Florida from approximately mid-November until April is a wonderful place to be. The weather is nearly perfect, hovering in the 60s and 70s, and the sun shines daily. It's easy to go outside. Your hands don't crack from dryness. You don't have to worry about snow or ice, or think about how you'll get enough vitamin D. At least, this is my experience. DC winters are a stark contrast. Winter Park feels like Eden in comparison. Back home with my parents, life is simple. Wake up, laze about the house, read, watch a movie, exercise eventually. Go to church. See old familiar faces that are also excited to see you. Explore new nooks. Sense the changes in people, time, landscape, local businesses.
I have to remind myself this is not what life would feel like if I up and moved. The holidays in Florida are a welcome retreat and much different than the state's long brutal summers. Around Christmas, you're surrounded by family and friends. You aren't focused on work obligations. It's easy to step outside and enjoy your day, to go to a new restaurant, or visit a nostalgic old hangout with renewed feelings of novelty. I have to believe that wears away quickly lest I be tempted to drop everything and move back.
That's Orlando when I visit over the holidays. This past Christmas and New Years were a much-needed retreat from a challenging time in DC. I wasn't only escaping harsh weather, days in the office without seeing the sun, and, at times, a strained sense of community. Living in DC, especially in my workspace, means never truly escaping the news. Always being aware of the worst things happening. The fraying of society and the encroaching authoritarianism. Outside of this city, you have the mental space not to worry about that. There is no constant talk about it and the low-hum anxiety is mostly absent. Life goes on without the looming presence of the federal government. I miss that. So I'm prone to remember Florida fondly this time of year.
I remember the old citrus orchards a forty-five minute drive from downtown Orlando. In late Winter or early Spring, we would go there to glean leftover oranges, grapefruit, and more that hadn't made farmers' cut to be sold. Most of the produce would go to Second Harvest Food Bank or the Mustard Seed. But, naturally, we got to keep some for ourselves. I learned to love grapefruit sprinkled with sugar. The bitter meat and juice of the fruit cut with sweetness. Most avoid it and so it becomes a secret treat. When I was little, we had neighbors or church family with old, single story rickety homes, but with abundant fruit trees. It was that easy to walk and find nature's abundance.
Florida's fresh water springs in the Winter and Spring are like nature's sanctuary. Crystal-clear water flows from the porous limestone in the ground at 72 degrees. It eases downriver to join the greater waters, and surrounding its shores is thick, vibrant pine-brush. Around this time of year, manatees congregate in the waters, seeking warm refuge from the chilly coastal waterways. They are serene, floating, eating their kelp, nursing calves. It's truly a sight to behold. The sounds of Florida's nature this time of year are noticeably calm; if you're accustomed to Floridian summers, you notice the lack of screaming cicadas. When flocks of people come to see the manatees, they have no choice but to join them in their pace and participate in their tranquility.
Come the end of March and beginning of April, the familiar heat and humidity roar back. Accepting constant sweating is the Floridian way of life. Knowing which friend or neighbor has a pool is critical. There are several pools I recall frequenting when I was younger. The closest were our cul-de-sac neighbors. Out neighbor, Ms. Nan, would let us use her pool. I hope it brought a small joy to her heart to be able to share it - we sure appreciated it. My brother and I had friends a half-mile away (who were also brothers) who had a pool. Hangout sessions looked like pool-nintendo-pool-nintendo-basketball-nintendo. On special occasions, like dinner on Easter day, we'd go to our cousin's house 30 minutes away in a suburb built on a swamp. This is territory where residents keep an eye out for alligators wandering into their pool. But with their mesh enclosure, we didn't worry. After ham and deviled eggs and Hawaiin rolls, my brother and dad and I would leap into the water.
There was no pool at our house in Grouse Court. I don't regret that in the slightest. Pools can be eyesores. Instead, we have the sandy-soil backyard, with a long, shaded porch, trees and bushes and my mom's pineapple grove. There's a grapefruit and a lemon tree. A large compost bin abuts the house. In it are egg shells and coffee grinds and onion peels and hundreds of worms engorging themselves. It's a celebration of our home's nature and wonder. Now, in the winter, it's a place of reflection. A small sliver I'm grateful to call my home. And if it's cold enough, we can toss a few logs into my grandpa's old terracotta chiminea.
Florida, my parent's home - my home -, is the rich ground from which I've rooted and grown. It fed and nourished me and does still. I've lived outside of Florida long enough, now, that my identity becomes much less tethered to the state and culture. Returning to Orlando is visiting a time, place, and understanding of myself. It's also witnessing constant change in my life, my parent's life, and my origins. And that informs my understanding of any new place I end up.
I'm grateful for Florida and what it's given me.