We’re having a late-season warm spell. Which gives me a few more days, or maybe a little longer,
to ride around on my scooter with my shirt off. I was out today and a couple out of some romantic
comedy pulled over to put the top down on their Mustang. They honked as I rode by. My scooter-beep
brought a wave and a shriek from Amanda and a fist up from Channing. A last hurrah.
Autumn around here is a slow drift into a Canadian summer. My only joy is that we still have a
couple more months before the snowbirds descend, with their noise, their road rage, beach-busting,
and viruses. And money to spend. Me, I’d like to head further south come Christmas, with a couple
of playmates, til spring. Crooked Island, maybe. Never heard of it? Exactly.
I awoke this morning from a disturbing dream. I was in a boat at the marina when a huge storm,
dreadful forty-foot waves, began rolling in. Much chaos, battening down, scrambling, ensued. And
getting packed up to move to higher ground. This was a foreshadowing, it was obvious by morning
light, of the coming seasonal influx. But I fell back asleep pondering the things I would take
with me, not all of it sensible. Camera, laptop, a few old letters, the bottle of Chanel, the
baseball, the Cocteau... the rod and reel... the bottle of shirazzzzzz....