through the outside walls that it’s probably rooted in the coral by now. It might even be hurricane proof.”
“I’ve noticed quite a few mobile homes between here and the southern side of Miami, especially around Key Largo. But I don’t recall ever being inside one. What are they like?”
“Mine is crowded with furniture, to be honest, but kind of cozy. It’s a nice place for me. Doesn’t take much effort to clean. It’s a little bigger than most trailers, called a ‘double-wide.’ I have a small bedroom, an even tinier living room, and, despite what you city slickers might think, indoor plumbing. I also have a sign in one of the windows that says ‘Beware of Dog,’ but there’s no dog. I live alone, just Joe Carlton, no girlfriend, no wife.
“So, tell me, what kind of a place do you have in Philadelphia?”
“I own a large-sized twin. It’s a corner property in a city neighborhood. I’ve been living there for almost six years now, and I’ve grown accustomed to the place. When Brady left, I thought the house would be like a museum, with empty spaces that I’d never use. It didn’t turn out that way, though. His old den is filled up with houseplants now. And I’ve turned the spare bedroom into my own private library.
“So, instead of piling up my old paperback books into some corner and then throwing them out after they’ve attracted a few layers of dust, I now have a place to keep them. I don’t have to feel guilty any more about tossing a book into a trashcan.
“Thanks to Brady, there’s no longer a mortgage to pay, and the taxes are cheap. It’s only a ten-minute drive to my library. I have some friends who live near me and others who live in the center of town. And the block I live on has quite a few families. Even though I, personally, have never entertained any thoughts about raising kids of my own, the families, I must admit, give it a certain stability that I find more comfortable than Philly’s downtown area.
“I’m still attracted to the cultural events in the center of town, the shows, the restaurants, and just the overall ambiance. Usually, once or twice a week, I’ll travel the thirty minutes to center city Philadelphia to meet a friend for an evening’s entertainment.”
The now blazing Islamorada sun, which was no doubt pushing the temperature near the ninety degree mark, provided for a quick dryingoff period. Within minutes, sporting dry bathing suits, Melissa and Joe began to walk, hand-in-hand, near the water’s edge.
Joe had fetched a small plastic bag from the trunk of his car, and Melissa was using it to hold the most beautiful of tiny conch shells that she was picking up—at an almost constant pace.
During their half-hour walk along the beach, Melissa and Joe spent as much time gazing into each other’s eyes as they did looking at the scenery. After collecting maybe a hundred different conch shells, they started their drive back toward the center of Islamorada.
They stopped for a snack along the way at a roadside luncheonette that featured Cuban cuisine. The menu in the restaurant window, aside from listing various delicacies spelled out in Spanish, also proclaimed “Regular Meals, Regular Dinners,” which, Melissa discovered, meant hot dogs and hamburgers.
The morning exercise had given them strong appetites. Eating quickly, they seemed to inhale their burgers and fries. Joe topped off the meal with a Cuban-style fried banana. Melissa declined.
“Whatever you do during your stay in the Keys,” Joe advised, “don’t give in to any urges to buy coconuts or key limes. If you want to take some freshly grown samples home with you, I know exactly where to look for free food. I can guide you to the best-tasting, wildest-growing coconuts, key limes, and even grapefruit—which, by the way, is still in season.”
Joe then drove Melissa to another small beach called Witch’s Point, on the north side of the island. After stripping to their bathing suits again
“I’ve noticed quite a few mobile homes between here and the southern side of Miami, especially around Key Largo. But I don’t recall ever being inside one. What are they like?”
“Mine is crowded with furniture, to be honest, but kind of cozy. It’s a nice place for me. Doesn’t take much effort to clean. It’s a little bigger than most trailers, called a ‘double-wide.’ I have a small bedroom, an even tinier living room, and, despite what you city slickers might think, indoor plumbing. I also have a sign in one of the windows that says ‘Beware of Dog,’ but there’s no dog. I live alone, just Joe Carlton, no girlfriend, no wife.
“So, tell me, what kind of a place do you have in Philadelphia?”
“I own a large-sized twin. It’s a corner property in a city neighborhood. I’ve been living there for almost six years now, and I’ve grown accustomed to the place. When Brady left, I thought the house would be like a museum, with empty spaces that I’d never use. It didn’t turn out that way, though. His old den is filled up with houseplants now. And I’ve turned the spare bedroom into my own private library.
“So, instead of piling up my old paperback books into some corner and then throwing them out after they’ve attracted a few layers of dust, I now have a place to keep them. I don’t have to feel guilty any more about tossing a book into a trashcan.
“Thanks to Brady, there’s no longer a mortgage to pay, and the taxes are cheap. It’s only a ten-minute drive to my library. I have some friends who live near me and others who live in the center of town. And the block I live on has quite a few families. Even though I, personally, have never entertained any thoughts about raising kids of my own, the families, I must admit, give it a certain stability that I find more comfortable than Philly’s downtown area.
“I’m still attracted to the cultural events in the center of town, the shows, the restaurants, and just the overall ambiance. Usually, once or twice a week, I’ll travel the thirty minutes to center city Philadelphia to meet a friend for an evening’s entertainment.”
The now blazing Islamorada sun, which was no doubt pushing the temperature near the ninety degree mark, provided for a quick dryingoff period. Within minutes, sporting dry bathing suits, Melissa and Joe began to walk, hand-in-hand, near the water’s edge.
Joe had fetched a small plastic bag from the trunk of his car, and Melissa was using it to hold the most beautiful of tiny conch shells that she was picking up—at an almost constant pace.
During their half-hour walk along the beach, Melissa and Joe spent as much time gazing into each other’s eyes as they did looking at the scenery. After collecting maybe a hundred different conch shells, they started their drive back toward the center of Islamorada.
They stopped for a snack along the way at a roadside luncheonette that featured Cuban cuisine. The menu in the restaurant window, aside from listing various delicacies spelled out in Spanish, also proclaimed “Regular Meals, Regular Dinners,” which, Melissa discovered, meant hot dogs and hamburgers.
The morning exercise had given them strong appetites. Eating quickly, they seemed to inhale their burgers and fries. Joe topped off the meal with a Cuban-style fried banana. Melissa declined.
“Whatever you do during your stay in the Keys,” Joe advised, “don’t give in to any urges to buy coconuts or key limes. If you want to take some freshly grown samples home with you, I know exactly where to look for free food. I can guide you to the best-tasting, wildest-growing coconuts, key limes, and even grapefruit—which, by the way, is still in season.”
Joe then drove Melissa to another small beach called Witch’s Point, on the north side of the island. After stripping to their bathing suits again
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