It is mid-February. Winter’s sea-frosted breath is seeping through the cracks in my house and chilling the bones of everyone we left behind.
I admit that it gives me the tiniest bit of guilty pleasure to imagine this as I linger over brunch with my family in historic Winter Park, Fla., 90 miles from where I attended high school. On the Vineyard, yet another snowstorm hushes the Island where the only sign of life is over-active children itching with cabin fever. Call it Vacation schadenfreude.
Late to meet a friend from my Tampa Catholic High days, I drive with my husband and sons along ritzy suburban streets shaded by laurel oaks, passing tennis courts in full swing. My friend is waiting for us beside her neighborhood pool, and time vanishes as we sip Prosecco, laugh about our teenage antics and marvel at our little boys. I notice some paddle boards lined up lakeside, and I can’t help but compare lives.
Back home, one of our heaters has exploded due to extreme, sub-zero temperatures. Maybe, just maybe, if I hadn’t move back north 15 years ago, my family could spend less time negotiating with HVAC repairmen and more days like this one, lounging in flip-flops under cloudless skies and feeling the sun on our skin.
So much happens during my annual winter escapes to visit my parents. The Florida that, to my teenage sensibilities, once seemed as flat as its elevation, is now shimmering sexily under the February sun, resurrecting a nearly extinct part of me. Each time I return, I feel a new appreciation for the quiet bay behind my parents’ condo, where we not only spot dolphins, but also downtown Sarasota. This city that once seemed like a snore now beckons with authentic Mexican cantinas, a sculpture park, farmer’s market and spring training camps.
While whooshing down slides at a playground overlooking a marina, I see the life we could have here. My husband and our boys, sleeping in a snug bungalow, spending days fishing off our own little dock. We’d visit my parents on Sundays. Play tennis. I would hang with my laid-back besties of yesteryear.
But gradually, inevitably, the faceless strip malls begin to unnerve me. I see graffiti at a playground and find myself searching for signs of gang activity. The coup de grace comes when another friend tells me there are 35 children in her daughter’s kindergarten class. My older son shares a room with 12.
The day is calm and cool when my ferry docks in Vineyard Haven. Seeing the shrinking snowbanks and out-of-state license plates assures me the promise of spring is upon us. Soon, the ponds will be stocked, the Home Port will open and houseguests will return. Until then, there’s a full moon to witness and pinkletinks to stalk from my back deck. Without a neon sign or highway in sight, I’ll savor each subtle shift this season.
Moira Silva is a writer and writing instructor who lives in West Tisbury.
It is mid-February. Winter’s sea-frosted breath is seeping through the cracks in my house and chilling the bones of everyone we left behind.
I admit that it gives me the tiniest bit of guilty pleasure to imagine this as I linger over brunch with my family in historic Winter Park, Fla., 90 miles from where I attended high school. On the Vineyard, yet another snowstorm hushes the Island where the only sign of life is over-active children itching with cabin fever. Call it Vacation schadenfreude.
Late to meet a friend from my Tampa Catholic High days, I drive with my husband and sons along ritzy suburban streets shaded by laurel oaks, passing tennis courts in full swing. My friend is waiting for us beside her neighborhood pool, and time vanishes as we sip Prosecco, laugh about our teenage antics and marvel at our little boys. I notice some paddle boards lined up lakeside, and I can’t help but compare lives.
Back home, one of our heaters has exploded due to extreme, sub-zero temperatures. Maybe, just maybe, if I hadn’t move back north 15 years ago, my family could spend less time negotiating with HVAC repairmen and more days like this one, lounging in flip-flops under cloudless skies and feeling the sun on our skin.
So much happens during my annual winter escapes to visit my parents. The Florida that, to my teenage sensibilities, once seemed as flat as its elevation, is now shimmering sexily under the February sun, resurrecting a nearly extinct part of me. Each time I return, I feel a new appreciation for the quiet bay behind my parents’ condo, where we not only spot dolphins, but also downtown Sarasota. This city that once seemed like a snore now beckons with authentic Mexican cantinas, a sculpture park, farmer’s market and spring training camps.
While whooshing down slides at a playground overlooking a marina, I see the life we could have here. My husband and our boys, sleeping in a snug bungalow, spending days fishing off our own little dock. We’d visit my parents on Sundays. Play tennis. I would hang with my laid-back besties of yesteryear.
But gradually, inevitably, the faceless strip malls begin to unnerve me. I see graffiti at a playground and find myself searching for signs of gang activity. The coup de grace comes when another friend tells me there are 35 children in her daughter’s kindergarten class. My older son shares a room with 12.
The day is calm and cool when my ferry docks in Vineyard Haven. Seeing the shrinking snowbanks and out-of-state license plates assures me the promise of spring is upon us. Soon, the ponds will be stocked, the Home Port will open and houseguests will return. Until then, there’s a full moon to witness and pinkletinks to stalk from my back deck. Without a neon sign or highway in sight, I’ll savor each subtle shift this season.
Moira Silva is a writer and writing instructor who lives in West Tisbury.
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