Like many people from New Jersey, we’ve travelled south for a few days to visit relatives who long ago gave up on winter. I note that we were among ‘many people’ because we almost got bumped off our flight out. It was the last plane to depart, three hours late, before a snowstorm hit, which added drama. When no one accepted a thousand-dollar prize to give up their seat, the people at the gate told us there were only two spots left of the four that we’d paid for. According to the algorithm, they said.
This is…disgusting, I said, because I am still more England than New Jersey. Seats eventually materialized, in the section that you usually have to pay extra for. A holiday miracle.
In addition to visiting our family, we’re also here to expose our limbs to fresh air. You can tell us apart from the locals at a beachside playground because the children are wearing clothes from last summer that are now a little too small: Their legs look extra-long in proportion to their shorts.
We’re staying in a rental home with a profusion of decor made out of rope. Furniture, rugs, lamps, wall art. The mirrors are ringed with knitted rope and so are the bed frames. The chairs are wrapped in rope, and so is the coffee table, covered with what appears to be a generous coating of shellac. I presume the rope is nautical, a reference to seafaring, rather than erotic bondage. But in Florida, you never know.
The rope-covered bookshelves display very few books, but they do show off a number of novelty signs professing the benefits of beach life. Saltwater cures everything! one says. Pre-2024, I would have found it benign, but now it makes me think about vaccines, or lack thereof. That’s another thing about Florida.
There are two caged parrots living at the safari-themed mini golf course. This makes sense, because we’re in Florida. Both parrots have signs on their cages, written in the first person, warning that they harbor vicious tendencies. This also makes sense, because they’re caged parrots living at a safari-themed mini golf course in Florida.
After we play our round of safari-themed mini golf, we’re standing by one of the vicious parrots. Her name is Lucy, and I WILL BITE YOU, according to the sign. A young man, about to start his safari-themed mini golf course shift, walks over to see her. He gives Lucy a warm nod, in a manner that reminds me of how I greet my favorite colleagues with whom I’ve forged lifelong friendships in the midst of duress.
She dances if you sing, the young man says to my four-year-old, and she looks skeptical.
(Sing to me and I’ll dance for you, Lucy’s sign says. I like to dance and I LIKE TO BITE.)
I don’t know what to sing, my daughter says, unsure of the musical expectations of a vicious dancing parrot. Which is fair.
Anything, the young man says. Just the alphabet song works.
He, a person who looks much too cool to be singing to a parrot, begins. We join in.
Standing in a semi-circle, leaning on our little golf clubs, we sing together, an impromptu chorus: my daughter, the safari-themed mini golf course employee, my cousin Jen, and I.
Our performance is enthusiastic. Somewhat tuneful. The parrot bops her head to the rhythm. We learn that’s how a parrot dances.
I think: No one is even filming this on a phone. We’re just singing for the hell of it, like it’s the 1980s. To entertain a vicious parrot at a safari-themed mini golf course.
I think: Florida!
JHE
If you live in northern New Jersey and fancy learning about writing memoir, perhaps you’d like to join the class in Beginning Memoir I’ll be teaching, starting in February, over eight Monday evenings. It will be fun.