Postcard from Florida

Florida gets a bad rap these days: its hurricanes are scary and its political tilt is a bit unsettling (remember all those hanging chads?). Then there’s that infamous classified document storage facility at Mar-a-Lago, a list of banned books as long as I-95, and I just saw a gecko the size of a French poodle. Not exactly the promised land. On the other hand, it has been a fickle spring up north, so when a wedding invitation arrived in our mailbox, we said, “Yes!” and packed our bags. And today, sitting on the lanai that overlooks the golf course, feeling both the warm early morning sun and a cooling breeze on the back of my neck, I must admit that I’m beginning to understand the snow bird’s call. The fish is fresh, the limes are plentiful, and I’ve yet to see a raindrop or a snow shovel.

When I was a little boy, my parents would make the long drive down to Florida for spring training. I would be sound asleep in the back seat of the Buick for much of the journey, but as soon as we crossed the Florida state line, I was awake and wide-eyed. When we finally made it to Fort Meyers (spring training home of the Pittsburgh Pirates), I would jump into the ocean without a dab of sunscreen, and drink lime rickeys (virgin, of course) all day long. We’d go to a ball game, collect sea shells, and send postcards back home saying, “Wish you were here,” whether we meant it or not. But now, all the baseball teams are back up north, there aren’t any more sea shells, and sterile texts have replaced all those touristy postcards featuring pink flamingos, smiling dolphins, or beady-eyed alligators. Now, half a century and more later, times have certainly changed; mean temperatures and seas levels may be rising elsewhere, but, at least in this exclusive little gated corner of the Sunshine State, a wedding guest’s life just purrs along in the right-hand lane.

Weddings are serious business down here. The “I do” is the easy part; it’s all the surrounding logistics and hoopla that make a wedding planner’s life complicated. Somebody has to organize the pickle ball tournament, somebody else has to make the pairings for a round or two of golf, and then there is the rehearsal dinner, the reception, the post-reception bash (I’ll be asleep by then) and the final-day farewell brunch. The tent that will house the reception could easily accommodate Windsor Castle and all the Royals; it overlooks the Atlantic Ocean, and its dance floor is about the same size. My tuxedo is pressed and ready; my wife’s dress is getting a new hem, but the seamstress promises it will be ready in time. It better be! An extra inch or two might throw the earth off its axis.

Meanwhile, the crowd is gathering like a big wave. There’s some last-minute tanning going on, the ladies being careful that their tan lines will compliment their couture. I’m just hoping my cummerbund hasn’t shrunk again like it did last year. You’d think by now someone would have perfected the unshrinkable cummerbund, or at least an AI version of one.

I sure hope it doesn’t sound like I’m carping about weddings or Florida. On the contrary; I’m just a grateful guest here. If nothing else, weddings are exercises in renewing old friendships and building new ones, as well as about generosity in the extreme. The union of two souls is one of life’s great milestones, worthy of a festive celebration in this beautiful corner of the world.

Wish you were here.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.