Within Close Range - Florida Days: the Teen Years

Driving from the airport to Nonnie and Papa's new winter retreat -  a 16th floor, oceanside condominium in Pompano Beach, Florida - it was clear things here were going to be much different than in Hallandale, where their old apartment used to be.

Gone were the 1950s neighborhoods with small, tidy bungalows and low-rise, pastel-colored apartment buildings.

Gone were the small, neat streets with big, American cars and the quiet, inland canals with their 90 degree curves.

The small, roadside stand that sold fresh picked citrus was also lost. As were the days when I’d pluck a cool orange from a shaded crate and a plastic Citra Sipper from the swivel display.

Plunging The SIpper into the peel and the pulp, releasing it’s sweet, succulent smell into the cold, air-conditioned car,  I’d squeeze that orange and suck with all my might. 

So much work for such tiny hands. 

So little reward.

Yet eager to try it - to make Papa buy it - again and again.

Modern highrises now loomed along the crowded coastline, casting long shadows over old neighborhoods struggling to stay relevant; and The Sipper had been replaced by "The Strip”, a popular stretch of beach along Ft. Lauderdale, Florida’s A1A (and the only route from the airport to the new condo); where nubile, bikini-clad, beer drinking college students on spring break have flocked and balanced precariously on the fence between adolescence and adulthood for generations.

Having to navigate through the hoards of unruly, unkempt, half-naked youth made both Nonnie and Papa mumble and grumble a lot, but I was mesmerized by this uncharted world, this untamed, southern gateway to my teen-dom.

Which I was slowly cruising past in the back seat of a tightly sealed Cadillac filled with the sounds of Perry Como and the smell of Jean Nate

The further The Strip faded into the distance and the closer we got to Nonnie and Papa's, the older the demographics skewed; until a stone's throw from this modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, beers and bikinis were completely overcome by beer bellies and Platex bras.

The upside to the new zip code was the bigger apartment - which meant a happy, long distance relationship between Nonnie and Papa's bedroom and the guest room, where we (usually visiting with a sister or cousin) bunked. 

Like the apartment in Hallandale, this room had a separate door to the outside world (or at least to a main corridor) and much to our teenage delight, the next door over led to an unused stairwell, Marlboro Lights, poorly rolled joints, and late night escapades with New York girls and their East Coast drinking games.

Gone were Nonnie and Papa’s halcyon Florida days of total authority and complete control.

These were the carefree days of baby oil and B-52s.

Of convincing Nonnie to hand over the keys to the Caddy, rolling down the windows, turning up the radio, and inhaling in the salty air, the Florida sunshine and the sweet smell of being newly licensed.

Of boys on the beach noticing us and Nonnie (through binoculars from her balcony sixteen stories up) noticing them noticing us. 

These were the Florida Days of pushing boundaries; especially ones poorly guarded.

And usually by the weakest, littlest one.

I blame Gina.

Mostly.

I’d never have had the guts to go beyond the Claridge’s pool gates if she didn’t get that glint in her eyes which ever urged me to follow.

Down to the beach.

Well past dark.

Well past curfew.

Who knows how long Nonnie had been pacing in front of the newly identified escape route, but we were barely through the door before the tirade - which nearly lifted her off her tiny, bunioned feet - began.

She cross-examined, reprimanded and threatened expulsion; then led us to Papa waiting in the living room.

Leaden and pacing.

Looking angrier than I’d ever seen him. 

Louder than I’d ever heard him.

When all was said - which wasn’t much - he turned his back and sent us to bed.

Things would be different between Papa and me.

I wasn’t the person he wanted to see. 

The next morning, Nonnie cut out a newspaper article with the headline, "Girls Charred on Beach" and stuck it prominently on the refrigerator.

She spent the remainder of the morning behind closed bedroom doors, on a call with her sisters, Camille and Rose,  filling them in on two of life's latest disappointments; heralded, at times, in a pitch so high, dogs throughout the 20-story building began to bark. 

This led to quieter Florida days, when solo visits meant I was more observer than observed; studying Nonnie and Papa in their well-aged routine of marital indifference. 

Wondering if I knew what a happy marriage looked like? 

Watching the old ladies down by the pool; with their straw sunhats and bad romance novels, their games of Cannasta, endless cigarettes and overly suntanned skin.

Wondering if they were ever truly young?

When Papa returned to tend to the store in Chicago, it meant hours of Gin Rummy, alone with Nonnie, on the breezy, but sheltered balcony way above the Atlantic ocean; where 8-track cassettes of Liberace and Lawrence Welk taught me tolerance.

And the importance of a wickedly good game face. 

We were happy to see the rainy skies. Happy to stay indoors and in our nightgowns.The condo would be especially quiet on days like these. No washing machine or television reminding us of other things.

Other lives. 

No dinners out or big meals in.

We'd barely move.

Rarely talk. 

Occasionally, Nonnie would disappear (while I practiced the art of the shuffle) and return moments later with a box of chocolates, or a plateful of sweet, powdery pizzelle, fresh-baked biscotti, or calzone - crispy, gooey and hot from the oven.

Delicious days of doing nothing. 

Just Nonnie and me.