Family Stories
Things to think about, remember, smile and laugh about.
A Fort Meyers Special
Puffin is now at the Legacy Harbor Marina in downtown Ft. Meyers. We stayed here last year and enjoyed both the Marina and it's easy walking access to downtown. What we never realized until informed recently by friends, was that a very special donut shop was just across the street.
This is no ordinary chain store like Dunkin' Donuts or Krispy Kreme. In fact the word "donut" isn't even mentioned on the sign outside. It's a modest mom and pop style shop that simply says "Bennett's, Fresh Roast". What it does do however, is offer veritable explosions of sugar lovingly melded to a matrix of baked flour they call donuts. While this news may not excite everyone, it's exciting enough that any given morning finds fifteen or twenty cars parked outside. Like lemmings, they are helplessly seduced by a continuing addiction to these saccharine sugar bombs.
It's all about the donuts here. If you want protein or something with a modicum of nutrition, please, just roll on down the street. At Bennett's you just sit back at one of the tables and let your eyes roll back in a sugar stupor, leavened with intermittent doses of caffeine or you can just bring 'em home and enjoy a bagful of sucrose iniquity in the privacy of your own home.
You can find coffee or O.J. here, maybe even some cold cereal, but it's really about the donut. As expected, a variety of donut styles are offered. If you're really hankering for protein, we saw donuts topped in white icing with chunks of bacon camped on the top like numbers on a clock. For those for whom mainlining sucrose is insufficient, there are also donuts with marshmallow nuggets similarly embedded in the icing. We just ordered a twist and a chocolate covered donut.
We might add that these puppies are big! We lugged a pair onto Puffin and she listed to one side as we boarded. Sitting later with a mug of coffee, we had to hold this donut with both hands, a specimen so freshly baked it was in danger of breaking in half from its own weight. Wow, we're glad we didn't eat them in public - our facial expression would probably have gotten us arrested. Bob - February 24, 2013
// The above blog post, was written in 2013, when Nancy and I were cruising in Florida. It’s one my favorites for the memories of a sugar bliss never quite experienced before or after. A (former) long-time donut devotee, re-reading these words pinched out a couple of nostalgic, calory-filled tears. (For more blogs see Stories > Collected Blogs) //
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Golly, Let’s Write A Blog
Nancy and I retired in 2010 and decided to take our 39 foot trawler style boat to Florida via the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW), a long-time dream. As we embarked on the waterway, enjoying new experiences at every port, I concluded a blog would be a good way to commemorate this grand adventure. I had never done a blog and neither had I followed anyone else’s digital musings. Undaunted we took a friend’s recommendation for a blog service and subscribed.
One soon imagines a following of thousands, waiting restlessly for the each installment. The reality was that I had maybe,… ten. I nonetheless felt a complusion or perhaps a simple infatuation with my own words. Unfortunately the ability back then to connect to wifi was limited and the first few blogs were tediously typed into my iPhone, letter by letter. Bob - July 2020
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Two Moms and a Mouse.
The story begins on a morning this summer as daughter Sara comes over to the house to borrow my wife’s car for a couple of days. Sara knocks on the door, greets us, thanks us for the car loan and asks if there any hidden mouse traps in the car. (Nancy has a protracted history of mice in her cars. She often sets traps in the car.)
A moment for some background here. As you might guess, my wife, Nancy, and the other mom, Sara have an intensely visceral dislike of mice.
On a spectrum of reactions to unpleasant surprises, one might hear a mild gasp at first, a muttered “eww”! A more unpleasant surprise might elicit an involuntary, high-pitched, choking “uh, uh - aargh!”. A third yet more definitive reaction might include a sharp, stiff recoil followed by a short scramble, ignoring the niceties of a normal social departure. At the upper end of the spectrum, early panic can morph into a compound freakout; a panicked look, incoherent burbling and a frantic, flapping motion of the hands, all,while in rapid retreat, sometimes backwards.
I share a more benign outlook; the mice were here first and we now share their woodsy environment. I am quite uncomfortable with the idea of any animal suffering, even mice and worms.
An aside: I am somewhat less tolerant, however, should I find mouse droppings on my little shelf of snacks in the pantry. That stretches the limits of my tolerance.
On a spectrum of reactions to unpleasant surprises, one might hear a mild gasp at first, a muttered “eeww”. A more unpleasant surprise might elicit an involuntary, high-pitched “uh, uh - aargh!”. A third, more definitive reaction might include a sharp, stiff recoil followed by a short scramble, ignoring the normal niceties of a social departure. At the upper end of the spectrum real panic can morph into a compound freakout; a panicked look, incoherent burbling, maybe a short scream and a frantic, flapping motion of the hands all while in rapid retreat, sometimes backwards.
I share a more benign outlook; the mice were here first and we now share their woodsy environment. I am quite uncomfortable with the idea of any animal suffering, even mice, insects and worms.
However, I am somewhat less tolerant should I find mouse droppings on my little shelf of snacks in the pantry. That stretches the limits of my tolerance.
A few years back I did in fact suffer such an indignity. Fire in my eyes, I dialed the local exterminator and later left the house so that he could do his thing. To my relief, the imagined bloodshed didn’t materialize. All the tiny little pockets of ingress were plugged and we had no further interior issues of significance.
There is a modest family of furry rodents residing under our entranceway. They live their life, we live ours. I know they are there as I see their tiny tracks in the snow, nearly every day in winter. I am fine with that. Sometimes I brush post-prandial cookie crumbs off my shirt while standing outside in the entrance way. Perhaps I imagine it as a way of sharing my good fortune. Nancy is not so pleased with that habit so most trips are made in stealth.
But I digress… Both wife and daughter are smart women with an amazing and resilient inner strength, an aggressive outlook in problem-solving. They are successful in business, volunteer endeavors and adept at overcoming occasional potholes along the road that is life’s journey,
Returning now to Sara’s question about the presence of traps, Nancy steps to the car, now reminded of the last trap she set. She bends over and reaches for it. Sara, content to let her mother handle this chore, stands by looking on. With gloved hand, Nancy pulls out the mousetrap at arm’s length, wincing a little because there is a dead mouse in it. No panic though. She gamely starts to walk over to the woods for disposal. But the mouse isn’t dead. It is wriggling, determinedly. Certainly not the sorrowful muscle spasms of life’s last paragraph. Surprisingly, Nancy does not drop the trap with its furry treasure. No, steely-eyed, Nancy carries on with her mission. Sara, slowly backing away, with a repugnant look on her face, turns away, hovering between the first and second phases on that spectrum of discomfort.
Nancy returns to the car, empty trap in hand. (Nancy has a strong sense of thrift - this trap will be re-used.) Calm is restored. Standing on the entranceway deck, I stifle a little smirk, thinking of Nancy’s inner discomfort. Nonetheless Nancy leans into the car with sterile wipes to remove any microbial remainders.
All of sudden, there is a shriek, a startled look and a pointed finger, all coming at once from Sara. Nancy, startled, straightens up. Sara exclaims, “I just saw it, I just saw it”. “What?” We ask, “What did you see?”
Sara explains it was the mouse, running up from the lawn and back under the small deck at the entranceway. Neither Nancy nor I actually saw it, we are a little incredulous. Sara insisted it’s what she saw.
I suddenly realize, it’s returning to its home under the entrance way. It’s an instinct we share, just the thing we would do after a terrifying trauma. Go home, get comfy, succor the wounds, calm the emotional distress. Wounded, this plucky little mouse had scampered over 100 feet up from the woods, even passing in front of us a scant three feet away, just to return to his hideaway. I stared in amazement and tried unsuccessfully to stifle another snicker.
Nancy returns to her cleansing regimen while Sara, moving north along that aforementioned spectrum, starts to jog purposefully up the driveway. I am proud of her; she successfully avoided the compound freakout and begins the journey back to normal. It cannot have been easy and I, useless as I was throughout this backyard drama, am quite proud of both of them. Bob - July 2020
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An Epic Critique
I finished writing a short fund-raising letter recently and asked my wife to edit it, something I’ve done on occasion over the years. I typically ask her for grammatical proof only, don’t bother with the content, please. I don’t want to unnecessarily burden her time.
And I am a better writer. I know this because I have read much of my writing. The writing’s even better months or years later when I reread it. At the risk of immodesty, I can say I admire it - my treat to the world.
My writing is perhaps not succinct, but it’s descriptive, offering the reader a minimum of acronyms, buzzwords and cliches, using metaphors sparingly to color a situational rendering. I’m drawn to inventive phrasing and clever alliteration. A successful etymological adventure is its own reward.
I like to think my writing is lightly salted with irony and light humor.
But my wife does not agree that my writing is better. Not at all. So stating, even at the risk of bruising a tender pride. She wears that attitude quietly though, with the self-assurance of a newly-minted cleric.
This time, I wanted to be certain the letter affected the right tone and asked for her review of the content.
After a day or so, I glanced at the kitchen counter which serves as an auxiliary office rather than its original intent for food service. I didn’t see my paper there. Later I checked her office, the other logical location. Nothing. So I finally asked her if she’d had a chance to review it, because I was on a bit of a deadline.
“Oh yes”, she said, “let me get it”. I returned to my office to await the letter, replete with grammatical notations. She dropped it off and soon I picked it up. The paper was quite devoid of markings. “Success”, I thought. I exulted. As I looked more closely, I realized it was clean because she has re-written the entire letter. Brand new, top to bottom! Nothing preserved of my precious verbiage. I stood up, circled my small office three times, sat down, reread the letter and noticed her final advice. “I suggest a different font. Your choice bothers me”.
Ouch. An entire morning’s work, remorselessly expunged. And capped with a final tweak - “Change the font”... Really? Careers have been altered for a critique less ringing. I am sure the bright scars of this epic failure will be visible for a long time. Bob - Aug 30, 2020
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