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Earl (Earl & Wilma from Michigan’s Thumb) Tuesday, 11:00 a.m.
Wives should always be dead sure their husbands care about them. Wilma and me don’t have a lot of what they call worldly goods, but we do okay. We had a farm in southeast Michigan, but when we were ready to retire, we turned it over to family instead of selling the land to some developer to build condos on. We live on Social Security plus what our nephew pays on the land contract each month. That means we don’t have a fat retirement, but we’re pretty good at cutting corners. Wilma was a recycler long before it was all the rage, and she comes up with clever ways to reuse things and save money. I’m okay with that, even if I get a blister from wearing socks that are darned. I forget sometimes and do things that irritate her, like throwing away the little skewer they give you at the grocery store when you taste-test a new product. Wilma uses them as stakes to support the seedlings she starts every spring. We don’t have fields to take care of anymore, but you should see our back porch in Michigan. It’s loaded with everything from tomatoes to coriander—whatever that is.
My wife is so clever it amazes me. She can make something out of nothing, and she always has exactly the right thing in one of her bags to make a gift prettier or to hide a stain or a hole in my shirt. Because she’s creative, she isn’t always practical, so I figure that’s where I can help. Wilma never thinks ahead. If the sun is shining, she acts like it will shine all day long. If she has enough flour to make a cake today, she doesn’t think about the pie she’ll want to make next. I make it a point to be watchful and show her I still care, even after all these years.
We first came to B-Bird a few years ago in search of a second home that’s warmer than our regular one. We picked this park at random, but we stayed because everybody here is real nice. I like that it’s all older people, with no smart-aleck teenagers around to hassle us. A friend of ours has a nice condo in St. Pete, but he says that during Spring Break the kids are a real pain, making noise all night and breaking the bulbs in the street lamps.
After the murder in December, I realized we weren’t as safe as I’d thought. Since then, I’ve been more careful about watching over Wilma. I don’t want my girl to ever have to worry about the bad things that can happen. I can’t buy Wilma fancy cars or whatever, but I was trained by the United States military, so I can look out for her. I understand that it was a long time ago, but a guy doesn’t forget how to stand between the people he cares about and those that want to hurt them.
Not that I’m one of those paranoid types. B-Bird is a pretty safe place, and George has done what he could to beef up security since the murder happened. He sent us all a letter saying what’s being done to keep everyone protected, and I think he’ll do his best to see to it.
We’ve got some oddballs in the park. Matthew Nowicki, who lives on Hawk Street, is one of those conspiracy nuts, always telling how the U.S. government is controlled by aliens or some such nonsense. If you can ignore that, Matthew isn’t a bad guy. He’s always helping with events, and the ladies appreciate a man who’s willing to let them order him around.
Then there’s Del Hanna on Egret Street, who brings a new woman to Florida every year. I try not to judge others—that’s God’s job—but I doubt Del meets his “ladies” at church, if you know what I mean. Still, he’s got his good side. Del sounds exactly like Pat Boone when he sings. Somebody talked him into joining the choir, and his voice adds a lot. It’s probably good for him to hear the sermon every week too, but again, it’s not my place to judge.
There’s a woman on Crane Street, Olive Something, who talks to the birds. She doesn’t do it the way a normal person might, “Nice bird,” or, “You’re a fine-looking fellow.” She argues with them, apparently on topics such as tax evasion, and it can go on for twenty minutes at a time. When she goes back north this summer and her kids see how far gone she is, I figure Olive won’t be coming back to B-Bird. In the meantime we all look out for her, checking to see she remembers to eat and whatever.
So we have some odd people here, but we also have lots of normal ones, and a nice, natural setting too. In modern Florida, nature is too often stuffed into corners circled by six-lane highways. For my whole life before this, I had a few hundred acres all to myself, so most places I go around here feel crowded. Still, the park is set off the highway, and the lake and the trees to make you forget you’re in the middle of one of the most tourist-dense states in the union. It gets pretty quiet at night, and I like to go down to the shore late and listen to the critters. Some, like the squirrels and songbirds, are getting ready for a good night’s sleep. Others, like the raccoons and coyotes, are sticking their noses out to see what they can find to eat. I often sit on a bench at the lake edge and listen to the world that isn’t people. It helps a guy feel rested.
Last night I had kind of a shock. I got up to go and almost bumped into a guy when I stepped onto the road. It was too dark to see more than a black shape, but he made that “Ope!” sound people make when they’re surprised. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay,” he muttered, and in a second he was gone. I didn’t recognized the voice, but there are plenty of people in the park I’ve never met. Another man who enjoys the feeling of being alone for a while, I figured. At night it’s easier to forget how crowded life is in a trailer park, even a nice one like ours.
