Friends up north like to say that Florida has no seasons. "Don't you miss the colors?" Anyone who has been to St. Marks, in the Florida Panhandle, during the annual monarch butterfly migration would have to answer with a resounding, "NO!" Butterflies by the thousands, flit, float and fly like confetti, in a three-act ballet that cycles from Canada, to the Gulf Coast, to Mexico, and back. It takes three generations to complete the cycle. Egg-laden mikweed bends under the weight of a million orphans, as rain falls on the vermillion ghosts of Chrysalis past. Up north, the colors fall. In Florida, they fly.
The good stuff:
productive insomnia
ceiling fans
fried okra
woodpeckers
Good 'n' Plenty
the Kool-Aid guy
aluminum tumblers
s'mores
legends
sealing wax
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