For the first time since our Alaska and Hawaii travels, I got back in the pool today for a short swim. I had turned the heater temperature down to save a few bucks back in late November and just cranked it up a few days ago. I could begin to tell the difference in my arms from not following up on my run each morning with a few laps of the breaststroke. At my age, muscle mass begins to deteriorate, and the underarms become flabbier. 88 pushups every morning are not enough anymore to keep my upper body firm. I was inspired at an early age to do push-ups every day, a lesson taught by an elderly gentleman, who was probably younger than me at the time and a friend of my grandfather’s. He lived in the same Englewood, Florida mobile home park as my grandparents, Ross and Grace Hancher. I’ve done this exercise nearly every day since I can remember, following Mr. Kaufman’s wise advice.
My routine every morning includes a quick dog outing, stretching, sit-ups, pushups, and a 3.1-mile run, followed by the swim that I’ve added since buying our Florida home nearly two-years ago. I somehow settled on 88-pushups as my daily goal, but I’m not sure why I stopped short of 100. It would not be difficult to do 12 more, but like any day-after-day task, you simply get into a routine. I used to be able to do hundreds at a time and once drove my Sigma Chi fraternity brothers nuts by relishing what they thought was pledge punishment. “Thank you, sir, may I do another?” I would smile and effortlessly meet their challenge to the point where it would no longer be satisfying to administer.
Every morning I now do the Mr. Kaufman challenge, long after he has been gone from this earth. I ran across his obituary years ago but failed to find it again at the time of this writing. He lived in what I always thought was the “nicest trailer in the park,” with a view of Lemon Bay. Most importantly, he was the kindest man who treated my sister and I like his grandkids when we visited. He took us fishing, on boat rides, and to the park.
I like to write silly poetry, and although the following is not in any way a reflection of Mr. Kaufman or the Bay Palms Trailer Park where he and my grandparents lived in the winter months, it was inspired by how many people too often stereotype mobile home living. Although it no longer exists today, the beautiful property where these folks once inhabited is now a public park. Their homes were immaculately kept, and they were the nicest people you could ever meet, not the crude portrayal that I present:
The Nicest Trailer in the Park
I own the nicest trailer,
In the whole damn Park.
Though it looks better,
After it gets dark.
Cause then you can’t see,
All the rust and dents.
But a newer model,
Just makes no sense.
There’s an elderly couple,
That lives down the way.
They own the lot,
That sits on the Bay.
Nice landscaping,
A new doublewide.
But unlike mine,
No bar inside.
A big satellite dish,
Doesn’t sit in their yard.
And they don’t have,
A junk yard dog.
No car on blocks,
No stray cat.
No bird droppings,
On the welcome mat.
These are the things,
That make it mine.
Home Sweet Home,
As it says on the sign.
It keeps the rain out,
Though the roof may sag,
The frig keeps the beer cold,
And the carpet’s shag.
The floor’s not level,
Cause one tire’s flat.
And underneath,
Lives a big old rat.
The lock is broken,
And my neighbor is a jerk.
Gray tape fixed one,
And the other doesn’t work.
The bugs can’t get out,
I’ve patched the screens.
As you can see,
I live over my means.
It’s a prime lot,
With the best view.
She’s a sight to see,
But a mother of two.
Indoor plumbing.
Is one of my goals.
Right after I repair,
Those bullet holes.
The maid hasn’t been here,
Since I can remember.
The lights are still up,
But it’s not December.
It’s paid for you know,
Though the propane is low.
And when I want to move,
I’ll just get a tow.
There are curtains to hang.
And bed bugs to kill.
For the lucky person,
Who’s in my will.
So, bill collectors,
Don’t come a knockin’.
Especially when,
My trailer’s rockin’
Copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com
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