The Reunion...
The humidity was like liquid hell. The air seemed saturated with moisture suggesting the possibility of a cooling rain shower, but the puffy white clouds in the tropical azure blue sky showed no sign of offering that cool-down anytime soon. It was a hot, sticky summer day in the sparkling sunlight of South Florida.
The oppressive heat didn't faze Catt. Her life, as well that of most other people in Florida, was lived in air conditioned, super cooled spaces. She had cranked the air conditioning in her CRV to 'arctic' and it came blasting out of the vents directly on her, softly blowing her salt and pepper hair causing her pixy-cut bangs to be tousled.
The car radio was perpetually set to a soft rock station which played current hits, as well as her favorites from the rocking oldies of the '70s and '80s. Part of the fun having the windows closed, along with the cooled air, was the opportunity it allowed Catt to belt out the words to those favorite rockin' oldies. She had listened to the music for decades and knew the words by heart so she always sang along to the beat. Her tone and rhythm were close to pitch perfect, even if she occasionally missed the right word and mangled the lyrics a bit on some of the current top forty. Decades of blasting the radio at Mach decibels was probably taking a toll on her hearing, but Catt was in the zone and enjoying herself immensely, oblivious to her surroundings as she rolled to a stop at a red light.
She was emoting along with Taylor Swift to another breakup song, wiggling her ass in the bucket seat and bouncing and swaying her head and shoulders to the musical beat when out of the corner of her eye Catt noticed a car had pulled alongside hers and some kind of frantic motion was happening next to her. She glanced over to see two very young, sun-burned, blond-haired women, with surf boards tied to the roof of their car. They appeared to be headed home from the beach. Both the driver and the passenger were waving, smiling and laughing and the girl closest to Catt mimed cranking down the car window. Catt obliged - maybe they wanted directions. As she did so, the music on her radio fell in synch with theirs - same radio station - and the sound was a throbbing, thumping loud base-beat emanating from the two cars. Several blue-haired seniors were shuffling across the intersection in front of the two cars and they stopped mid-stride to gawk at the source of the noise and to scowl at the sound emitting from the cars.
"You go girl!! You rock!!" The young girl in the passenger seat called to Catt, "You're only as old as you feel!! Go for it!!"
With that, the light changed to green and the old, battered beach buggy's wheels squealed away with the two girls laughing and shouting playful encouragement at Catt as they raised their fists to cheer her on.
Catt laughed and returned the fisted acknowledgement toward the girls. She was anything but embarrassed. Earlier in her life Catt wouldn't have imagined herself being seen butt-dancing, shoulder shaking or rocking to the beat in a car-seat and lip-syncing to loud rock songs on the radio. Now she did it enthusiastically most every time she drove anywhere.
Catt continued her drive south along route AIA, the ocean road that ran the length of Palm Beach County and beyond. She enjoyed traveling the scenic route, it was a slower pace which afforded her ample opportunities to take a quick peek, between the luxurious mansions and high-rise condos which lined both sides of the highway, to catch the sparkle of the brilliant blue-green waters. It was a beautiful drive although it was becoming harder to catch a glimpse of the sparkling ocean waters between the buildings because of the traffic in season.
Catarina had moved to South Florida from Washington, D.C. after many years in the high-end restaurant business both in the kitchen as chef and then supervising upscale kitchen design and buildouts for a world renowned hotel chain. Catt, as she was universally known, found herself struggling with ennui in her midlife suddenly quit her job, searching for new challenges and greener pastures. South Florida looked tropically green to her. It wasn't the only thing that caused Catt the flee Washington.
She turned her CRV otherwise known as a 'baby-boomer buggy' away from the ocean and drove over the bridge spanning the Inter-Coastal waterway toward the town of Old Delray. Her vintage Florida house was snuggled into a residential community. The car slipped into the driveway adjacent to the kitchen door and rolled to a stop in front of the detached single car garage. As the woman slid from behind the wheel of the car - she stepped onto the driveway in her wedge Espadrilles - pausing to straighten her white linen slacks and adjusted the hem of her black polo shirt. Catt was feeling sexy and was anxious to get back to work on her latest storyline.
She was still smiling about the encounter with the two surfer girls and didn't notice her neighbor coming along the fence-line that separated their properties. The only movement was a barely visible bobbing of very curly, bluish-rinsed, white hair just above the top of the white plastic picket fence.
"Hello, Miz Hogan!" The frail octogenarian's voice warbled a greeting toward Catt through the picket slates.
When Catt had looked at the house, the real estate agent had purposely neglected to offer the fact that the pastel-colored houses, in the charming little community, were predominately occupied by an older population. Only a rare sighting of a child, usually a grandchild, or even a great-one, occasionally popped up among the retirees. She hadn't given it a thought, until she moved into her new home.
"Hello, Miss Ethel! Hope you and Fred are doing well!" Catt didn't slow her pace to await a reply, as she headed toward the garage - her converted office. Once again she tried to gently correct her neighbor, "Please, call me Catt."
"We're having a Pickle Ball Tournament and Pot Luck supper at the recreation hall tonight. If you'd care to join us, just bring a dish to share, anything at all. I've heard you are a good cook."
A muffled chuckle escaped Catt's lips, as she thanked the woman for the invitation, but politely declined the invitation with the excuse of a prior commitment. '
Wonder who told her I was a good cook?
' she mused.
It hadn't been until seated at the real estate closing on the house, a few years earlier, that Catt learned she was purchasing a house in an over fifty-five community. She might have qualified by age, but most probably not by life-style. The real estate agent had handed her the by-laws of the Old Florida neighborhood organized into an association and suggested she read it in order to not run afoul of the condo-commandos. Clearly the salesman had done a background check on Catt and saw that her birthdate qualified her for the property. Trouble was, most of the other homeowners were a few decades beyond the age qualification, and while they seemed to be lovely people, Catt didn't have similar interests, such as Pickle Ball Tournaments.
