This afternoon as I languished upon a chaise longue by the serene pool a wind gust suddenly blew over me. The welcome zephyr instantaneously dried the burning solar heat, replenishing my commitment to Buttonwood Bay and its assuaging mixture of azure sky and subtropical climate. Only moments before in the shade of the pergola I had concluded an evocative and unusually prolonged conversation with Mrs C in which, among other things, we reaffirmed my latest proposition regarding the similar heritage of Americans and Canadians.  Her husband’s mother (St. Pierre) was of French Canadian stock (as is my mother) and her own family is of Polish ancestry (as are my brother-in-law and his immediate family). As a child she also attended a Catholic school governed by nuns as did my own mother (though pointedly Mrs C remembers the nuns more magnanimously than did my mother who frequently reported of their strict control and ofttimes corporal punishment).

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In mathematics, a cusp, sometimes called spinode in old texts, is a point on a curve where a moving point must reverse direction. A typical example is given in the figure. A cusp is thus a type of singular point of a curve.

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There is no denying the singular character of Americans.  Yet it is arguably no more unique a distinction than that allowed the populace of France, Greece, China, Thailand or New Zealand for example.  Basically they’re all different.  What however makes the American way particularly unique in my mind is its obvious differences from that of immediately adjoining Canada, a country where one might be excused for imagining there to be a great similarity. But there isn’t. At least apart from the weather and much of the topography.

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The weather on Key Largo is inexpressibly fine. It is as undiminished as it is fine. Day after day  the perfection of blue sky and yellow sunshine. From the outset of one’s ritual morning exercise it is impossible to resist the allure of the radiant sunshine whether unobstructed or amid the fleeting cumulonimbi in the azure sky. The temperature (always a minimum warm and often approaching hot at the earliest hour of the day) instantly corresponds to one’s linen costume. Cotton is far too strenuous for the local climate.

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As we approach the end of March, 2023, it appears that the residents of Buttonwood Bay are taking their leave. When I arrived by my tricycle at the pool this morning around 10:45 am there was only one couple (a man and a woman) seated upon chaises longues, each of them reading a book (a real book, not a Kindle). More astonishing was that they were in the shade beneath the tall Buttonwood bushes, facing the westerly side of the pool not directly into the morning sun. They clearly have a unique regard for the sun and Vitamin D.

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Commenting upon the artistic persuasion of Key Largo is happily an effortless task. For openers there’s the inexpressible weather: azure dome, dazzling sunshine, palm trees swaying in a balmy sea breeze and astronomic temperatures. All this whilst lounging languidly by a pool of turquoise water surrounded by Buttonwood Bay bushes. Occasionally an exotic iguana enhances the subtropical ambiance.

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As I learned today, the nickname of Frank and Nancy Zimmerman’s former boat was “Scare-D-Cat V” though for reasons I am not acquainted. But, first, let me back up. I met Nancy shortly after we arrived on Key Largo last November, 2022 or not long thereafter. I was familiarizing myself with my new neighbourhood by tricycling about the whole of Buttonwood Bay. If my memory serves me correctly, Nancy was walking on the island with another (younger) woman who may have been a daughter or granddaughter. It is difficult for me to recall who the women may have been because I learned during that chance encounter (Nancy stopped me to enquire about my tricycle) that she was 91 years old. She looked singularly well for such a remarkable age.  She was asking about my tricycle since she had lately experienced some balance issues with her bicycle.

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Mid-March is well known for its March Breakers; that is, the crowd from nearby northern communities in Canada and the USA who are intent upon relieving themselves of the yawning isolation of winter in the hopeful warmth and indulgence of southern latitudes. Predominantly the short-term visitors on Buttonwood Bay are children under adolescent age, usually escorted by their parents who are in turn the progeny or in-laws of the owners or winter residents. Inevitably these children and their escorts overtake the pool nearest their residence. Thee are three pools on Buttonwood Bay.

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No matter how far away one travels, the memory of friends is an inescapable and recurring theme. And while I have enjoyed the acquaintance of people whom we’ve met during our sojourns, they are (with few exceptions) not of the same depth and breadth of those whom I consider more penetrating friends. To be fair to our winter acquaintances, in spite of our repetitive encounters by the pool or sea, there are sustained limitations which naturally embargo the relationships.

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As I have lately willingly confessed in another of my “blurbs” (as Mrs C is wont to call them) I have fairly exhausted whatever there is to say about almost any topic arising from my experiences. And while I continue to accept this primarily as true it nonetheless fails to diminish my inexhaustible pleasure in a running commentary upon those same subjects. Which is to say, upon my vapid life. Indeed I unabashedly derive considerable entertainment from the overt acknowledgement of my particular worldliness.  Clearly I am now beyond apology for what is restrained sophistication. Permit me by contrast (and in the spirit of cooperation) to observe that I rather relish the arrant simplicity of it all. The literary environment is notable for its cathartic effect unrelated to its dynamic effect. It is but another form of self expression not terribly remote from the banjo or harmonica though obviously for a limited audience.

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