Earlier this month, I officially became an elderly snowbird for the first time in my life. I flapped my tired wings (actually drove my Honda) all the way down to Marco Island, on the Gulf Coast of southern Florida.
I have to admit, I felt a little sheepish about it, suddenly fitting into this sad stereotype of a frost-bitten old fart fleeing to the welcoming warmth of Florida. You know, the place where I could soothe my aching, arthritic bones, play some shuffleboard and bingo, catch the earlybird dinners at Denny’s, and hang out with the blue hairs.
But I did it, nevertheless, and dammit it, I enjoyed it. Seven straight days of 85 degree weather, morning walks on the beach, boat rides among the mangrove-covered islands, hours of reading by the pool, casual dinners and Coronas at waterside restaurants.
There was a certain, almost-monotonous sameness to it, though. Seriously, how many consecutive days of warm weather and blue skies can a Yooper take?
So on my eighth day, this snowbird, more than sated by the southern sunshine, headed back north on I-75, past all the beckoning Waffle Houses, Cracker Barrels, Exxon stations and Hampton Inns. In Georgia, it was still 80 degrees. In Tennessee, it dipped to the high 7os. Kentucky barely hit 70. In Ohio, it dropped into the 50s, and by the time I reached Detroit, the mercury was clinging to 45 and the skies were threatening.
I crossed the Mackinac Bridge, and it was 41 degrees under gray, leaden skies. I started shivering when I got out of the car to take a bathroom break. Maybe, I thought, there was something to this snowbird stuff, after all. Maybe warm, blue-skied tedium wasn’t such a bad thing.
I reclaimed my Yooper credentials a few days later, though, as I was walking the beach here. Forty-five degrees, the sun peeking through the clouds, the frigid Lake Superior water glistening as it lapped against the shoreline. Yeah, that was more like it for mid-April.
Not only that, but it warmed up a little more so I got some gardening in, fired up the grill, and played some golf! My God, what a glorious place we live in!
And then it snowed. Thirty degrees, biting winds.
Which made me glance at the skies, and look southward again. Was I destined to be one of these stereotypical snowbirds that I had previously mocked?
I haven’t decided yet.
It’s something I’ll have to discuss tonight with some of my blue-haired friends at the bingo hall.