Wandering BPK

The only goal I had when I set off from the house was to drop a Netflix disc off at the Big Pine Key Post Office and get some exercise along the way, so I rode my bicycle.

I like to ride against the traffic on the highway which gives me a chance to see who might be losing control of their vehicle and about to run me down. Which put me in the path of a broken down Mitsubishi Montero on the shoulder. I got the chance to discover just how complex changing a tire on one of these SUVs can be, but luckily she was an organized woman and she had the manual. Which didn't stop me putting the tire on inside out (erg!) and squirting myself with hydraulic fluid when I released the valve on the jack. Which made it impossible to raise the car a second time and put the spare on a second time, right-side-in. Well, at least she got to drive home to Marathon to get her wheel done right by a pro. I can change the tire on the Maxima in ten minutes flat but that Mitsubishi was some kind of Chinese puzzle. I'll do better next time.I decided to ignore my crotch full of hydraulic fluid and pressed on with the program. I dropped off the disc and took a circuit through the neighborhood behind the post office. I wasn't planning on taking any pictures, but then I passed a couple of abandoned mattresses and I thought: look at this lovely little street... and some ass couldn't be bothered to pay five bucks to drop these off at the dump on Blimp Road? Grrr.
This gravel pit got red tagged. It looked weird. The permit was on the telephone pole and underneath it, a month ago, it got red tagged saying it didn't look right to the inspector. Wow, I thought, nice neighbors! Such a peaceful backwater, so much drama!
So I took another picture. Then I remembered a rather pretty little bench sitting under a tree further back on Sandy Circle. I turned around; my wanderings had a purpose. I passed a man walking his beer can, and we exchanged a cheery remark about the pleasant temperatures. I looked over my shoulder and he, and his beer can, stepped into the bushes and vanished, like Alice in Wonderland's White Rabbit. I photographed what I think is a giant magnolia, instead.
Guarded by an elderly, weather worn, pale pink flamingo.

It was my day off so clouds were piled up, making for hazy light and what looked like the distinct chance of rain though none materialized. And, at last the bench.
Further up I found this odd looking house, long past it's sell-by date judging by the dilapidated state of the jungle garden and the real estate sign lying on the ground.
The suburban idyll (picture riepe setting fire to Big Pine Key with a cigar)is not quite so idyllic as the state road prison is just across the street, and no doubt this minimum security prison is enough to worry home buyers. Aside from a very loud, buzzy generator I would imagine the prison to be an ideal neighbor, like a cemetery, only the inmates are still alive:The sign said nothing about pictures, only that introducing contraband is against some obscure state law. So obscure they felt the need to enumerate it on the sign. Prison, for the haute bourgeoisie like us, is a fearsome place, the repository of tales of bugger and shanks and murder in the showers, but the inmates from this place are serving less literary time and can off be seen by the side of the road paying back their debt to society riding lawn mowers and gently propping up shovels as they dram of a return to a life of Budweiser and fishing.
There but for the grace of God goes any one of us, I suppose, though properly bourgeois readers will tut-tut and imagine they are, like the memorable lady once arrested for disorderly conduct at the Bull, who shouted "We're too middle class to be arrested!" The officer was having none of it and off she went to the Stock Island Hilton.
The state of Florida doesn't seem to be spending much money maintaining this place. It looks ratty and run down, and rather depressing, despite the best efforts:
Across the street a homeowner boxed in by a stout wooden fence left no doubt as to whys/he lives in the deep mysterious woods of Big Pine Key. In case there were any doubt a sign, backed up by a dog house large enough for a mastiff on the proportions of the Hound of the Baskervilles:
The sign demanding a banning of the bomb reminds us of the cultural diversity of Big Pine Key. Personally I think the mizzen on the ketch is a little over sized, but I could be accused of just being picky.
Then I found a dirt road heading off through the wilderness so naturally, like Yogi Berra I took the fork in the road and it led me to a piece of string, more signage and a cat, though unlike the Cheshire cat that disappeared intro it's own grin, this one sat impassively in the grass looking at me making a fool of myself with my photographic apparatus:
It may very well be private property, but it wasn't that interesting anyway, I convinced myself as i pedaled back through the public property to the paved road.

When you least expect it, you come across a reminder of Canada, land of drizzle, piney islands and people who collect Corvettes. Where Corvettes cannot go, I breezed through on my bicycle, past the cement barricades into a fresh new neighborhood. This house struck me as the residence of an optimist, if s/he builds it just high enough the view across the mangroves will be exhilarating, even if to see it you have to life flat on your stomach under the eaves in the attic:
And the final picture in the series I took from a bridge on the highway headed home, the sun still annoyingly shrouded by clouds, the waters in Newfound Harbor flat, the hovel craft planted firmly in the quicksilver and all color washed out by leaden sky. It still looked good to me.

It did occur to me that were I one of those "one photo a day" merchants, this essay about nothing much at all could have taken me through the next three weeks.

Simonton and Petronia

The request for a "quiet" zone on the 700 block of Simonton Street seems rather quaint in light of all that goes on a block away. The sign seems old enough and worn to hint at another era.The church has a hall attached and they have given it a blinding white paint job, a Caribbean look under the bright white winter sun:And they have barbecue and outdoor seating area for those winter gatherings when it's cool enough. At least that's what I do at home, use the outdoors in winter rather than summer. Across the street another of those bizarre looking cement jobs. It had a Porsche with an Illinois tag in the off street parking spot, so perhaps a little lake shore eccentricity in the land of funky wooden homes is permissible. Apparently the Historic Architecture Review commission thought so... Now this is more like it, boring dependable old Key West, porches planks and picket fences:Simonton Street is by far the best route to cross from north to south and back again, avoiding the cruising on Duval and the sight seeing on Whitehead. And thanks to trees it is scenic enough. Here looking north toward, ultimately, Simonton Beach:

This place has gone through a few iterations of the fast food take out menu. It never seems to last. I suspect lack of easy parking combined with an off the main track location don't help. Probably the rent is too high because the food at the Bottega though good was on the expensive side as I recall. More like a sit down place for me, than a take out. Besides it's hard tot take out when you live 28 miles away. When this was the Bottega there was a silver ET2 (battered and dented) parked outside. My wife's ET4 fills the spot:

Gary the Carpenter is one of my wife's favorite entrepreneurs. He has had a storied life with near misses he talks about quite openly and he favors my wife's class filled with difficult students with stories of how he found his way and made a successful company for himself. He has made a habit of hiring at risk youngsters to give them a chance to avoid the pitfalls he fell into in his younger life.I don't suppose the tourists clambering up the hill on Petronia Street noticed just another construction company. And one likes to think this is a refreshing cola product in her hand at three thirty of a week day afternoon.
Not for long I hope will there be vacancies around town.
This massive affair struck me as two-in-one proposition, the lumpy square utilitarian construction below and gingerbread porch on top.
Off street parking for bicycles is as necessary as any car parking. A stout lock is a useful thing too as bicycles have been known to have been lifted from gated yards, such is their worth in a cycling town (check the pawnshops...). The police department has computerized bicycle registry these days so registering the bicycle by serial number is a very useful thing.I mentioned the trees on Simonton Street:
I would be remiss if I closed this essay without a nod to J. Wills Burke and his The Streets of Key West wherein he tells the story of how John Whitehead told his buddy John Simonton of New Jersey of new business possibilities in the Island annexed with the rest of Florida to the United States in 1821. Simonton, who had interests in Alabama added to his business empire by paying Juan Salas (everyone except Pardon Greene among the early owners of Cayo Hueso were called John for some reason) two thousand dollars for the Island in early 1822. He then quartered the island and sold shares to John Whitehead, John Fleeming (sic), John Mountain and Consul John Warner. The last two sold their shares to the Pardon Green aforementioned. Salas meanwhile made a second sale to John Strong who sold his share to John Geddes, but in 1825 the Johns who have streets named after them (and Greene) won out their claims before the US Land Claims Board.

And there you have it, Whitehead, Greene, Fleming (sic) and Simonton. And not one street named Geddes.

Fog of Peace

I feel an overwhelming sense of gloom as the holiday season gears up and we all ready ourselves for whatever Thanksgiving and Christmas are likely to bring. It seems churlish but I see many lumps of coal ahead, and I wish to goodness I were wrong. They tell us the economy is on the mend but I wonder how that can be as unemployment worsens, the health care bill weakens and Peak Oil bears down upon us all. Through it tourism in Key West still seems to be strong, albeit with lower prices for rooms. And yet, and yet this nagging feeling of all not being well won't leave me.

The recent revelation by the International Energy Agency that it's numbers for projected oil output are rubbish, at the behest of the US government, gives weight to forecasters of doom like J H Kunstler and his ilk who have long predicted a steadily declining standard of living as oil gets harder and harder to find, and thus more expensive. Cheap oil has under pinned everything about modern first world living and the end of cheap oil means...? Well, it doesn't seem like it has to mean an end to civilization as we know it but we have lost the art of the sensible debate in this country so we seemed to have doomed ourselves to march up to the edge of the cliff and will have to fall over it just on principle.

The national health care debate, that is supposed to move onto the Senate floor this weekend is just the latest and nastiest example of our need to ignore the glaringly obvious. Heath care coverage is deficient and expensive in the US, but instead of debating how best to make meaningful changes available to our citizens in need, half the debating team crossed their arms, shouted insults and left the sand box.

The war in Afghanistan that was needed a decade ago to respond forcefully to the 9-11 attacks got diluted by a crazy scheme to invade Iraq at vast expense on the flimsiest of excuses and lies and now the word quagmire rears it's ugly head. And we can't debate our way out of this one because no one knows why we are there in the first place. Are we bringing corruption and democracy to Afghanistan as an alternative to the Taliban whack jobs? At our expense? Why?

Climate change, now there's a subject that needs intelligent debate and all we get is denial on one side and no coherent plan from the other. If the climate is changing and scientists tell us it is we need to plan. If the climate is changing because of human actions we need to figure out how to change and what to change about how we live. instead we get people getting angry over the very possibility that anything may be wrong with the climate that gives us life.

I have no children and I see no point in my worrying about the next generation's problems if the parents of that generation are sticking their own heads in the sand. I just can't for the life of me escape the sense of unease that keeps prodding me. The economy is an immediate issue and while it acknowledges the unemployment problem the White House shows no plans to start a Works Progress Administration, preferring to keep on funding banks over people. State budgets are imploding all over the country, Florida is facing a 20% deficit and heaven knows where that will lead us.

And as we make our holiday plans a sense of unreality fills my active mind. Cheap oil is running out, unemployment is up. Wells Fargo Bank keeps retreating from refinancing my home, even though I have yet to be late with a payment, and they have calmly pocketed 25 billion in public funds. And one looks out of the window and life rolls on, apparently without a glitch. Am I dreaming or is there a giant glitch over the horizon?

Summerland Caribbean

If I had to see this cheery billboard every time I came home "...love for life!" I'd barf, but saccharine sentiments have never been my strong suit. Summerland Cove, despite it's arch "leave-it-to-Beaver" public sentiment is quite the neighborhood in the Lower Keys. It's rather hidden away from the Overseas Highway but the old Bahama Jack's restaurant is a landmark on the other side of the road. Slice of Paradise Pizza (the best in the Lower Keys in my opinion) is also found next to the bridge entrance to the subdivision whose street is marked thus:

The little bridge crosses the canal that separates Summerland Cove from the rest of the island:

I've been down this canal system in my boat, looking for fuel at the Chevron dock next to Highway One, but it's a bit of a chore threading your way back and forth through the maze of waterways at walking speed. Much better to cruise the neighborhood by bicycle, all the better to admire the architecture:

One could easily imagine oneself perched out here on the open water view on this glorious November afternoon:This enormous pile is available for seasonal rental, though I have to say it looked rather shabby and even unfinished.

It felt like every other house was for sale or for rent up and down the street.

It's a shame but this seems like a neighborhood falling on hard times. Not surprising really, considering the state of the economy, but this is a place where the modern McMansions were thriving during the housing bubble.

Everyone wanted their stilt home in the sun.

With attendant vessel of course:

And for some a whole island is barely enough:
For everybody else there is cheek-by-jowl island living:

Sometimes one dish just isn't enough.This next home had a "Beware of the Dog" sign tacked to the front, just to make the place look homely. I figured a "Beware of the Steps" might have been apposite, especially for a visitor with a heart condition.

I tried repeatedly with various exposures to get the proper shade of turquoise to shine through in this next picture. Had my wife come home to our slightly shabby house painted with the exquisite care of this one, but in this startling shade of teal I think she might kill me. For somebody this bright paintwork spells (winter) home:For somebody else lemon yellow is the right shade of house paint. This is apparently a year round resident, one of those charming people who like to inflict their very loud radios on the neighborhood. I got the weather forecast from US1 Radio (107.1FM) from this canal side residence. "For you boaters..." the woman's voice bawled across the water as she gave the marine forecast with all the expert knowledge of someone who wouldn't know a rudder from a prop shaft. Glorious noise pollution; come the revolution all transistors will be short circuited.

This Mediterranean-style home will do nicely until strong winds pick up hurling terra cotta tiles acorss the neighborhood. Metal roofs do best in hurricane country.

"But by all means dump across the street at my neighbor's..."

I'll bet this concrete block structure was one of the original homes built in this subdivision. they cost twice as much to insure as stilt homes, as they are subject to flooding in storms, but they are the typical Florida dwellings of the 50s and 60s, and as such worth noting:

This is modern Florida; an empty lot, a seawall and a giant pile struggling for an ocean glimpse from the top floor. Nearer to God and further from good taste.Old boats don't decompose, they just sink into the shrubbery:

And modern homes surrender to the weeds as banks foreclose and mortgage holders flee and entropy takes back the former American Dream of a home in the sun:

Florida, for the first time ever, saw more people leave the state, than move in, last year. Should we be glad, finally, or worried?