The Old Coot Joins the Flock

Well, it finally happened. I migrated to Florida. I didn’t ask to go. I didn’t select the route, nor did I steer the car. The primitive part of my brain took over and sent me off to the sunshine state, the same instinct that drives geese to warmer ponds each fall. All old coots eventually do it. I arrived in Saint Augustine on a chilly, by Florida standards, 63 degree afternoon, parked the car in the visitors area and headed to the tourism booth for maps, directions and discount coupons. I was in a comatose state, not in control of what my body was doing. I found myself surrounded by a sea of pasty faced and wrinkled brothers, limping, staggering and reeling across the parking lot. We’d come here in formation, taking turns leading the flock down Route 95 to Mecca. St Augustine has been welcoming seekers of the fountain of youth for centuries. Now it was my turn.

And it really exists, the fountain. The minute I crossed the state line I knew I’d found it. The sun shone down and infused my bones with much needed vitamin D. I was invigorated, refreshed and ready to continue further south. It’s the season of snowbirds, as the locals refer to the legion of old coots and their mates who invade the countryside. I can’t imagine the feeling of despair that must wash over them as the roadways, restaurants and shopping malls are clogged with our ilk. No longer can they take a quick trip across town to the dentist or the supermarket. The traffic is fierce, as an army of old guys maneuver their gas guzzling SUV’s through town, turning without signaling, signaling without turning, coming to dead stops without warning. We turn right on red, left on red; we do whatever it takes to be first in line for the early bird specials, clutching two-for-one coupons in our gnarled fists.

So, here I am, somehow swept along with the flock. "How did this happen?" I wonder to myself. It seems like yesterday when I came here with a herd of young bucks on spring break. We drove all day and night and still had the energy to race each other to the beach the second the car came to a stop. Not anymore! It took me four motel stays to make the trek this time. Even so, my bones were screaming when I squirmed out of the car. But, the sun worked its miracle and I’m healed, for a while, anyhow.

We cluster here and there, us old coots from the north. You can tell us from our brethren who live here year-round. They’re the ones that put on winter jackets and long pants when the temperature dips into the sixties. We’re the ones lying by the pool, with sunburned fronts and chalky white backs. We never lie face down to even up our tans, front to back. If we can’t see it in the mirror we don’t go to the trouble of getting it tan, or so we explain to our dumbfounded friends and relatives where we mooch an overnight stay or two, before moving on to the next victim, hoping they won’t remember the pain we caused during last year’s intrusion.

But, like everything good with old coots, it passes in a flash. Soon the trek back north will begin. But, not before tuning into the Weather Channel from the comfort of a bamboo Barkalounger in hopes of witnessing a snowstorm or a cold snap back home. We turn up the volume and chuckle, even gloat a little, as we pity the poor folks stuck in the middle of it, not knowing they are delighted with their situation, in spite of the snow and the cold. They are free of old coots! Life is good! But, all good things come to an end. We will soon be back.

Sign up for Text Alerts

Sign up for e-mail newsletters