Cambury has it all......except the Wilds

Our last block party in Missouri was captured on film using a small digital camera I had not used recently, so when I found it buried in a drawer, I looked to find images not downloaded to my computer.

Well, to correct that omission I've decided to write a short blog entry about this Labor Day event, where my wife and I were presented with two shirts - one in blue, the other in pink, with the matching message. Those shirts are worn with fondness, although some confusion here on the island as to "what's a Cambury?". Cambury was where we spent our northern "snow bird" time from 2006 to this past October. We had downsized from a four bedroom, two story, suburban single family home into a very nice, but somewhat smaller condominium. Cambury was the name of the development, which began in 2002, but has never been completed.

Complete or not, it was a nice area, isolated from most of the City of Wildwood, yet in the "town center" as shown on a zoning map. We purchased an "interior" unit, meaning that we had neighbors on both sides, and heat loss only through the roof. We were two doors, and a landscaping berm, from the BP station convenience store, and further removed (by a busy highway) from the Phillips 66 station and convenience store. The Phillips station had a roast beef fast food facility, the BP was where I'd go out in the mornings with our dog Millie and buy my wife the paper. It was also where, when stranded at the bottom of a rear entry garage driveway, we'd be close to necessities when both cars couldn't get up that hill with rear wheel drive.

We would routinely gather, as a neighborhood, for all major holidays and share food and fun. At Christmas time, there was a progressive dinner, where five or six homes would be open for 30 minutes each, as we ate our way up and down the block. Memorial day, Fourth of July and Labor Day were always outside events. We no longer have that home (or those bills), but we do miss those folks. We intend to go north to visit Caitlin and Matt around her birthday, and hopefully put in a guest appearance at the Fourth of July picnic. It'll be a time of good "Cheers, where everybody knows your name" and no explanations will be necessary about the shirts.

Citizens On Patrol

This is a daytime shot of one of our local police vehicles. I've never been in the back seat, but I can tell you the front seat gets tight, sharing space with the computer mounted amidships. It's a close fit, but thankfully our local force still has Crown Victoria Fords, which ride a whole lot better than what are today offered as replacements.

So, what am I doing riding in a police car - I'm not a cop, and not even a cop wannabee, although with my "radio voice" I suppose I could make one sonorous dispatcher. It really is a simple answer - if you want to REALLY know what goes on in your town or city, do a ride-along with the local police. As Mayor of Wildwood, Missouri, I did this often, and Wildwood was a big place - 67 square miles, 32,800 citizens, two major state highways, and too many cul-de-sacs to impede cross circulation of emergency vehicles. Longboat Key is quite different, with only ten linear miles, no wider than one mile across at the "wide spot in the road", and perhaps only 6,000 active residents year round. But it has a state highway, and bad guys do drive that road.

I've done two ride-a-longs now, with "Cap'n Steve", a fellow Kiwanis member and commander of the night shift. He is also an instructor, and I feel like a rookie when riding along and observing, as the guy is always in teaching mode. The last time we were out, we responded to an ambulance call (got there first, naturally), and chased down a failure to stop and speeding suspect, who was driving a vehicle with one of those paint jobs that turns different colors in sunlight and darkness.

The computer was telling us the car was gold, but at night it looked like deep purple. It was also a Chevy SUV frame with Cadillac Escalade insignia, and those expensive "gangsta" wheels - in short, downright suspicious as hell looking at midnight on an island full of sleeping elderly retirees. After properly dealing with the actual infractions, and in essence releasing the motorist having had him sign for the ticket (reminding him the signature was not an admission of guilt, only a promise to appear), Steve innocently asked the driver "would you mind my looking at your vehicle?". Now, what could the guy say without looking even more suspicious? By now we had the help of a neighboring island police officer, and a second car from our island present to watch the driver and his friend. I watched our guy look from stem to stern in that vehicle, which quite frankly was a wreck inside, with missing upholstery and more "hidey holes" for contraband than I could count. I'm sure in the one mile pursuit to catch the guy, he had numerous opportunities to drop evidence into the slipstream, or through the floorboards and into the water as we pursued them off the island over a steel grated surface bridge.

Yes, the vehicles have changed, but folks are still playing cops and robbers, but the "swag" is no longer cash or jewels, but drugs. We found nothing, but it was once again a teaching experience. I figure two or three more of these nighttime adventures, and I can write a book.

The first thing you learn is what NOT to write about - because as much as our local residents feel safe in their beds, there is a criminal element out there, and a thin blue line standing up to defend against it. We often fail to appreciate those guys, but without them and their vigilance, our island wouldn't be the great place it is today. I salute you, Captain Steve, and the many you've trained to be our first line of defense against those who would harm us.

Shortridge, in the land of milk and honey

Thought I'd write something about my alma mater, as I looked through pictures that might help tell a story on a rainy Sunday morning with both wife and dog fast asleep. Either that, or get dressed and wake the dog to take him out, so a blog entry seemed a better way to start the day.

That's my old high school, which is the same school that graduated a literary luminary named Kurt Vonnegut and a U.S. Senator named Dick Lugar. My mother and father went there as well, though not nearly as famous as those first two names.

I graduated from here in 1965, one of the final years of prominence for this old school, before it went through the usual decline of neighborhoods, suburban flight, and ultimate school board politics. Today, it has experienced a "re-birth" as a school for law and social justice, oh so politically correct, but at least once again holding the minds of young teens captive while sneaking knowledge past the ear-buds of their I-pods, during a lull in the cacophony of what passes today for music.

Back in the day, it was THE academic high school of the IPS (Indianapolis Public Schools) system, and had more National Merit Scholars than any other high school. It was also located at 34th and Meridian - aptly named as this street separated east and west sides of town, 3.4 miles from the north-south demarcation line of Washington Street. Indianapolis was laid out by L'enfant, the same fellow who designed Washington, D.C., using a grid square system where things made sense. But urban populations often move outward, and take with them the various social ills that lead to school decline, like unwed motherhood, single parenthood, and far less focus on graduation rates where parents who never graduated have little skin in the game to insist their kids do graduate. By the 1970's, Shortridge had been eclipsed by schools outside the Center Township of the city. Another neat concept - nine equal townships, sort of a Hollywood Squares board, where each Township would have its own high school, and they'd all have Central in their name. By the middle 70's, the school had devolved from academics to a combination of technical school and ultimately detention bin for contentious seventh and eight graders moving from one system to another (often with bars). It would take over forty years to go to hell and back, but hopefully it has been restored to former glory in its new incantation.

Anyway, back to the story - the class of 1965 was a good class, and while I was part of it, I was never "in" the dominant social whirl. In fact, I was not in athletics, the French club (I took it, but not seriously by my grades), not part of student government, etc. If anybody knew me to be associated with anything, it would have been the Stage Crew. I ran both the sound board and the carbon-arc spotlights for three years, during student performances such as Jr. Vaudeville and the various school theater presentations. In fact, I believe I was only able to pass Algebra because I signed up for the section being taught by the stage crew sponsor. He passed me so I could be the damn fool willing to stand next to those two carbon rods burning brightly and very hot in that little room at the top of the auditorium. We're talking 220 volts of power, arcing between two rods generating several hundred degrees of heat, in front of a shiny mirror and through several lenses - OSHA was not strong in those days, and we high school types were not union. I cringe when I think of the danger today.

Other extra curricular activities included a radio station, WIAN FM. Interestingly enough, I never participated in the student radio station, though I certainly knew my way around an audio board and microphone. In high school, my most dramatic lines were "test....test, can you hear me, test....testing". I did have a crush on a gal in Jr. Vaudeville, but gave up without trying when I heard she was involved in the National Thespian Society..........I was a confused youth, to say the least.

Oh well, forty five years later I ran into her when our class of 65 invited the class of 66 and 67 to join us. She's got a PhD now - never would have worked out, as my GPA in high school was nothing to write home about. I liked to think I made the upper half of the class possible. The school is once again open to smart kids, but our glass wasn't all that bad, back in the day. The new high school has a mock courtroom, where there will be recognition of honored members of the classes of 65, 66 and 67 who went on into the law and became judges - one a Kentucky Supreme Court Justice. I must have learned something while there, but had I really studied..........I could have been a contender.

Forty years, too many beers

I noticed I'd not written much during February, and that Valentine's Dance must have taken the wind out of me. So, searching for a picture to generate a topic ("Forty Years"), I looked around my office and saw this. Funny how ideas get started, so with a couple of somewhat appropriate images to "write around", it was off to the literary races once again.

Most of that stuff dates from 1968, and the Corvette represents my 2008 model in the garage today. In 1968, I was in Thailand, doing radio and headed toward time in Germany to do both TV work and finish up again in radio with AFN, the Armed Forces Network. I had absolutely no idea of what I wanted to be "when I grow up", and perhaps today I am still a work in progress. At the dinner dance two weeks ago, I was once again behind a microphone, introducing songs and offering some musical history notes to music played by a seventeen piece "Cigar City Big Band". That solved the problem of going to the dance without a date, since my wife made it very clear she doesn't enjoy dress up functions, nor dancing. It's not religious, mind you, just her desire to enjoy being cozy with a good book while I'm looking like a penguin and standing in whatever limelight might be available.

Well, if you cared to ask, the Valentine's Dinner Dance was a resounding success, and we made $14,000 to put into our scholarship Foundation of the local Kiwanis Club. This week, I'll be writing checks to pay for the 201 meals, but having paid for the florist, the valet parking company, the band (a bargain at $2,600), and a 3.6 caret Tanzanite jewel which was our raffle prize, to clear more than we expected was just great.

Better still, the Longboat Key Club agreed to give us the room next year for the 2nd Annual Valentine's dance. We might even squeeze in an extra "ten top" table, although space limitations will probably trump crowd eagerness to participate. It's very rewarding, however, to hear positive statements about something you work hard on, and our club President Bob Gault and his wife Shannon came up with an idea and a operational plan we all applauded.

So, what else is new? Well, my daughter will visit in the coming month, and I'll head out in April for another short cruise over to Cozumel where I can stock up on Kahlua at bargain prices. We refer to it as "Mexican cough syrup" - the only hard stuff in the house. This will be the first summer where there is no Missouri condo. It sold (right at the end of the Realtor's listing, naturally), and while we didn't get our price, we got out of a third set of electric bills, other utilities and condo fees. Oh, and taxes - there is always the 'joy' of paying taxes on property you use less than half the time. So, that means our home will be Florida for 12 months of the year. Summers on this island may prove to be interesting, but with four cruise ports in the state, there's always travel opportunities within driving range. And driving (even with $4.00 a gallon gasoline) gets me back to the start of this blog entry and the 1968 microphone and 2008 Corvette. See, you can travel forty years and get back on one visual stimuli. I therefore have proven the ability to not only talk in circles, but write in them as well.

Big Band Saturday Night Valentines Dance

Last night I put on a tuxedo, and went to the dance, featuring the seventeen piece Cigar City Big Band. The band, out of Tampa, plays hits from the 30's, 40's and 50's, which as you know is the Big Band Era. The event itself was a Valentine's Sweetheart Fundraiser, for our local Kiwanis Foundation of Longboat Key. I'm the Secretary of the Club, and was part of the organizing committee. Much of the credit goes to Bob Gault, our club President, and his wife, with able assistance from several other members on our 56 person roster. The event was pulled together in just three short months, and was sold out. We made a nice chunk of change to fund local scholarships.

Now, I had very little intention of doing much more than the normal administrative chores of a club Secretary, and once I had filled 20 tables and had decided who would sit where and with whom, my job was over. Yes, I went to all the committee meetings at Bob's house, but mostly for the wine and cheese that his wife, Shannon, would set out. My wife was happy to not have to cook on those same evenings, and the committee was made up with friends whom I enjoyed spending time alongside, anyway. Two of the committee, Andrew and Ramona, are shown in one of the pictures in this blog entry, all dressed up and ready to dance.

Now, I was all dressed up that night, but that afternoon while helping set up the room, I learned that the band had a "program" done in the fashion of a 1940's radio show, with an announcer. There was even a line in the script that talked about "this program is being heard overseas through the services of Armed Forces Radio". The band leader, who also doubles as a trombone player, was prepared to do the part of announcer and band leader. Once he learned of my past, as a real announcer with Armed Forces Radio, he asked me if I would like to do the role. Well, you can figure out the rest. I had a GREAT time, even if I came home with half my dinner in a doggie bag. Getting to introduce tunes, and tell a little history about them, I was back in my element of 45 years ago. It was a tremendous amount of fun.

Oh yes, toward the end of the evening, I was able to break away and have some fun with a few friends - our President took the liberty of snapping this picture, with me and five friends. It was among the many I had taken during the event, but this shot was not discovered as having been taken by my own camera until later, at home, showing my wife a bit about the night. I guess I ended up showing more than I needed - oh well, I did get a potential job offer to work for the band on occasion as their announcer. I gotta do something about that damn cummerbund however, and tell the dry cleaner "less starch" in the collar. Talk about setting the "way-back machine", this was a role from before I was even born. What a shame we can't relive our youth every night.

Just a bit more Ripley, for his fans everywhere

I took a lot of pictures at the dog park on Saturday morning. Ripley was in some, not in others, and in some cases I thought he was in a picture, but was wrong - he's that fast.
In these pictures, he's perfecting his ballet moves - the three point stance (you though he was just lifting his leg), and another picture is his Farrah Fawcett impression, where he flips his ears (work with me, here) around. The other picture shows one of the "adopt me" beagles checking out Ripley. Those beagles auditioning for new owners wear yellow scarves, which read "adopt me". They were of course the majority of dogs present, but many dogs like Ripley are graduates of the program, and have come back to run with the pack. Ripley wore both his collar and his harness, just in case he ran too far with the pack and escaped. He's got such a smooth coat, it would be like trying to catch a greased pig, so he wore all of his gear should I have to run and catch him. Of course, that assumes I could catch him, and also begs the question "is there a doctor in the house" once I did catch him.

The top photo is that of Homer, "the pirate", who is a very old beagle who lost an eye, and has appeared on the web wearing an eye patch and a pirate hat. Homer jumped into my wife's lap at one point, trying his best to get somebody to read his scarf and adopt him. Homer also has a "docked" tail, just why somebody early in his life (before he was rescued) did that to him is unknown. Beagles, which were originally bred for hunting, have a white tip to their tale, known as a "flag". Poor Homer the Pirate, his flag has been struck, and his tail has been docked, and his original owners cast him adrift. He is the ultimate rescued sailor, but now lives with hope that somebody will adopt him and give him a "fur ever" home.

Ripley today is entertaining Sassy, our son's dog, and will spend Super Bowl Sunday as an overnight guest while our son does the young people thing. Sassy has just now destroyed a very old Millie toy. I'll present my son with a bill if the carnage gets too extreme. Ripley is holding his own, naturally.

Beagle Meet-Up at Tampa Park

Today was a Ripley day, with the morning spent amongst his many friends and fellow beagles at the Al Lopez Park in Tampa. The Tampa Bay Beagle Rescue holds these "meet & greets" several times a month, and today the bell was rung twice as two families completed the adoption of their rescued beagle, and took the dog to its "fur ever" home.

Tampa Bay Beagle Rescue (check out their web site) does an excellent job in placing dogs, starting with a foster family. That's Ripley's foster mom, Lori, holding him, and his foster dad, Kevin, in the background. Today Lori and my wife were able to spend a lot more time talking about Ripley, and we learned that he's come a long way from when Lori and Kevin got him. They're very happy with Rip, and glad for us, but we know they miss this little guy. If we go on vacation, Ripley has an open invitation to stay with them.

While in Tampa, Ripley discovered his inner beagle AND his voice - he's been a notably quiet dog, but when he discovered the fun of running with the pack, he jumped in with all four paws. We haven't heard him say that much in the two months we've had him. Ripley also asserted himself quite well, in telling a couple of the more ambitious beagles he wasn't interested in their overly amorous instincts. Now we know the beagle words for "put that pistol back in it's holster, I'm not having any of that stuff today".

On the way back to Sarasota, Ripley slept. We were going to stop at a pet store and purchase some dog shampoo (did you know the best stuff has oatmeal in it?), but when we got there we also saw a "mobile pet wash" called Bubbles. So, we bought the shampoo for another day, but spent $12 to get Ripley all clean, shiny and smelling much better. The dog park is a great place for fun, but in the end, fun is only the first three letters in the word funky, and that's how he smelled.

As I write this, he's still asleep in the corner, and after a hard days work at the dog park, no wonder.