While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Old School Values

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Old Miakka’s 103-year-old schoolhouse is a vestige of East County’s pioneering past. Two former pupils walk us down that dirt path.

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If you head south on Verna Road, past a yawning canopy of mossy oak trees, past the dead-end of Fruitville, you’ll find yourself at the Old Miakka Schoolhouse.

This white clapboard building with its craggy screened porch, freshly burnished bell and rusty seesaw might stick out in other communities. But nestled among the pines in sleepy Old Miakka it makes perfect sense.

Like the residents of this East Sarasota settlement, the one-room schoolhouse harkens back to Florida’s oft forgotten pioneer days. At 1,700-square-foot, it is the community’s crown jewel, a testament to Old Florida’s southern grit and roots; tranquil and charming down to the wasps living in the eaves.

“When you walk in the ghosts say hey, and you say hey back,” says Becky Ayech, President of the Miakka Community Club. “The fact that it’s still standing, when everything else old in Sarasota County gets torn down exemplifies our community spirit.”

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Friday in 15 pictures

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We dressed in warm clothes. We went on a picnic. We picked up our Hot Mama’s of St. Pete Co-op basket. We played kickball. We made a sweet organic salad using fixin’s from our basket. We tried to set up a trampoline, but ended up bouncing around the yard instead. We got excited when Joe came home. We played with a strange, creepy baby doll from the 1960s. We fell asleep happy.

My eggs, in one basket

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My neighbor’s urban chickens are always running their beaks. After two years I finally got an omelet to show for it.

Last week, a 12-year-old boy knocked on my door holding a small container of brown eggs.

“They were laid today,” he said, handing over the loot, still speckled with black feathers and bird crap.

“Thanks,” I said. “I was in the mood for a good scrambly.”

He scurried away before I could ask him if his goose lays any golden eggs.

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A clothesline for my mothership

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I aim to pay homage to my mother(a day late) with this post.

I went to Ace Hardware over the weekend and purchased among many things, a clothesline.

Nothing major. Just a piece of white nylon rope that I stretched between two trees behind my house, a span that runs the width of my tiny backyard.

I did this because I’m green-washed and cheap. Since I live in Florida, where every day the sun shines, the birds chirp and Snow White kneels in my parched grass and summons Jay birds to her fingertips, I see no reason why I can’t save some money (and the environment) by running my dryer a little less. Not to mention the fact that I love clotheslines, which is where my mom comes into play.

My mom can work a clothesline like nobody’s business.

Growing up I used to stand beside her and hand her wooden clothespins as she pinched sheets on our clothesline, or draped my father’s heavy jeans over two lines at once so they wouldn’t sag to the ground.

My mom’s clothesline is enormous; an almost Amish clothesline that my father cemented to the ground beside a corn field, that in the summer gets spread with liquid manure so pungent my mother used to run like a gazelle out the back door to rip the clothes down whenever the spreader ran its course.

“C’mon girls! Richmonds are spreading shit. Help me get the clothes off the line.”

Anyone who grew up in the country with a clothesline knows this routine. I had friends whose mothers responded the same way, and some friends whose mothers did not. Hence some kid went to school with their Wranglers smelling like a barn.

Clotheslines also make me think of my Oma and my Nana. On summer evenings, I’ve stood beside either one of these women helping un-pinch my Papa’s white T-shirts or my Opa’s black socks.

There’s a therapeutic monotony to hanging clothes on a line. The act of pulling pins out of a bucket is repetitive. Utilitarian. Time consuming. Lending itself to the act of daydreaming. Even better, saving money.

My mother loves the way sheets smell after they’ve hung out to dry on her clothesline. (This is on non-manure days.) When my sisters and I were little, she used to pull our sheets off the line and sniff them as we ran around her legs, clamping our lips with the pins to see how much pain we could withstand, charging through bath towels like Pamplona bulls.

There’s a Zen-like serenity in the folds of sheets.  When they were hanging out to dry, I used to walk between my parent’s queen-sized sheets and try to make out silos in the distance. Through the thread-bare flapping of off-white cotton the world looked hazier, safer, lovelier, softer.

When a thunderstorm would roll in, we’d all help her pull clothes off the line. My dad too. Galloping out the back door, our black cocker spaniel following us like a shadow as we traipsed with armfuls of wet laundry into the house and down the stairs into the basement, where we had a second clothesline for winter drying, manure days and rain events.

As with any family whose clothes dry outside, there are were those embarrassingly awkward (or just plain uncomfortable) mornings when we’d pluck June bugs out of our underwear. Or days when our jeans were so stiff from line drying they’d stand up like confederate soldiers and we’d have to pole vault our way in.

When my sisters and I were teenagers, we’d plead with our mother to tumble our jeans in the dryer.

“It’s like you STARCHED ’em,” we’d piss and moan.

When we had boys over, I remember running to the clothesline to pull my ratty Hanes off the line before anyone arrived. Clotheslines are quaint when all that’s drying on them are T-shirts, socks and sheets, but nothing is more mortifying than watching your pair of flowery high-waisted briefs flap like a faded circus parachute while you and your 16-year-old girlfriends chicken fight with boys in the pool.

So, here’s to you Mothership: a late Mother’s Day post, as I sit on my back deck, waiting for the washer to buzz, contemplating whether or not I should hang my baggy bloomers on the line, I am of course smiling and thinking of you.

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PS. AND to both my parents: Happy 30th wedding anniversary. Do something sappy tonight, will ya? Dad: don’t work on the roof. Mom: don’t do laundry. You guys should rent two-for-one romantic comedies at Shurfine and cuddle with Uncle Homer The Pug.

For red-headed pug lovers and hometown farmers

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This ain’t me, but if it were, I’d be fine with it.

The hair! The pug! The ankle socks! The Mary Janes! I wish this chick lived in St. Pete so we could kick it over beer and peanuts. I wish I hadn’t just happened upon this picture while randomly searching for PUGS on Flickr.
Today I’m word-loose and Lancey-free, basking in the kind of deep relief that comes with turning in a story at 1 p.m.
When he’s in the middle of an assignment, Joe, my fiancé, who’s an associate editor here, likes to say: “The story’s done. I’ve just got to write it.”
On most days, that’s usually where my head is. Floating somewhere between Story’s Done and Just Got to Write It.
But not today! Today I turned in a big story – a cumbersome but interesting one – then I took the pug to Coffee Pot Park and I sat on a bench by the bay with my eyes closed for 20 minutes and daydreamed.
It was glorrrrious. 
I called my Nana, and then my mother and I sat for awhile longer on the bench and listened to water lapping at the break-wall. The sloshing reminded me of my childhood spent on a sailboat in Lake Erie, so I closed my eyes again and willed memories into focus.
The pug, happy to be in the shade under the bench, was so quiet and grunt-less I forgot he was with me, so I let the leash go slack.
Then I walked back to my house off Coffee Pot Drive, scheduled a few interviews and retreated to the backyard, where I sat in my Sky Chair and contemplated something my mother had said:
One house down from the house I grew up in, lives a man named Norm who owns the grape fields stretching up and down Langford Road.
He’s about 90 years old, dour as hell and drives a rusted truck. When I was a kid he used to pull into our driveway and lay on the horn whenever he wanted to talk to my dad. According to my parents, he still does this today except lately his visits are fewer and far between.
My parents say it’s been years since the red-headed goose-haired farmer stopped in, so when his pick-up truck pulled into the driveway yesterday my mom kind of did a double-take and my dad kind of sat back and waited to hear a horn-honk.
When that didn’t happen, my dad went out to the truck to see what was up and a few minutes later walked back in the house with a bemused look on his face.
“Do we have any masking tape?” He asked my mom.
“MASKING TAPE?” My mom yelled from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” my dad said. “Norm needs a piece of masking tape.”
“MASKING TAPE? What?” My mom asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” he sighed. “Just rip him a piece.”
So my mom ripped my dad a piece of masking tape and my dad brought it out to Norm, who was waiting as usual in his jitney truck, and the two sat in the driveway for awhile catching up on stuff.
That night, my dad wondered out loud if maybe Norm just wanted someone to talk to. He apparently needed the masking tape to adhere his crumbling car inspection sticker to his windshield, but my dad has a hunch the old man’s just lonely. His wife died not long ago and since then, Norm’s been up to all sorts of nice things. For one: he reconciled with his estranged brother Carl, who lives one door down from him on Langford Road, and whom he hasn’t spoken to in 25 years.
Turns out Norm’s leaving the country for the first time this summer. His daughter is taking him on a Caribbean cruise.
Well, my dad said, wouldn’t ya know the old bugger doesn’t have a birth certificate! He’s come across nothing but trouble trying to get a passport for this cruise. He tried talking to the town clerk about it and she suggested he talk to someone in New York City.
The Office of Vital Records in New York told Norm they only deal with ancient birth certificate requests in person. So next thing Norm knows, he’s flying into LaGuardia to deal with the matter face-to-face.
When he got there, the agency suggested he find someone who was at least eight years old when he was born to prove he wasn’t trying to pull a fast one on the government.
“That’s gonna be tough,” Norm said. “Nobody that age is still alive.”
So the agency let it slide, using testimony from Carl, who’s three years older, to prove that yes, Norm was born in the United States and has lived in North Collins, N.Y. since the Paleozoic Era.
“All of this to go on a cruise?” I asked my mother.
“Hell,” she said. “It’ll probably be the first time Norm’s left the state!”
—
PS. Lance turned one year old on Friday. Happy belated, pal.
PPS. R.I.P. Dorothy Zbornak.
PPPS. Pug-walking photo by Zen. For his photostream, click here.