Florida Through My Years - Part II: 1970-1976

Hallandale was where we went now

every year

for our vacation in the winter.

We flew,

and we did the same things

every time.

We drove from the airport to

my grandparents’ apartment,

I shoved my clothes into the bottom drawer,

and then I begged to go to the pool.

The Tropical Sun was always there,

the afternoons were always spent wishing for time in the pool,

the nighttimes were spent in air conditioning

with the windows closed.

I couldn’t smell Florida

or hear the tree frogs,

and Lulu told us
she wanted to be called Grandma.

One year

my mother brought me to Florida

when it wasn’t vacation.

I had to bring my homework with me.

Math.

And I couldn’t go in the pool until I’d done my homework.

Every morning.

I couldn’t do math when I was at school,

and I couldn’t do it when I wasn’t at school.

And my mother couldn’t do math.

She sat with me every morning at a table covered by an umbrella by the pool

and watched over me while I did something in my math book

that I didn’t understand

and she couldn’t help with.

The mockingbirds chee cheed and yip yipped in the fir trees,

the tiny lizards skittered across the pool deck.

I filled in boxes with a pencil, until

I could go in the pool.

One year
my brother and I flew down to Florida

by ourselves.

We swam and played shuffleboard and he slept on the screened porch, 

and we found a coconut on the sidewalk

that had fallen from a palm tree

and we dropped it

over and over again

from the second floor of our grandparents’ apartment building

onto the driveway
until it cracked open.
It had ants in it.

One year
my grandmother treated my brother and a new Florida friend

to a day at Disney World

that had just opened

and they went for the day while I stayed in Hallandale,

and they came back and told about the Presidents Hall

and the Haunted House and It’s a Small World and the parade,

and I’d gone swimming at the pool alone,

and missed my brother.

One year 
my grandmother knew I wished I could go to Disney World

and she woke me up at three in the morning

and we took a bus to Orlando,

just the two of us.
The bus had curtains that closed

and windows that opened,

and we rode through orange groves.

I could smell the blossoms
through the windows.

We went to the Haunted Mansion and the Hall of Presidents

and sang It’s a Small World  because there was no way not to,

and hummed it to each other on the bus ride home

in the late afternoon.

My grandmother with her sore knee

took me on the longest

and best

day trip I’d ever been on.

One year 
I flew down with my parents and

they left me with my grandmother

and went off somewhere else.

I slept in the sleep sofa
and my grandmother and I watched The Waltons

while she knit

and I ate chocolate ice cream I’d stirred into cold pudding,

and the tree frogs sang

because she left the door open to the screen porch.

Goodnight, Johnboy,

Goodnight, grandma lady.

One year 
my grandmother made a friend for me.
This is Deena. Her grandmother lives over there.
She’d be a nice friend,

she whispered loudly.

The only things we knew we had in common were

school vacation and

we were girls

and we were 10.

She’d come into the pool

if I begged,

and if she didn’t have hives.

Usually, when she wasn’t at the pool,

it was because she was soaking in an oatmeal bath.

Is Deena coming to the pool?

I’d ask her grandmother.

Not today,

she has hives.

Hives.

Please come in the pool, Deena,

it’s so boring by myself.

Can’t, just finished a bath.

I have hives.

But when she didn’t,

we had tea parties at the bottom of the pool

and practiced our handstands.

We even found a boy to play with

who was our age and

who had eyes the same color as the ocean

out Aunt Sara’s and Uncle Sam's apartment window, and

who had a little brother who liked to run after him.

When we weren't swimming
we ran through all the buildings

in my grandparents’ apartment complex,

peering around corners

like boys like to do,

after hidden secrets and adventures

we didn’t understand

but played,

until someone said we were wild

and shouldn’t

and told our grandmothers.

One year 
Nettie Meyers’ three granddaughters came

and sat on the lawn

where no one ever sat

since there were shez longs everywhere

and the grass was itchy and had lizards.

But they sat there

with their legs folded to their sides

like I’d learned to do in ballet class,

so I sat too

and hoped they’d want to swim with me,

or that they’d notice me.

But they had each other,

and I was shy.

Every year

at night,
we’d meet my grandparents’ friends for dinner

at their country clubs

and I'd hope to ride with
Aunt Sara and Uncle Sam 
who would pick us up

in their Cadillac

that had windows that went down

by pushing a button

(I wasn't allowed to push

because the air conditioning was on
and you're letting in the hot air),

and ashtrays on the armrest

with lighters in them

that glowed red

to light cigarettes
if you pushed them down
(I wasn't allowed to push them down
you'll get a burn).

At the country club
I was too cold

because of the air conditioning

and my sunburn.

I wore a cardigan draped over my shoulders and held together at the neck

by a gold beaded chain 
Grandma gave me,

made especially
to hold cardigan sweaters together

on old people

without having to put my arms through the sleeves.

Dinners out took so long

and I had to stay at the table
with no bathroom to entertain myself
since I had to please stay at the table
so I wouldn't get lost,

and finally

my mother and grandma and all the other ladies

would take out their lipstick from their pocketbooks

and put it on

at the table,

a few smudges of red lines

and some smushing together of their lips

and some dabbing away with tissues

and looking at themselves

in the tiny mirrors

that clipped on to their lipstick tubes

and then I knew
we could go.

My grandfather stood up first
every time

and said Alright? Are we ready?

Yup! I popped up out of my seat

like a slice of toast

from the toaster.

Every year
at the end of Hallandale,
we drove back to the airport,
my tote bag filled with shells
and dead seahorses,
hugged my grandparents goodbye,
see you in summer,
and flew back
to where there was snow,
and math,
and no pool.