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Peace Of My Mind

It's been 10 years since I shucked the shackles of the Midwest and came to the scrubland of Florida.  Yes, folks, this state is just as kitschy as you see on social media.  Yale produced a study that clearly showed that significant human inanity is born, bred and revealed in Florida.  No other state in the U.S. even comes close.  My theory is the heat.  It bakes brains.  Cranial synopsi are jumbled, twisted and re-routed by the endless heat - much as are pot roasts in an oven. Or the non-stop Liberty Biburty commercials.  

Scientists tell us humans evolved in Africa 2 to 6 million years ago. You'd have thought the high temps of the Sahara would have created an immunity to the our ancestors, but scientists also tell us we skiddadled out of that place and headed West, Young Man, Head West.  You know to the relative coolness of the Middle East.  Yeah, that place where there is desert, brown earth, locusts and the only green to be found come in Krylon cans of spray paint.  Thus the first rule of heat on brains:  endless hot sun makes you crazy.  The Middle East is the epicenter of crazy.  

Then, those who survived, albeit a little crazy traveled further West.   Up through Mongolia,  where someone got the grand idea to cut off the heads of their enemies and play polo with them.  Then up toward the land bridge of Alaska,  through Russia, where Bernie Sander's was spending his honeymoon.  Yeah, he's that old.  

But I digress.

Eventually everyone settled in the States and enjoyed the fine mild climates.  But then, about 1400 years ago, someone discovered the land that would become Florida.  History books debate whether native Americans or Del Webb is responsible for this mess, but there is enough blame for anyone who thinks this sinkhole is worthy of livability. 

Has it been a waste of time?  No.  I have sailed on a Tall Ship, fished for shark in the Gulf, explored islands, seen wild gators and walked a hundred miles of nature.  I also babysat for two of my grandkids, and had every member of my immediate family within 15 minutes of me.    

And through it all I have never lost the pull of rustling corn fields, empty roads, quiet star-filled nights, old friends and cool mornings.  The pull is a thing best described by a Portuguese word  Saudade.  Saw-dah-day.






It's a good word.  And as I continue to hatch escape plans, like a lifer in Alcatraz, I fear for the day I do leave.  I am haunted by the knowledge that wherever I am, Northlandia or Kitschland, I will feel the pull of saudade for the place I have left.   
     

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