THE SONIC BOOMER
I think we can all agree that January and February in South Florida are quite pleasant. As snow and ice blanket the northern states, Floridians strike the word “humidity” from their vocabularies and, instead, use other words to curse the voluminous influx of snowbird traffic.
It’s not the snowbirds’ fault. They saw the postcards — sent by us!
They watched the TV ads — paid for by Florida tourism councils.
They listened as we bragged to them on the phone.
So they came on down. Florida oversold itself to non-residents, much like the United States itself oversold itself to “non-residents.” (But that’s another rant for another time.)
I grew up in Wisconsin, a place nobody visits unless they want to ski, fish or breathe clean, clear, fir-infused air. Ahhhh.
Wisconsin is cold nine months of the year, sometimes 10. It snows a lot. Children grow up thinking it’s normal. It’s normal to never leave home without a jacket (and hat, gloves, mittens, boots…). It’s normal for their parents to fill them full of oatmeal and send them out into a snowdrift to “play.” It’s normal to walk to school in 7-degree weather, then walk back in an afternoon high of 12.
Wisconsin teenagers learn to drive in all conditions. I remember asking my dad if I could drive to Illinois to watch my boyfriend “graduate” at the Great Lakes Naval Station. Dad didn’t want to say yes (a big snowstorm was heading our way), but he finally relented on the condition that my brother do the driving. He was such a worry-wart!
Jim and I were OK going down but, as we sat in a near-vacant auditorium, the storm descended with a fury. Coming back, wet snow was sticking to the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it. We couldn’t see, and the car (for which I had paid a good $65 for!) spun down the highway like a teacup. The “brand new” $5 re-tread tires I had bought for it had no grip at all. Jim did a plausible job easing us northward, but we were still sliding in-between tractor-trailers like Frogger. It was so scary that I apologized to Jim and hid underneath my raccoon coat to await certain death. The 90-minute drive took five hours. We made it, of course, and never told dad what a miracle it was. Our reasoning was that he might never let us do something so stupid again. And that’s how a teen thinks. Not once did it occur to us that our deaths may have an impact on the family at large… or our friends… or society. Nah. Our only thought was, “I hope this doesn’t impact dad’s approval for risks I may want to take in the future.”
And yet, considering all the years I lived in Florida, I only met one other person from my home state. No one leaves Wisconsin. It’s because we’re tough… and maybe a little stupid.
