JBronson

06/05/2026

A deeply moving experience I want to share, with you.
Life, at the edge of...

06/03/2026

EXCERPT from my upcoming trilogy, Part One, 'BEING BRONSON'.

Chapter titled simply:

'CARL'

I was enjoying married life. Living large in a 'bedroom community' of Tampa, Florida.
Brand new baby girl. Seems I'd gotten most of my wild man playing out of the way. Finally settling down. Ahhhhh

This was a period in my life that had constant rewards and abundant blessings. I was surrounded by incredible family. And a treasury of friends. We had lots of parties and get-togethers. Usually, at our house. Based on an early series of Kool-Aid commercials, our house was the party house. Where everyone loved to gather.
That, based on the commercial, would be The Kool-Aid house.
I loved every bit, every 'drop'.

ONE of my aspirations was to work creatively in the medium of television. It was a fascination dating back to my early days. I not only enjoyed what was being presented on the tv screen, but I also was always peeking into that cathode ray tube to see the inner workings. Of broadcast and production. Of television.

So, ultimately it was only natural that I found myself immersed in the fantasy of electron painting on glass.
After taking the requisite television production classes, of every category of production roles, I was ready to make tv!
I took every position I could get. For any kind of shows.
I started out as a cameraman. Camera on 'sticks' (tripod).
Wasn't long I was entrusted with the 'Handheld' camera. No sticks. Freely stepping in between the action, catching cool shots, tethered by only the camera cable. For that, I had a 'Grip' that followed me, my grip kept me and that cable free.

I progressed smoothly and swiftly, getting a taste of every aspect and production job. Whether live or live to tape, every show/production culminated with a 'watch party'.
Producers, Director, cast and crew gathered 'round, watching the final cut.
THAT was like attending the Emmys every time. Freaking cool!

It wasn't long, my mentor, Mike, must've seen something in me. For there I was, in the Control Room, in the middle of a LIVE tv show, Mike turned over the reins of Director, to me!
RIGHT in the middle of the show!

I'd been running the 'Captions'. You know, putting the little titles up on the screen to identify a person/character/idea.
All pre-set by me, ready to flip them up onto the screen as called out by, The Director.

And now, that Director person was me!
After a few Gigante thumps of my heart, I found a rhythm that worked. I heard my voice caressing every nuance, every camera angle out of my 5 cameramen. I instinctively knew when to cue Captions, and sound, and lights.

I'd taken my first bite out of the 'role' of Director.
To this day, my greatest pleasures and creativity emerged from the Director's seat.

I soon found myself in demand.
I'd made a name for myself. Believe me, I was honored. And humbled. I still am to this day.

More on that in another chapter.
Let's focus now on Carl.

Downtown Tampa, circa 1994.
I was working a gig in a makeshift studio, just off the pulse of the city. We were producing a video. Funny, but I can't remember any more than that. I was committing to tape a LOT of content in those days.
PSA's (Public Service Announcements). Talking Heads shows. Wrestling matches. Comedy show. Music videos.
It was a music video we were making, if I recall.

Downtown Tampa.
In those days, just off the tourist trail, it was warehouses, shipping and dimly lit alleys.
The studio was planted there, smack dab in the middle of the nightly nothingness.
We broke at about midnight. I wanted to get home and hopefully catch some time with my infant baby girl. So I didn't hang around to talk 'shop'.

My car was parked a block away. In a very sketchy part of town. Ghostly quiet streets. Shadowy cast slivers of light.
Walking briskly, I was riding high on adrenalin. High on the night.

Adrenaline soon to be replaced by mortal fear.
I could see my car. In a dimly lit lot. Still half a city block away.

As I passed a black hole alley between two well-worn industrial structures, a figure stepped out of the darkness.
Out of that alley, stepped
A man.
A rather large man.
A very dark man.
In all that surrounding darkness.

Every part of me on high alert, head on a swivel, I hardened into an upright and solid fortress of human steel. For I knew not what was to come...

The residual Director in me called out, mind you before I could react.
"Hey! Are you okay?", I said.

The dark figure didn't move.
Moments, like hours, the tension tightened around my throat.
I was near the 'Flight or Fight' decision as best I reckoned.

A foot appeared. One step out of the darkness. My first glance at his face. A face scarred. By life, and life on the streets.
Our eyes met. I've never looked deeper into any soul than at that very instant.

I could veritably see the back, the retina of his eyeballs. I could damn near see my upside-down image flickering into his cerebral cortex.

Suddenly,
he spoke.
"Yeah, I'm okay."

Before I could say more, he added "NO ONE ever talks to me anymore. YOU just did".

Part preservation, part inspiration, I told him it was because I cared. Suddenly, I really did care.
I told him I found it hard to fathom how, or why he was where he was?

As he uttered his next few sentences, I witnessed an unwinding. Two potential combatants pulling the plug on a potential likely battle.

His hands dropped to his sides. As I felt my own muscles easing up.
An odd calm came over us. Both of us.
Oh, I was still ready to parry his attack, if it came.
My head was telling my body it'd be okay.
How odd.
How very odd.

No better way to 'break the ice' than an introduction.
"What's your name" I gingerly queried.

"Carl".

"My name's John. I'm not sure if I should say it's nice to meet you?"

We both bubbled up a slight chuckle. Now, that was some kind of something. A sign? A notion? Hell, I had no idea.
I was still shaking and scared fecal-less.

"Carl", I continued, "WHAT are you doing out here? On the streets?"

It was then a flicker of car headlights pierced across the dark. I looked to my right, he to his left.
It was a Tampa City Police cruiser. Slowing down as it came closer.
Passenger window rolling down, we could see two uniformed officers intently sizing up the situation.

For the second time on this eve, my eyes locked in on another's eyes. This time, the eyes of my protector in the passenger seat.
In no uncertain terms, his unspoken gaze asking if everything was okay?
Much to my surprise, my response back was simply, a reaffirming nod.

The shaky part of me begging them to stop.
The vulnerable part, saying "I got this. You can go on".

And go on, slowly, they did.
Oh, they made a couple more slow rounds before this confrontation concluded.
Each time reassured by my affirmative nods. And brief waves of my hand.

Back to Carl. And me.
Alone. At the edge of darkness.
Not sure about him, but I was gaining a confidence and strength about this situation now.

With the kindness and calm of my former EMT-self's bedside manner, I asked him ABOUT him.
"HOW did you end up here".

Carl went on to explain.
He'd been very happily married. With children.
He'd had a great job. A great life.
Until one day.
One fateful day.

Carl got hurt. On the job.
As he spoke, his posture shifted. I didn't respond in fear.
He grabbed his pant leg. Lifting the garment to above his knee, I saw a cratered and crooked appendage.
The medical side of me examined it, from our safe distances.

"Carl, you sure got..."
he cut me off.
"Those scars cost me everything".

"No insurance. I lost my job. Ended up I lost my wife. I lost my kids. I lost my whole life, man".

His pain traveled across the broken walkway. His pain. My awkward gain. I was suddenly in a position of learning, about life, from this man. Only I didn't quite know that. Yet.

Maintaining our comfort zone distance, Carl unloaded. I listened.
I was seeing the former-ness of Carl.
The man he used to be.
And I thought I'd like that guy.
And hard to believe, I was beginning to like this Carl guy, too.

After quite a few minutes, say around 20 or so, AND a few more passes of the Tampa PD patrol car, we, Carl and I were sensing it time to return.
Me, to my life. Wife and baby.
Carl, to what, I had no idea. I doubt he did, either.

It was then my curiosity surfaced. I just had to ask him.
"Carl, what were you going to do? Were you going to ROB ME?"

His answer?
A simple and honest, "Yes".

I nodded in appreciation.
In appreciation of HIS honesty.
But moreover, of HIS restraint and for NOT going through with his intent.
He shyly, and a bit embarrassed, nodded back as his eyes met the ground.

Control of my body returning to near normal, I glanced over at my car. A sense of being 'THAT CLOSE' to my life. MY freedom. MY life, and the things that I now viewed as being taken for granted.

And with that, I wondered to myself, my Director self, HOW do I wrap up an episode like this?
At what point do I holler, "CUT!" and know it's a wrap?

My answer came to me as I reached for my wallet. Yes. I had no qualms about pulling my wallet out. In front of Carl.
Our eyes locked once more.
Mine saying this is not a test, or a tease.

"Carl, I am going to gladly give you some money, my friend. I'm not sure how much I have, so let me see. Know this, too, that I can't give you all I have. Which likely ain't much!" (Another shared chuckle).
"I'll need to keep just a few bucks, just in case I need any cash before I get home." (These were the early days of debit cards, mind you).

I reached out, cash in hand.
Carl hesitated. His gaze fastened upon my face.
I nodded, reassuringly. "Take it". "Please".
"But I'd feel better if I knew this paltry sum was going to a good cause. NOT for a brief high or a dangerous low".

Carl tried to reassure me. Not sure if he even knew his own response. But his eyes told me he'd try.
Good enough for me.

As I began to turn, to leave, a request.
"Can I shake your hand, sir" asked Carl.

One light hand, one dark hand, met at the edge of that alley. At the edge of light.
Two grips. Two heartbeats passing through.
A handshake with meaning. And depth.
And oddly enough. Love.

I turned towards my car.
I said goodnight to Carl. I wished him well. I told him I'd pray for him. I told him I really did care.
And that I really hoped he'd be
okay.

He nodded and turned back towards the alley.
A glimmer of light struck across his dark cheek.
A reflective flash off a freshly flowing teardrop.
And with that, Carl was gone.

I never saw Carl again.
Well, other than in my mind.
And the perpetual reruns of that night.
At the edge of darkness.

God bless you, Carl. Wherever you are.

08/21/2025

A quirky goodie.

Just off the Commerical Way commotion, we found this little gem. Pinched sideways into a spot, many…

11/21/2024

Excerpt from
‘Being Bronson’
from my autobiographical
trilogy.

Swimming in a sea of Kodak moments

I was an astronaut kid.
A Space Coaster.
Cape Canaveral just to the north of our family home.
Alan Shepard and the other Original Seven Mercury Astronauts had just wrapped up their space missions.

Project Gemini now in full swing.
The year is 1965. And on.

Imagine stepping out your front door, into the yard to await a front row seat at an event few saw in real life.
Men strapped atop a blazing candle called a rocket rising up and into view.
Moments of unparalleled enthusiasm and excitement followed.
As the flame lengthened, the dot containing the men diminished.

Mission after mission, we watched. From the porch. From the beach. From the river, directly across from the launch pad.
WE, and all the world, watched!

We moved out of Miami, summer after 7th grade for me.
To Melbourne.
175 miles north.
Straight up Interstate 95.

I had NO idea what was in store for me.
NO idea how wonderful my life was about to become.

That first summer, and many more to come, I forged bicycle trails to three places.
The local airport.
The Indian River.
The Atlantic Ocean.
Trails that became very well worn.

The airport trail alone is worth a ton of chapters. Coming, in due time.

The water chapters are ebbing and flowing as well.
Just watch that bobber and wait for a bite.
Get your surfboard waxed and ready for the next big set.

I think it was my second summer in residence that I became interested in Scuba. My mentor had to be none other than Jacques-Yves Cousteau. His accent alone kept you afloat.

I am grateful, humbled and ever so thankful that my parents somehow enabled me to do some really cool things. In all fairness, they spoiled me rotten, but in a good way. If that makes any sense?

Taking note of what was capturing my attention, my parents planted a seed of knowledge for me.
I got to take Scuba lessons. At the local YMCA.

My instructor was a highly regarded man in the world of scuba diving and underwater photography. None other than Fishy Dan, Dan Wagner.
Next best thing to having ol' Jacques himself.
For real!

I eagerly attended all of the classroom and pool sessions, at the Y.
You can't pry me away from something I'm so 'deeply' into!
I was learning SO much. Surrounded by incredible people with like interests.

The high point of scuba classes?
The 'Check Dive'.

That's where you, your fellow classmates and Dan Wagner all head out to open water. The real deal dive.

Fishy Dan announced our Check Dive was going to take place in Crystal River.
A journey from Florida's right coast to its left coast.
150-miles across the Sunshine State.
Very cool!

Time to go, we all load up in Dan's 60's-something van.
I had the privilege of riding SHOTGUN!
NO bigger thrill than to sit beside a legend and learn!

In those days, pre-GPS, we used maps. Real maps. The kind that always fought back when you tried to refold them!
I was Dan Wagner's navigator.
Wow! Another nugget for my memory vault.

Roads in the late 60's, in Central Florida, were very different.
Basically because of what is NOT on the roads.
No convenience stores. No malls. No fast food.
Once we left the bounds of Brevard County, we were in a no man's land of nothing but palm trees, scrub oaks, palmettos and wetlands.

It was a rather long ride, albeit shorter for me in the comfort of the co-pilot seat than for those snuggled in behind me.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, we were about to enter The Weird Zone. Unbeknownst to us.

Dan's van was a Chevy. 60's model as I said. The engine straddled between Dan and me, under a cover commonly referred to as the 'Dog House'. Picture a doghouse bolted into the floorboards between the two front seats. YOU get the picture.

I don't even remember this vehicle having seat belts. Don't believe it did.

Windows open, summer's moist kiss of warmth breathing all around us, we traveled on.
Speed probably 55. Double nickel.

Now, picture the view unfolding out in front of us. Ribbon of asphalt flowing under our feet.
Trees zipping past.

WHAM!!!!!
CR-R-R-R-R-R-ACKKKKKKKKKKKKK!

What the hell was that?

A bomb exploded just a few feet away from my face!
My vision was obscured!
What in THE hell WAS that?

My head swivels left, as Dan's is swiveling right. Right at me.
A moment of shock, horror and disbelief. And a search for an answer. And reassurance.

In unison, we BOTH swivel our attention to the glass directly in front of me.
Eyes drawing focus, we're assessing the visual of a disembodied vision. Something was there.
Now embedded into shattered safety glass.

Dan scouts out a spot and maneuvers us over to a stop.
In the pause that preceded, we surveyed the ground zero shatter spot even closer.
It became all too apparent that we'd been violently struck.
By an unfortunate victim.

A bird.
A very large bird.

An artist's conception of speed, sudden stop and deconstruction was now blazingly brushed onto the General Motors canvas of glass before me.

Feathers. Etc. Etc. Etc.

It was at this moment the gang's presence in the rear came into focus for me.
We all did a cumulative sigh.
Then a communal deep draw of air, as if descending to the Titanic.

We'd just witnessed something grander than the imagination could imagine.

Laughter soon ensued. Nervous laughter at first. Then, that deep venting kind.
I turned to see Dan's face go from shock, surprise, to solemn, to Sweet Jesus, we made it!

One of us then made an observation. A rather odd, ironic yet quite prominent point. The windshield on this model van had a rather peculiar setup. The glass was actually two separate halves. Each stuck into the rubber gasket around the perimeter, as well as a rubber gasket going up at dead center, vertically between the two halves.

It was because of this setup, that this aviary sledgehammering only took out one HALF of the windshield!
Dan's driving half was fine. NO damage!
Seriously?
You Bet!

My view for the remainder of the trip to the Crystal River shore was a wee bit muddled.
I saw unseen to me Florida through a schmeared porthole.
Found myself leaning over a bit to look out the un-schmeared Dan side.

Arriving at our end point, all we saw in front of us was the river. And a brand new, smallish building, with a Diving Flag sign hung on it.
This must be the place.
Scuba tanks. Refilling station. Yep.
Nothing else around to speak of.
Bare Florida, at its finest.

Carrying our diving bags, we exited the half-bombed van and headed up to the scuba shack.
Greeted by the proprietor and a woman, they knew we were coming.

Time to gear up, get in the boats and head out.
The condensed version of the dive?
The waters of this river gave clear understanding as to its name. Crystal clear River.

Bobbing on the surface, time to adjust buoyancy via weights and air BC vest. Give feet a test flipper flip.
Adjust mask.
Dive!

The wonders of the watery world beneath us awaits.

Were it not for the bubbles, we were witness to a world of objects floating in mid-air. Spotlessly clean fluid air.

Fish defying gravity as they fluttered by.
The hula swaying of rich green grasses in the spring-fed currents.
The allure of a dark hole below.
The entrance, to a cave.
Not this trip. Dan reminded us of that.

We swam with so many happy inhabitants of this crook in the path. None so hauntingly captivating as the blunt nose beady eyed face of the approaching manatees. Some call 'em Sea Cows. They fit that moniker.

This was my Atlantis. My under-the-surface city of great wealth and beauty. Purely priceless treasures abounded.

Successful Check Dive over, I was now the holder of
an Official YMCA Scuba Certification card.
Woo HOO!
These were proud times.

The ride home.

Normally, people would be snoozing, after a day in the water and the Florida sun.
That can drain you drier than a bloated Eveready battery.

But we were all too excited, too animated to sleep.
I'm sure we sang a few choruses of that venerable 'Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall' song.
Laughter and jokes.
Dan stories. Really book-worthy stories of his adventures.

That Ol' Chevy van, with the doghouse, the divers and the half-busted windshield, headed back to the Space Coast.

WHAMMMMMMMM!!!!!
CR-R-R-R-R-R-ACKKKKKKKKKKKKK!

WHAT in the HELL was THAT!!!!!!

In utter and all-consuming disbelief, it quickly became evident.

We'd just been aerial attacked by a likely relative of our resident avian hitchhiker affixed to the half glass that splatted in front of me.

ONLY this TIME, it smacked the OTHER half of the previously pristine glass!
RIGHT in FRONT of DAN!

Once again, Dan maneuvered us to a safe stop on the side of the road.
Once again, we assessed the damages.
Once again, we had to surgically remove the seat covers from our nether regions.

UN-FREAKIN BELIEVABLE! is likely the next utterage heard.
Un Freakin Believable!
Noooooooooo
Wayyyyyyyy!

But it was way!
Yes, way.
What are the odds of an unlikely event like this happening?
Both halves of the glass?
WHAT are the ODDS??

Scanning the residue of the results of bird strike number two, we all tried to cognitively reassemble the fragments of reality.

Once again,
WE were about to enter the Weird Zone.
ONCE Again.
Unbeknownst to us.

Owing to some familiar landmark spotted just off of our unfortunate strike zone, we surmised, much to our surprise, that geographically we were in the same spot we'd traversed just hours ago.

The same spot where bird and van had previously attempted to become one.
The almost exact same spot!
In the road.
In an area of nothingness.

WHAT ARE THE ODDS OF THAT?????

To hit one bird.
On the way West.
Okay.
I get it.

The windshield thanks you, too.

BUT,
hit a SECOND bird?
On the return trip?
Into the unsplatted pane of glass before Dan?
In almost the eXACt spot on the road?

Yep.
That is EXACTLY what I'm saying.
EXACTLY what I am telling you all.
EXACTLY as it happened.

A day I will NEVER forget!

One day in the summer
of my youth.

(That's Dan Wagner on the right!)

10/29/2024

A page.
Out of a section of my biographical trilogy.
I just relived an enormously vivid time in my young life.
I want to share it.
With you.

***********
Except from
Cedar Ledge Summers ©
by JBronson

Stand where that man is. Look straight out, from the creek south. Both sides of Rt 14.
That was my grandparent’s farm.
Cedar Ledge Poultry Farm.

My fondest memories include sitting at an upstairs bedroom window, unlatching it and swinging it open.
The farm air. The cool. The minty vegetation.

We spent our summers there. From Miami. And then Melbourne. Florida. To Pennsylvania.

In the moonlight, I’d see the most incredible lights cast in the shimmering stone of the ledge. I could dream seeing that. I still can.

Then the occasional freight train. That low diesel hum echoing through the night. The clickety clack on the track.

Waiting.
Waiting to hear the laboring notes of the pusher engines.
Bringing up the rear.

A true symphony, courtesy of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Every summer, looking forward to the ledge ascent. And the descent.

My favorite Cedar Ledge story?
I was about 12. My brother 16.
We took off for the climb.
Down the gravel driveway, across Route 14.
The path up and over the railroad track.
Opening the gate on the ledge side, to a pasture of knee deep lush alfalfa.

The smell of the creek (crick) just ahead.
Fording that creek, looking for rocks or the shallowest spot at which to cross. Icy cold water.

Looking for the least steep place to begin the climb. Grabbing onto saplings for leverage. Slipping down while frantically flailing for the brake lever.

Picking blueberries and huckleberries, to snack on along the way.

Finding the old logging trail. Still mostly an open cut in the mountainside. A gentler ascent.
A nice relief to the legs. Until just below the precipice that is Cedar Ledge.

Then, it’s a fairly vertical climb to the mountain top. Just 30 more feet, but might as well be more. The effort is the same.

Once on top, all else fails to matter, as you feel the breeze and the sun against your skin.
And that view!

Doing a slow pan from side to side. Tiny cars and trucks passing way down below. Neighbor farms. Barns. Chicken coops. Silos.

The farm. Our farm.
The house. Grandma and mom waving at us by the cellar door. They look so tiny.
The barn, cows frozen in place in the after milking phase of their lives.

Standing on that beautiful rock formation, in the exact spot where my mother had stood many times.
She was around my age, looking down on her home.

This particular day was about to be glued into my forever memory album.
Grandpa had arranged for Fred Babcock to come this day. With his tractor and green pull behind combine.
It was wheat harvesting day. And Babcock had a combine.

So there we are, basking in the glory of our traversing the summit.
When suddenly, coming from the direction of Landon’s store to the north, we spot a tiny tractor, pulling a tiny combine with a tiny Babcock at the wheel.

At his breakneck speed of probably 8 mph, he had a fair line of traffic backed up behind him. Cars, a truck. A semi. Barely moving.

Lucky for them, he had just a few more feet to go, turning into our driveway.

I looked at my brother. He had the same look back.
WE had to get down. There. And quick.

I’ll just sum it up by saying we made it down in Guinness World Record time.
Sliding, heels dug in just enough to keep the speed at bay.

Trees were zipping past. Our butts bouncing off rock speed bumps. A quick zig zag here and there, weaving through the underbrush.

In no time, we were jumping to our feet at the bank of the creek.
Somehow, I don’t think our feet touched one drop of water in the crossing.

A quick jog and we were huffing and puffing alongside Babcock’s idling tractor.

We looked up in time to see him look down.
His off kilter baseball cap turned towards us, as we saw his infamous gummy grin.

My dad walking up, it was time to get to work.

Yeah. ❤️ Cedar Ledge.

10/27/2024

On the Porch!

HEY!!!

How the heck are ya?
Been awhile. Hope all is as well.

Me?
I’ve been really busy.
Exponentially so.
A LOT of activity.

It’s been a real roller coaster.
And just like you’ll find in a blockbuster JBronson novel, there’s some adrenaline fueled twists in the track.

You have your ‘normal’ routine, right?
Then, you have those hyperdrive all at once incursions.
They can be all-consuming, yet reaffirming and reacquainting.

I just tread the latter path.
I was pulled in literally 5 directions, simultaneously.
Each task was a critical component of the bigger picture.
No shortcuts.

I certainly can thank my son, Blake Bronson, for his keen insight, advice and research.
I asked. Picked his brain. He delivered.

It all came together quite seamlessly.
Unbelievable, especially considering a blustery chap named Milton blew into town!

So many affected, and there I stood, safe, with electricity, packing 60 years of memories in my family home. All by myself.
Windows safely shuttered, I toiled inside mercilessly day after day, after day.
But I was blessed to be safe.
Even more blessed the power only blinked a few times.
The meter never quit turning.

Thankfully!
For had I lost power, I would have been enveloped in a 24/7 veil of darkness, devoid of light through shuttered sashes.
And, with no cooling wafts of a/c’d air, the interior temperature would have siphoned me dry.
Thank God for Alternating Current.

I’m now on a self imposed sabbatical.
Desperately deserved.
I’m ambivalent, almost, about being on a solo expedition.

Kinda feel guilty that I’m not in my usual enjoying doing things for others mode. That is just so rewarding. And it’s not something I take lightly. You give what you can, when you can.
You may take, when the giver is of equal conviction.

I am finding it rather a reflective experience.
Building.
I’m formulating and, for the first time in way too long, I’m implementing.

As I write, my desire is to pay it forward.
We don’t know what burdens the mind of the one on the other end of a conversation.

The guy that kinda snapped at you on a call at work?
Peek in to his world, for just a moment.
He just got served. His wife wants a divorce.
The lab results just came back. His days are suddenly numbered. Much less than he’d ever dreamed.
He just lost a loved one.

This, is often what’s in the mind of the one on the other end.

Treat one another like we are all bruised.
Because we are.
But, we can heal.
All of us hopefully.
We sure can.

Here’s a big hug!

See you soon!

On The Porch.

10/23/2024

Just a thought ….

As kids, we measure time in summers. In seasons.

As young adults, we measure time in work weeks. Too short weekends.
Once a year vacations.

At middle age, we measure time in years.

As seniors, we measure time in decades. Previous centuries.
Anniversaries of births, events. Deaths.

The only thing that changes
is OUR PERCEPTION of time.
Nothing else has changed.

Take a second.
Savor that delicious second.
It’s the ONLY second you’re guaranteed.

There are no leftovers in life.
No seconds other than what’s on your plate RIGHT NOW!

Enjoy!

(Picture purely to make you look!)

10/09/2024

Milton.
By far the most nerve wracking Hurri-name to this Florida native.

No other storm has given me such intense uneasy, helpless feelings.
Most of us likely nodding in agreement.

The first weather event recorded deep in my childhood recesses goes back to North Miami, Florida. 1960.
Hurricane Donna.

I vividly recall the winds howling past our jalousie windows, those thick slats of glass rattling. Every little unsealed crevice playing a tune like a keyless clarinet.

Dad keeping a vigil replacing dripping wet towels as water oozed under the front door threshold.

I remember venturing out into Donna’s eye. Such an eerie glow in the sky. Not a drop of rain. Not a breath of wind. Almost a vacuum, the air was so still.

With the innocence and bliss of childhood guiding us, my brother and I splish splash jumped in the plentiful pools of precipitation .

We played water tag with our neighborhood schoolmates.
Pedaled our fenderless bicycles through puddles as plumes of spray fanned up and off of the spinning wheels.

We climbed up and onto the uprooted Melaleuca tree straddling the property lines of our front yard. Such an odd tree, with its greyish beige white thick papery bark. A tree with odd blossoms that smell like piping hot baked potatoes drenched in creamy butter.

With utter lack of angst, we Cracker kids had no clue as parents prodded us back into our respective lairs.

I do remember glancing back as mom closed the door. Seeing horizontal tracks of locomotive liquid ushering in the trailing wall of winded fury.
Closing Donna’s eye to us.

We came out the other side unscathed, other than that plucked and plopped Melaleuca tree.

And so it began, my Storm Life in Florida.

In those early days, Hurricanes wore only dresses, in a sense. Strictly given female names we boarded up for these ladies year after year.
Until 1978.
That’s when it was decided men might as well share in the brouhaha of escalating tropical depressions earning their Hurri-names.

And here we are.
October.
24 years after Y2K.

Mister Milton, no surname.
This fella threatening our beloved State de Sunshine.

Many have evacuated. Many have tried to evacuate, now stuck petrol-less and homeless on a vast ribbon of gridlocked northbound highway.

The enormity that precedes this uninvited male blowhard chills the senses. He’s not touched our shores, yet we are already wrapped up in a fury of fear.
And the unknown.

At this point, all we can do is pray. If you do not believe in prayer, that’s okay. You will be in my prayers.
And the prayers of others.

Dear Lord,
The lives of many were already adrift on the heels of Helene. Just as we are throwing life buoys into the aftermath we learn of an even greater presence to be named Milton rearing his ugly intent our way.

In total disbelief, we stand before you asking a very simple question.
Why?

Why does life have to be churned with such uncertainty?
Why must we endure this mad unknown?
Why?

We ask for shelter from this storm. Now more than ever.
We ask for a force greater than Milton to overtake and dissipate his mass and his might.

Please guide us through to a calm and safe haven where we can rejoin as one. In family. And friends.
In an even greater love and appreciation.

Amen.