators a little longer than those of us on the western side. I had no idea when we bought our little tree house in 2005. Power outages define who we are I suppose. Mind you, this lot have pretty nice views out across Newfound Harbor.Little Palm Island marks the entrance at the south side of Newfound Harbor.And back around to the southeast we have another small mangrove island. Of the three island blobs in the water in the middle of Newfound Harbor only picnic island has sand. The others are just a mass of mangrove roots.When my wife and I sailed back to Key West after our final cruise to the Bahamas in 2002 we stopped here for our last night before going home to Key West. We often remark we had no idea we would end up living in a house here. It was Emma's last sail before she sank into old age and illness forcing us off the boat and into a house. I had that SPCA yellow Lab for 12 years and together we crossed the country four times visiting 23 states and we sailed the length of Central America visiting every country between California and Florida from Colombia to Cuba. Her last night at anchor she spent here. Three years later she was dead, and I still miss her.I have to confess I am not a great fan of black and white photography, not for the kind of pictures I take, but I was playing with the camera as Cheyenne sniffed around. It's not exactly Clyde Butcher.Time to go; people to see, things to do. The water is quite shallow off the beach itself.

Back to our channel.

Cheyenne was ready to get home too.Up the canal......past sunbathing neighbors...

...swimming iguanas...To home sweet home.The tide was high enough I could lift Cheyenne onto the dock. If the tide is out I nuzzle the boat into the mangroves alongside the dock and Cheyenne jumps out and runs up to the house under her own steam.One last look down the canal and its off to do some chores. Laundry anyone?