James M. Redwine

Florida

Sans Sand

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Just when it looked like it might be safe to leave the beach and go back in the water the beach is disappearing. After more than a year of masks and isolation Peg and I finally got our second Pfizer shots last Friday. We just need to avoid all human contact for one more week. We were anticipating a return to a normal life. Then I read of an alarming new and totally unexpected world crisis, a sand shortage? Yep, that was the cautionary tale screaming from the Internet. I know I should not use my iPhone for anything but ordering from Amazon, but I find it impossible to ignore the AOL pop-ups in my email.  I know better but still click on the cleverly worded come-ons beseeching me to read about global warming, COVID-19, politics, sports or even Prince Harry and the Duchess of Sussex. This morning as the sun rose I was dinged with an exposé about our planet’s disappearing sands. Had I been aware of the situation I wouldn’t have recognized it even was a problem until I read the CNBC article shouting out the impending catastrophe of sans sand. So, Gentle Reader, just in case you might not have been panicking over this issue either, let me share my newly found angst.

Until this morning about my only concern in regard to sand was Peg’s complaint that I traipse it into our cabin after I have been out walking on the sandstone covered prairie. Peg demands that I leave my boots at the door and slide around in my socks on our bare floors. Now I can tell her I am helping to save the planet when I accumulate sand on her clean floors. She just needs to start bagging it up. Anyway, here’s what the Internet says is as significant to the world as fighting the pandemic.

According to an article on CNBC by Sam Meredith, sand is the world’s most consumed raw material after water and it is, “… an essential ingredient to our everyday lives”. In a “coals to New Castle” type comment the article goes on to say the United State government is hauling in countless tons of sand to protect Florida’s beaches that have been decimated by global warming. Apparently this is a world-wide dilemma and just as some people blame China for COVID-19, China’s over use of sand in massive construction projects accounts for almost 60% of the world use of sand as it is mixed into cement. It takes 10 tons of sand to produce 1 ton of cement.

You, as did I, might think that with such deposits as Sahara or Death Valley or the front yard of JPeg Osage Ranch, we would never run out of sand. However, it turns out that not all sand is created equally.

Desert sands, those created from wind instead of water such as by the seas and rivers, are too smooth to be used for construction so we are depleting our “good” sand too rapidly. There is even a huge illegal enterprise in sand excavation in some countries that has led to mafia type activity or so says CNBC.

As for me, I have resigned myself to continuing to pour cement into fence post holes and hope there will be enough to circle our new barn. If Peg does her part we might be able to make it stretch.

 

 

A Yankee Girl Does Rodeo

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America consists of four countries: (1) everything east of the Mississippi River excluding Florida; (2) Florida, (3) everything west of the Mississippi River excluding California; and, (4) California. Rodeos are the province of people in country (3) although some folks in Florida and California do know there is no accent on the term rodéo except for a certain drive in Beverly Hills frequented by the frou-frou set.

Yankees, that is almost all of those people in countries (1) (2) and (4) snub their noses at those of us from country (3). Yankees tend to talk funny while casting aspersions on the pleasing western drawls of those of us from country (3), and Yankees dress odd while failing to appreciate western wear. In sum, some Yankees want to ignore country (3) even to the point of eliminating the Electoral College and bribing their way into colleges most of those in country (3) would not wish to attend. After all, could real Americans root for colleges whose colors are pastels?

It was important issues such as these that coursed through my brain as Peg, who was born in New York, and I attended a rodeo in Osage County, Oklahoma last week. I was left with the conclusion that Yankee girls and rodeos may not be the best fit. Perhaps you will agree once I relate Peg’s take on the Roy Clark Memorial Championship Rodeo held April 26 and 27, 2019 in Pawhuska, Osage County, Oklahoma.

Peg was fine with and impressed by the opening ceremonies that started with a cowgirl mounted on a horse and carrying the United States flag. That cowgirl was followed by another mounted cowgirl carrying the state flag of Oklahoma then by five more cowgirls riding around the arena with flags of the Air Force, Army, Marines, Navy and Coast Guard. As the flags were displayed “The Star Spangled Banner” was sung, the Pledge of Allegiance was recited and a long prayer was given. Then the rodeo events began. That’s also when Peg began to inquire about such things as calves, steers, horses and bulls feeling put upon by such things as cowboys, cowgirls, ropes and stock handlers.

“Jim, that cowboy roped that calf around the neck while it was running full speed and abruptly jerked it to a stop by reigning in his horse. Doesn’t that hurt and isn’t that cruel and inhumane?”

“I suppose so, but not ever having been roped, I don’t know. I note the calf jumped up and trotted off looking fine.”

“Well I beg to differ, you chased me until I roped you in, although sometimes I wonder why I did. Anyway, Jim, the announcer said the cowboy tied up three of the calf’s legs with a ‘piggin string’ he carried in his teeth. Where are the pigs?”

“There are no pigs in rodeos unless you are on a farm back east. It’s just a term of art.”

“It seems like almost all the cowboys who try to ride the bucking horses and bulls get thrown off. Doesn’t that hurt? And, where’s the art in that?”

“Yes, it hurts about like getting hit by a 300 pound football player. However, if they hang on for 8 seconds they can win prize money. It’s all part of the rodeo experience, Peg.”

“Jim, I don’t think it’s fair they penalize the cowgirl barrel racers for knocking over a barrel. Why don’t they set the barrels up so they won’t fall over?”

“Because then the cowgirls would go flying over the saddle horns when the horse hits a barrel.”

“Jim, in that team roping thingy why don’t they just set a large circle of rope down on the arena floor and shoo the steer’s hind legs into it?”

“Because that is not what happens on a ranch when cattle are being worked. Rodeos are based on actual ranch work and steers have to be rounded up on a ranch.”

“Jim, do you think we’ll see Sam Elliott here tonight?”

“Are you ready to leave? Maybe we’ll go see a movie. Perhaps you’ll see Sam there.”

The Mouse That Roars

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Gentle Reader, I ask you, “Is this fair?” Last week I barely escaped a medical catastrophe when I slipped on the ice while attempting to relocate a mouse from our house to a fiery fate. You may recall this whole thing was started by Peg who went ballistic when she found the mouse stuck in a trap. Apparently there is some universal law that mouse disposal is a husband’s job.

After I fell and received zero sympathy from Peg I sought input from my legions of supporters who read Gavel Gamut. Well, forget that! I have heard from nearly everyone who read last week’s column and they divide into three categories: (1) One person who accused me of cruelty to a mouse – even though it escaped as I almost died; (2) Three women who wondered how Peg could abide my whimpering; and, (3) an attorney from Orlando, Florida whose law firm specializes in representing mice. I’ll just relate his letter for you.

“Dear Judge Redwine,

As members of the Bar we are amazed a judge would violate the rights of our client whose only error in judgement was to seek warmth in your converted barn home. Come on! You should expect such visitors as you live right in the middle of their community.

Be that as it may, please be advised that should you not cease and desist from your attempts to harm our client, legal action will ensue.

Respectfully, of course,
Attorney Reyfert Hogart, Esq.

P.S. Peg has also contacted us with a question or two.”

 

 

The Snowbird’s Lament

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Hoosiers wear pajamas on Sunday morning at home. Many Floridians wear them everywhere, all the time. The only Hoosiers who wear house shoes to dinner are the same Hoosiers who play Bingo. Floridians wear house shoes to church.

The servants at Downton Abbey dress better than elected officials in Florida, well, maybe Indiana too, but you get the metaphor.

Half of God’s waiting room sits around, not in, swimming pools speaking English with funny Yankee accents while the other half mow, trim, plant and construct while speaking Spanish.

Peg and I fall into category one, but we speak proper Hoosier. We only use our high school Spanish when we leave our geriatric condo complex.

There are parks everywhere in Florida. Nobody uses them except people with dogs. Indiana does not waste farmland on parks. Hoosiers flock to the few parks they can find and play softball while Floridians remain Bingo-bound and look at all the parks.

Indiana in winter provides proper weather. Ice, snow, sleet and frostbite are reveled in by Hoosiers who honor school closings and worship tow trucks. Floridians don parkas at 60 °, give unsolicited advice to Hoosiers such as, “Just quit your job and move down here”, and ask, “What’s a tow truck?”

The grass in Indiana has the courtesy to go dormant in October and remain in repose until April. Grass in Florida prides itself on providing year round off the books employment to the three million illegal immigrants who have accepted Emma Lazarus’ open invitation on the Statue of Liberty. By the way, within a month of arrival, each traveler puts, at least, two more cars into Florida’s kamikaze traffic. Hoosiers drive cars too, but in Indiana, dodge’em as a sport is discouraged.

Hoosiers eat breakfast at breakfast time, i.e., before eight a.m. Restaurants in Florida do not even open until nine and Floridians consider it gauche to eat an egg before ten.

People in Indiana harness the Ohio and Wabash Rivers for industry and recreation. Florida is also surrounded by water, but the only ones who use the ocean are a few middle aged surfers who greet everyone with, “Hey, Dude.”

In summary, Floridians dress funny, talk funny, drive crazy and have no winter. Hoosiers are normal, but freeze half the year. If you want to contact Peg or me before spring, send us a letter.

And 9 Tiny Flamingos

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Peg and I spent Christmas in Florida. It was sunny some of the time and the lowest temperature was 70°. Of course, because Peg was in charge, our main pastime was shopping. Oh, we could have played golf or gone to the ocean, but our major activity was avoiding being rammed on the streets by some demolition driving snowbird from New York or being rammed in WalMart by some bargain chasing octogenarian pushing a cart with one hand and a cane with the other.

I actually got to where the challenge of “dodge cart” was exhilarating. Since I am in my 70’s, I had a distinct advantage over most of the treasure hunters. However, it was not unusual for some blue-haired, tennis shoe wearing lady, clad in a tee shirt emblazoned with some catchy phrase such as, “So’s your old man”, to surprise me with a shove to the back of my knees.

According to Peg, we had to go to Florida at least once in 2015 to check on the small condo her mom gave us to make sure it was okay; it wasn’t. The first thing we ran into was a commode in need of surgery. We fixed it with only three trips to Lowe’s. Then the “new” garbage disposal leaked. Not to worry. One more trip to Lowe’s and 80 bucks did the trick.

Just as I had Peg convinced to return to where Christmas is celebrated properly, the two main windows were damaged by a rainstorm. As I am a man, I was willing to ignore things for another year, but Peg’s female side took over. She demanded we act responsibly. So we stayed to save the interior from even more rain that the Weather App predicted.

I knew the repair jobs were not that much more than we face in Indiana on a regular basis. That was not really the problem. What caused me to continually dream of a northern Christmas was the amalgam of tinsel and plastic contraptions Floridians use for Christmas decorations.

If one pictures Clement Moore’s vision from ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas then juxtaposes it with a scene from Meredith Wilson’s The Music Man, you too can have Christmas in Florida.

As Peg and I wandered around in short sleeves and short pants, we saw numerous attempts to reconcile Florida with Christmas. There were white plastic snowmen sitting on lush green lawns as they were being sprayed by automatic sprinklers. There were Santa Clauses, plastic of course, dressed in heavy red snow suits. There was the normal plethora of tiny white lights but now on palm trees.

And worst of all, there were plastic sleighs sitting in sand piles. At least they were not being pulled by eight flamingos led by a ninth with a glowing red beak.