La Loquita del Zig-Zag

From Jerry Wilkinson, History of Upper Matecumbe Key Website.

TRES AGUITAS AND SEVENTY YEARS
BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Tuesday, September 20, 2005, 5 p.m.: The National Hurricane Center just lifted the Tropical Storm Warnings from Miami-Dade and Broward Counties. I’m breathing a sigh of relief.

About an hour before, I’d been watching the removal of debris from US 1 in the Lower Matecumbe area. Upper Matecumbe is now known as Islamorada.

Lots of flooding in the Upper and Middle Keys: the Overseas Highway had HAD to be cleared, or else no one could have reached the folks in the Lower Keys.

Not too bad in Key West, the city’s mayor stated within the last hour. Rita’s done less damage to our Southernmost City than either Dennis or Katrina, he said.

The bad stuff’s still coming down in the Middle Keys.

Matecumbe: what a pretty name. I always notice it on the way down. Upper, and Lower

A BIG one. A HUGE one, hit the area in 1935. It’s still known as the Labor Day Hurricane. It destroyed about forty miles worth of tracks, on Henry Flagler’s Overseas Railroad. The eye stretched from Craig (yes, there was a family named Craig) to Long Key.

The township of Craig boasted—and still boasts—the lowest barometric pressure ever recorded on the mainland of the United States: 26.35 inches.

The Hurricane of 1935 was a Category 5 storm. Twenty-five years later, Category 4 Donna again wreaked havoc in roughly the same area.

Seventy years later, along comes Category 2 Rita. It’s pounding Marathon as I write this.

For all intents and purposes, we in Dade and Broward Counties got away with tres aguitas.

As Rita proceeds on her headlong rush toward landfall somewhere in Texas, all we can hope for is that a little town, somewhere between Upper and Lower Matecumbe, retains the record it set seventy years ago.

I just finished watching this year's Emmy extravaganza.
Ellen DeGeneres did a fairly good job of hosting it: whatever timing did not go according to plan was certainly not her fault. One of the two best moments of the evening was most certainly when David Letterman paid tribute to his mentor, Johnny Carson. And then Jon Stewart did the same for Dave, which, considering that he walked away with most of the "reality" humor awards for the evening, was especially sweet. Conan O'Brien also appeared to be touched. But where, I wonder, was Bill Maher?

When Johnny passed away, I wrote the following:

THE QUINTESSENTIAL AMERICAN

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

It didn’t dawn on me until this morning: Johnny Carson passed away on my mother’s birthday. She would have liked that, I think, as she herself was quiet, self-effacing… and managed to have perfect timing. Just like Johnny.
It takes a helluva comedian to be able to play the straight to someone else’s funny. Engaging in humor – or, at least, attempting to do so – I’m discovering that as I go along. Perhaps not so much through my written work, but when I come out with something that—for reasons often unbeknownst to me—makes someone laugh, I sometimes take a step back, look at the person quizzically… and only succeed in making her/him laugh even more. I think this is called delivery. And delivery cannot exist without timing.
My mother was great at the delivery and the timing. You’re either born with it, or you’re not. In my opinion, my mother had it. And so did Johnny.
My mother could make me laugh at the drop of a hat. She had the whole ward howling when she peered into a patient’s throat to see just what the unfortunate man had swallowed. He’d swallowed the sole of a tennis shoe. According to my mother’s favorite nurse, my mother peered in, straightened up, and proclaimed: “What a strange appetite.” Her delivery and timing were impeccable. Again, just like Johnny.
Never much of a night owl until recently, I missed many of Johnny’s great moments, so I actually played catch-up, of sorts, last night via NBC and Larry King. Don Rickles, looking very sad, was a guest on both. As I don’t remember seeing Johnny’s farewell in 1992, it felt so good to view Bette Midler deliver her loving, grateful showstopper. Once again: Johnny in the shadows, letting someone else shine.
But then, again, he had an eye for talent. The Divine Miss M, Joan Rivers, Don Rickles, Steve Martin, Jerry Seinfeld, Jay Leno… and David Letterman, to name a few.
David Letterman: well, I’ve gotten in the habit of watching him over the course of the last several years. I confess I prefer his monologue to Leno’s. Now I know why: Johnny continued to feed him jokes. OK. Let me get serious again.
Dave’s the one who’s continued to follow Johnny’s format. The one-line zingers that sway between the sublime and the ridiculous in his snappy, no-frills monologue, making me either howl, titter, or, occasionally, hiss. Paul’s his sidekick, instead of Ed. Rupert G’s Deli; Will It Float?; the girls; the animals; the nerves of his guests; his ongoing feud with Oprah: I follow him much more closely, don’t I?
And I didn’t know until yesterday – I didn’t pay attention until yesterday – to the fact that it was Johnny who mentored Dave.
Then again, I didn’t pay attention until almost the end that my mother was mentoring me.
My mother loved quintessential Americans. Harry Truman, Lyndon Johnson, and Charles Kuralt were among her favorites. She must have watched Johnny. It was probably at her side that I first glimpsed him, when I didn’t know what I was supposed to be on the lookout for.
At least I now have a better idea. I’d better keep watching Dave. Thanks for training him, Johnny.
Monday, January 24, 2005

I should have posted this earlier. James Doohan--Scotty in the original Star Trek--passed away while I was sweatily going up and down the streets of Key West this summer. I'll never forget sitting in front of our brand-new RCA Victor color TV on September 8, 1966 to watch the first episode of a brand-new science fiction show that would make stars of a dashing space ship captain; a pointy-eared first officer; his nemesis, a curmudgeonly doctor; three lieutenants: an Asian, a Russian, and--gasp!--an Afro-American...woman; and a flight engineer who bustled about, shaking his head, grasping at controls, always holding the crew of The Enterprise--and us--in suspended animation as, in his thick brogue, he kept saying, "It can't be done!"
I originally posted this on the Star Trek website. Since I changed servers (and browsers), Starship Command won't let me back on board. For now.

BEAM ME UP, ERNIE: BIRTHDAY REFLECTIONS

Notes on the first round of the Papa Hemingway Look-alike contest, Sloppy Joe’s, Duval Street, Key West, Florida, Thursday, July 21, 2005:

Crammed into a corner of the noisy, sweaty, cramped bar closest to the Front Street entrance, I beheld what I quickly dubbed a political convention. What else could it be, with individual Papa supporters waving banners aloft, chanting, and even handing out “bribes” (such as the baggie stuffed with goodies informing me to “Vote for Hank”)?

Democratic, or Republican, I wondered. More like the 2004 Democratic convention on The West Wing than anything else, I came to the conclusion.

Or, perhaps, given the “uniforms” of the candidates, more like a Star Trek convention?

“Uniforms”? Khaki safari shirts with scalloped double layers on the backs; matching shorts; sockless Sperry Topsiders (or hiking boots, with socks); even cableknit sweaters, on the part of several profusely sweating, hearty, and hardy, Papa wannabes.

Anything to obtain “the look.” All orchestrated to attract attention. How could loud shirts, balloon-infested hats, Mr. Spock-like pointed ears and quizzical looks, and Klingonesque furrowed brows and nasty frowns be any different?

The chanting, the cheering, the banner waving began in earnest when the master of ceremonies mounted the stage and introduced all the former Papas in attendance. They’d be the ultimate judges as to who would join them. Or would they?

It would all boil down to caucuses, just like at political conventions, I quickly figured out. Oh, if it were that simple.

The wildly raucous crowd’s roar grew in intensity. Looking around me, everyone was sporting a “Vote for So and So” button; holding a banner or placard aloft with a catchy slogan on it; bobbing up and down; screaming her or himself silly.

For Papas need Mamas: wives; girlfriends; daughters; aunts; cousins; nieces; mothers; even a grandma or two?

Oh, yes: plenty of just plain chums; hangers-on; and bewildered-looking souls such as myself, drinking it all in.

Drinking: ah, that’s the operative word. I’ve never seen more frazzled, yet happier, bartenders.

Someone offered to buy me a beer. I politely declined.

150 contestants were to approach the microphone, 8 at a time, to claim their 15 seconds of fame to Ernest Hemingway’s physical legacy.

The stifling intensity, the growing smell of stale sweat, and soon to be stale beer, drove me away. I awaited the literary legacy’s more subdued reception while sitting on a welcoming stoop on Simonton, steps from Casa Antigua, Ernest and Pauline’s first residence in Key West.

Jotting down these notes, I thought to myself: Sweat. Beer. Humm…

Under The Sweaty Tent: maybe. Sloppy Joe’s resembled a circus, political, and otherwise.

Ernie Heaven. Why not, with all the Papa judges guarding the gates to Papa heaven, just like Saint Peter?

And then I hit on it. Earlier in the day I’d heard that James Doohan, “Scotty” on the original Star Trek, had passed away the day before.

How about, Beam Me Up, Ernie?

I can just hear Scotty saying, in that wonderful brogue of his full of intense exasperation: “It can’t be done.”

Oh, yes, it can.

In Memory of James Doohan
March 3, 1920-July 20, 2005

Lieutenant Ninina reporting for duty, Captain.

A week ago tonight, I found myself in the midst of a power outage due to Hurricane Katrina. I'd lost my power on Thursday, August 25, just as Maria (Julie Andrews) was getting ready to sing "My Favorite Things" to the Von Trapp children. They were trickling into her bedroom, a few at a time, due to a fearsome storm outside. It's an interesting coincidence that I chose to while away my time with "The Sound of Music," isn't it? It's what had struck me I should do when I'd lost my cable several hours earlier, but not my power. Not quite yet, anyway.
I lived through my first hurricane that night. The eye went over my neighborhood. I wasn't quite sure what was happening. Something told me to look outside; I beheld a huge palm frond gracefully draped over my car. Rushing outside, I was relieved the windshield hadn't broken.
I looked some more. Behind my car, black olive branches--some of them huge--had been snapped off the trees, and were lying, helter-skelter, all over the place. The street was flooded. My across the street neighbors saw me; they called out to me. They invited me to come over, offered me dry clothes, food, and, most importantly, companionship. I shall be forever grateful to them. The next morning, I saw what Katrina had wrought: not only were branches down, but whole trees. What is a hurricane, after all, if not a huge, water-filled tornado?
My neighbors banded together like a family. My golf-course designer one house over pulled that palm frond off my car, as well as the black olive branch off my driveway, as if they were mere sticks. I didn't even have to ask.
Friday was assessment day. Shock, I called it. Then came the cleaning; the realization--the resignation--that we might have to be without power for awhile. We didn't know when FPL would get to us, as we were in one of the most devastated areas of the storm.
I learned to tolerate cold showers. I spent my days at my friend's store, where I kept recharging my computer's battery. Friday became Saturday; Saturday, Sunday. By then we knew Katrina was headed toward New Orleans.
I didn't really get to witness what happened on Monday until Tuesday night, when, miracle of miracles, we got our power back on my side of the street (though it had to be turned off for awhile on Wednesday so both sides could be accommodated - THANKS AGAIN to the wonderful crew from South Carolina!). However, I read the paper, saw the pictures...and cringed, and wept--both inside and out--for the beautiful city of New Orleans, for the total devastation that Katrina has wreaked, is wreaking, and will continue to wreak, on the Gulf Coast.
When I was a child, my father and I took a road trip to Galveston. I was nine years old at the time. What follows is the story that came out of me. What would I do without my mother's old pictures? I don't know. I honestly don't know.
I grieve for you, Arnaud's. For your Glass Bottom Everything.

GLASS BOTTOM EVERYTHING
BY GEORGINA MARRERO
In December of 1963, my father and I went on a road trip to visit some friends of his in Galveston, Texas.
For reasons I don’t know, my mother didn’t go with us. Perhaps she wanted a break from her increasingly difficult pre-teen daughter?
No. I don’t think that was it. It probably had more to do with the fact that we still didn’t have much money. Papi was about to finish his residency at the Jackson, and was trying to decide where he’d go, next. For whatever reasons, Miami seemed to be a dead end, at least for the time being.
He had old friends in Galveston. We were probably on our way to scout out the place.
As it was Christmas vacation, Papi and Mami decided I’d go with him. That’s it!
Although we’d been in the United States for only a little over three years at the time, I knew everything about The American Way. There was only one acceptable motel where we could stay: the Holiday Inn.
I drove my poor Papi nuts about staying at Holiday Inns that trip. He obliged me whenever he could.
We headed toward Central Florida first. Then we cut across the state, hit The Gulf of Mexico, and followed the coastline all the way to Galveston.
I was already a voracious reader, and had begun to collect those hard cardboard, glossy-covered Whitman “young lady” adventure storybooks: Annette Funicello on a ranch; and Donna Parker everywhere. Donna Parker in Hollywood had a pink cover, with Donna wearing a sarong and lei at a luau. Later on I’d discover Trixie Belden.
However, I never bought the Nancy Drew books. They were too expensive.
So I probably didn’t drive Papi nuts every second.
The Ocala area was our first stop. As it was my Christmas vacation, we had to have some fun, right?
Papi took me to Silver Springs, to ride on one of their famous glass-bottom boats. We had our souvenir picture taken, along with the other passengers on our boat.
My packrat of a mother kept the picture. Here’s what I see on Boat 27:
Front and left, you find…me. Already on the chubby side, I’m wearing a light colored sweater, a white shirt underneath, and diamond-checked green and who knows what pants. They were probably corduroy. I’m bottomed out with white socks and the Mary Janes that have continued to follow me throughout my life.
It’s the glasses that get me: I’m sporting a dark frame. They’re more rectangular than the pair I know I’d worn just a few months earlier. Definitely less pointy, they’re almost…modern.
I have my hands plastered, one on top of the other, to the side of my right thigh.
Next to me, Papi’s smiling behind his signature green-tinted half-moons. I think his corduroy shirt was blue.
A couple next to him looks almost Eastern European. The woman’s wearing a head scarf. She’s holding a cigarette in her right hand.
On the right hand side, an extremely attractive couple: a blond with a chignon; and a dead ringer for Kirk Douglas, are both smiling, a little enigmatically, at the camera.
Across from Papi and me is an older couple. The kindly-looking woman is looking at…me!
In between us is the glass bottom of a boat.
I may not remember what I saw, but I do remember wondering what it would be like if the glass bottom broke, and we fell through into the water and who knows what.
We made it to The Gulf Coast next: the West Coast of Florida; Alabama; Mississippi; Louisiana.
We spent at least one night in New Orleans, for I remember we went to Arnaud’s.
Antoine’s vs. Arnaud’s: what a dilemma. It had to be a fancy French meal, and it probably stretched our budget, but Papi made sure I ate in a grand French Quarter restaurant. After all, he’d spent many years in France, and probably wanted me to experience a little piece of his—of Mami’s and his—past.
Antoine’s was a little better known. Alas, they were full, so it was Arnaud’s.
I don’t remember what I ate. Maybe escargots, steak au poivre, and some wonderfully delicious dessert? “Sinfully rich” was not part of my vocabulary, not quite yet.
We continued on to Texas. I remember liking Galveston. Papi was glad to see his friends.
Then we drove back. I continued to eat, to read, and to insist on Holiday Inns.
Did I write a “What I Did Over Christmas Vacation” theme for Mrs. Echevarria? I don’t remember. The country was still reeling from the Kennedy assassination. The Beatles were on their way. We were living in the apartment on 14th Terrace by then.
Eight months later we moved to Georgia. The three of us made the trek down from Milledgeville to Miami at least twice a year over the next four years or so. We usually stopped in Ocala.
Not at Holiday Inns, though. Not all the time, anyway.
We never returned to Silver Springs. And I never traveled alone with my Papi, ever again.
Perhaps now I’d become his increasingly difficult pre-teen daughter?
Maybe.
No. Not really.

On August 25, 2005, Hurricane Katrina went over my house as a Category 1 storm. I didn’t even realize it was the eye. My Good Samaritan neighbors, Heather and Tom Jacobsen, and I kept joking to each over, “Boy, if this is a band from a 1, what must the real 1 be like?”
The morning of August 29, 2005, Category 4-5 Katrina swept in, all but destroying New Orleans.
The glass bottom broke for them. Their Glass Bottom Everything.
I sure wish it had been Katrina’s Glass Bottom Everything, instead.
Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 952 words First-time worldwide serial rights