There is so much going on that it is past amusing, beyond funny and frankly into the amazing. Still, the production schedule at Socotra LLC demands attention. There is a growing neat stack of funny- poignant funny- tales of Marlow’s return to the mystic isle at the end of the Florida Keys. It has been fun working through his observations of Savannah, a place where the necessary needs of the aging process has washed him up. He and his lovely wife W took advantage of the return to normalcy and ventured back to Key West a blessed place in this world.

It is much better than the rest of what occupied my time yesterday. A medical appointment here in the Piedmont was illustrative. Federal direction, contained in the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (1996) precludes any discussion of that. Sorry. We could talk about the Defense budget, which is going to roll out tomorrow, but there will be plenty of time to chat about saving $50 billion on the Afghan Peace Dividend and who will get it. Not us, of course, but you knew that without discussion.

A couple things happening now will also divert our attention and spark more discussion. For example, we are pleased to report Refuge Farm is 100% compliant with vaccination directives. Except for the people who hopped the pasture fence last night and are now indistinguishable from the other people hanging around the loading dock. A separate matter, more of an ‘issue’ than a ‘crisis.’

We can report that Socotra House Employees report the House Doctor was running at least a half hour behind on scheduling. We are considering having the Health Department report at the morning production meetings. Her office is reported as being busy. Reasons? Easing of COVID restrictions, possibly, or perhaps there are more secondary effects of the vaccinations we have been encouraged to have administered. They say we will know about that in a few months. Which led to the minor flurry of reports regarding where the COVID thing came from in the first place.

There is potential liability to HIPPA restrictions in discussing the matter, so we will wait for ninety days for someone to actually report on how this all came to pass. We will not be looking at Memorial Day then, but Labor Day. Perhaps we will forget. So, that was current along with the latest gun horror from California and the assurance from the White House that hiring 15,000 new IRS employees will not affect anyone making less than $400,000 a year.

Having personally been dragooned into the SARS-1 Task Force years ago, I can assure you that everything they say in DC is mostly true, except for the stuff they are not talking about, which is also mostly true. Accordingly, it is more appropriate on this glorious Piedmont day to not worry about it and go with Marlow and the lovely W on a return to the Conch Republic, the Isle of quaint and poignant madness closer to Havana than Miami. Or better, Heaven from Washington.

– Vic

Author’s Note: We found out that after 16-month long absence our return fortnight stay was full of Janus moments of joy and sorrow

Danced at La Te Da

Swam in the pool and lounged in its gazebo every day

Played cards without masks in the home of old card-paying friends — their first time to play such face to face with/without masks with anyone since Feb 2020

Visited someone who has lost her mind since we last saw her in Jan 2020 but still could rise out of her deep personal mists to smile, point and comment on W’s clothing (much like her own style) and consume all of the duck rillettes we could find on the island (she loved French cooking); her care giver told us that we were her first friends’ visit since her decline began last fall

Found out that many musicians (e.g., Mike McCloud), artists, chefs and very treasured service industry people had left so we left huge tips to those who remained

Found that many of the surviving old places had been spruced up but still had the dingy edge to them that we loved

Lodging rates ($500-1500/nite, 3 day minimum that we escaped since we planned this trip in January), food, rental and home prices have skyrocketed

Even without cruise ships’ daily tsunamis of tourists the streets and sidewalks were congested to the point of discomfort to even seasoned Fantasy Fest veterans like us; rode our bikes everywhere

Sure wish I could find my old piece on doing Buzzy’s window washing

Glad we didn’t forget where we came from and that our journey’s not done yet — that coral island coast with its leaning sidewalks and paved streets that end in azure waters under endless skies we shared with old and new friends and family, we’ve gone on and on for such a long long time that we feel we’re playing with house money

KW’s spontaneity was much more than we remembered — we shall return

– Marlow

W and I spent the first half of May in our former city enjoying old friends and finding things the same and changed. What caught us short was what had happened to the folks we cared about after a brief 16-month absence from our isle seat. Their morphings, declines and earthly departures were tough to take since they included folks younger and healthier than us.

They reinforced our previous resolution to stay more firmly and closely in touch — to not let our friendship candle flames blow out.

Here is the obit of one such dear character. We missed the celebration of his life by one day. Somewhere in my files or those of my readers is a piece I did detailing how I and another friend of Buzz’s did all of his week’s window washing as he flirted with the sweet young female clerks inside the air-conditioned stores along Duval Street. He was constantly critiquing our technique but not our results. No fool was he.

Sure do miss him.

-Marlow

Neale Vernon “Buzzy” Rossman, window washer, water skier, golfer, and well-known Key West character succumbed to a long battle with heart disease on February 20, 2021, at hospice in Jacksonville. He was 76 years old.

Buzzy was born in Salem, New Jersey on May 1, 1944. “Home of the tomato,” he would proudly tell folks. Of his Garden State upbringing, he said he got the water boiling before he picked the corn.

Following a stint in Vietnam as a radio technician during the war, he ventured down to Coconut Grove and eventually Key West. In the mid 1970s’ he became the sole employee of Wistarburg Window Wipers. His office was a tall pink bicycle with a big white box on the back for the tools of his trade. His kickstand was a squeegee pole extender that ran through a fishing rod holder and slid up and down with a clamp. He kept the windows of Duval Street clean and ate free at most of his restaurant accounts. He had a knack for getting the deal, little or no rent, at the marina for his pink speedboat or at his tiny workshop nearby where he made golf clubs.

Buzzy played in the men’s softball league at Peary Court for years. The self-appointed captain of the Zen Primates put himself on the mound as pitcher. He liked to tell his shortstop where to stand and other teammates what to do. For two decades he lived aboard a 65-foot vessel named The Big Easy. Anchored on the far side of Wisteria Island, he cooked tofu stir fries and shouted answers at his television when “Jeopardy!” aired.

With no satellite coverage on a moving boat, he rigged up a PVC periscope handle to turn his big antennae as the boat swung on its mooring. On windy days, his medium-tech device called for constant adjustments so as not to miss Alex’s answer, resulting in unsolved arguments and sometimes a bet.

He lived alone with his cats Chairman Meow and Purr Bailey and occasionally girlfriends rarely able to change his bachelor ways. In his ubiquitous Speedo, if wearing that, he could often be seen driving golf balls off the fantail while listening to Dave Brubeck and sipping Bordeaux from his stemless Riedel wine glass. His on-board library included numerous paperback John D. McDonald books, spy thrillers and a huge tome about astrology.

A Taurus, he loved to talk horoscope knowledge with anyone who would listen.

For a decade he held court at the Grand Vin wine bar on Duval Street, where he rarely kept his opinions to himself. Pity the tourist who came in asking for a Nouveau Beaujolais. His boss there would shrug and say, “he’s right.”

Buzzy is survived by his brother Richard, his sisters Jeannie and Lynn, two children, Brett and Tracy and four grandchildren.
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When I get around to it, a follow-on piece will share some photos snapped during this visit.

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