Stories
These are recollections of things that I’m pretty sure happened to me, recently or in a time long ago. Some embellishment, purposeful or due to the passing of time, may have occurred.
STORIES
These stories, reflect my present recollections of experiences over time. Some names, locations, and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
Birkenstocks and Socks
I have a Schwinn Cruiser SS. It’s a beach bike. Heavy. Weighing in around 30 pounds. No gears. Coaster brakes. I got it many, many years ago when I used to work at the bank by redeeming some recognition points that they were using to reward employees for “doing the right thing”. I’ve added blue and white handle bar streamers, a parrot squeaky horn and a couple of home made dice valve stem caps (perpetually rolled up to lucking number 7). It’s a great bike. It still will coast for a long time without peddling.
I rode my bike to Publix (about a mile-and-a-half away) to pick up some yogurt and some soft flour tortillas. I was locking up my bike at the bike rack. Another person was unlocking their bike right next to me. He stops and stares directly at my feet. Without looking up he says “What year is it?”. I’m wearing my Birkenstocks (Arizonas) and white socks. He’s staring right at them and repeats “What year is it?” I immediately think that he is making a snarky remark about my choice of footwear. I imagined his next line was going to be “What is this, the Sixties?”.
So in order to defend my footwear fashion choice I said, “I like Birkenstocks. They are comfortable. I wear socks with them because my feet sweat and I don’t want my feet slipping on the footbed. Plus, it’s extremely comfortable no matter if people think that it’s not a fashionable look”
He finally looks up at me, and with a questioning look on his face says, “No. The bike. What year is it? My hobby is restoring old bikes and I wanted to know if this was an original Schwinn Cruiser SS or a reproduction.” He wasn’t looking at my Birkenstock and Socks, he was looking at the label on the frame to see if he could tell what year the bike was.
“It’s a 2004 I think.”
“Yeah. It’s a reproduction of the classic original. Still, it’s a nice looking bike.”
“Thanks.” I said sheepishly. I went in to Publix and got my yogurt and fajita wraps.
Getting Pulled Over for Nothing
Driving east on Gulfport Blvd on my way to work at the boatyard. A police car pulls up close behind me with lights flashing. I make the first right that I can and pull over. Before the officer gets out of the car I have my driver’s license, insurance and registration on the dashboard with both of my hands clearly visible, fingers spread out, at the 10 and 2 position on the wheel. I was in fear of saying something smart to the officer, being dragged out of the car and getting tazed.
The officer approaches but I can’t see him. I am looking forward. He is standing behind the driver’s window. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No officer,” I say looking straight ahead. “I know it wasn’t for speeding.” I’ve been caught on the stretch of Gulfport Blvd. once before for speeding about a year ago. I had to take on of those four-hour online driver improvement courses to avoid getting points on my car insurance. So, with that scare still firmly in mind, I made absolutely certain to stay within the speed limit when driving this street.
Then, he asked me a question that totally confused me. “Sir, were you just eating breakfast cereal a moment ago?”
In fact I was eating a bowl of cereal. I used to fix up a bowl of Cheerios with milk and topped off with a tablespoon of sugar. I would eat in the car while driving to work sometimes to make sure that I was on time. At this moment the bowl was on the floorboard between my feet. He was peering into the car. Going against the council of my mother’s cousin who was a big shot attorney who once told me to never admit the truth to anyone about anything even if they’ve got photos or if they’ve caught you red handed, I chose to not deny it. “Yes I was, officer.”
“Sir, if from my car, I can see you holding the cereal bowl with one hand, and the spoon in the other, how many hands do you believe I think were on the steering wheel at that time?”
“That would be no hands on the wheel, officer.” I say.
“Sir, do you think that is a safe way to drive?”
I want to say that I’ve been driving hands-free with my knees under the wheel for as long as I can remember and never crashed yet! Heck, I’ve driven with my knees while I was pretty drunk. I want to say that I was going under the speed limit! I want to say that I’m sure that everybody has done this at one time or another! I want to ask him if he doesn’t have better things to do; like go after murderers and speeders and drunken drivers and stuff like that! I want to say at least I wasn’t texting too! … But instead, because I don’t want to get tazed, I say, “No officer. It’s not a safe way to drive.”
“Give me your license, registration and insurance, sir. I’ll be right back,” He goes back to his car to check out my information. I still keep my hands in plain site at the 10 and 2 position on the wheel. He returns. “Sir, I’m just going to give you a warning today. But in the future… eat your breakfast cereal at home.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you officer.”
I finished my cereal in the parking lot when I got to work. And from that point on, in addition to never going over the speed limit on Gulfport Blvd., I now never eat my Cheerios while I’m driving.
Coffee Long Time
I’ve being drinking coffee, specifically café con leche, since I was around six-years-old. At that time, we lived in West Tampa on Braddock St.. My mother worked in Downtown Tampa for Aetna Life Insurance at the Ross Building. She was a ‘calculator’. My father was working at my grandfather’s machine shop in Ybor City. I was going to St. Paul’s EUB parochial school a few blocks away from my Cuban grandmother’s house on 19th Street. The house was really at 1901 20th Ave., but it had been divided into two separate units. My grandmother’s entrance was off of 19th Street.
It was here that my parents would drive from West Tampa, very early in the morning, and drop me off at my Cuban grandmother’s (my mother’s mother) house on 19th St. I would have breakfast at her house before she would walk me to school. Here was a typical school-day breakfast at Gram’s house; It started with a large cup of café con leche; espresso, steamed milk and about a tablespoon of sugar. And, because her brother-in-law Frank worked at a bakery, I would also have a Honey Bun; that doughy pastry item drenched in a thick glaze of sugared icing and filling out the breakfast, some Cuban Toast; Cuban bread, slathered with butter and toasted in the oven. So, my little six-year-old body would get to school all jacked up on caffeine and sugar. This wasn’t a one time thing. It happened everyday that I went to school from 1st Grade to 4th.
School started around 8:00 am. Around 10:00 am Miss Clayburn, my first-grade teacher, would announce that it was “rest time”. We were told to put our heads down on our desk tops, close our eyes and “rest”. I recall it being a monumental struggle to put my head down on the desk. This just did not seem to be a reasonable or good idea. But, I crossed my arms and forced my head down anyway. Looking to my left I saw my classmate, Eddie R. , within just a minute or so of Miss Clayburn’s “rest time” announcement, head down on his folded arms, fast asleep and drool coming out of his mouth. I remember thinking, “How could this be?!” My neck hurt and I could not keep my eyes shut. It seemed like hours of torture although I’m sure it was probably only fifteen minutes or so. Of course, by lunch time, having crashed from my early morning caffeine and sugar buzz, I was nodding off in the lunch room.
Sometimes on a weekend, I would be dropped off at my Sicilian grandmother’s (my father’s mother) house. Breakfast there would be a big bowl of Kellog’s Corn Flakes and instead of milk, she would pour café con leche in the bowl and top it all off with a couple of tablespoons of white granulated sugar.
Now, over sixty-five years later, I can still drink an espresso or café con leche at night without affecting my sleep. However, I am extremely much more sugar conscious. I haven’t had Honey Buns for breakfast in many, many years. Although they do make a good road-trip snack. But occasionally, once in a while, I will still put a tablespoon of white granulated sugar on my granola, which now is in almond milk, not café con leche. I love the sugar sludge at the bottom of the bowl when all of the granola and most of the milk is gone. Just like in the old days at my Nanna’s house when I would scrape up the café con leche sugar sludge once I had eaten all of my corn flakes.
The Honey Bun with Café con leche breakfast and the Kellog’s Corn Flake’s in Café con leche were two of my all time favorite breakfasts.
My mother would never make these breakfasts at home. It was always the standard eggs, bacon, pancakes, toast and a big glass of milk. These were good breakfasts, but nowhere near the Breakfasts of Champions I had at my grandmothers’ houses.
Aunt Mary
Did I ever tell you about my Aunt Mary? In her prime, she looked like Elizabeth Taylor in her prime. Aunt Mary was a beautiful person. I love her.
Once, she came to my rescue when I had just moved out of my parents house and I got my first job working for the Exchange Bank in downtown Tampa. I was on a tight budget so a few days a week I would ride my bike to work instead of driving my car. It was about three miles.
One day, I was about half way to work when it began to pour rain. I pulled over on my bike and huddled under an overpass. Too far to go back home. Couldn’t be late. Couldn’t get to work soaking wet with no change of clothes. A white Nova pulled up. It was my Aunt Mary. I put my bike in the trunk and she drove me work.
But that’s another story. This story is about when I was probably around five-years-old. Aunt Mary had come over to our house for dinner. After dinner, my mother made espresso.
This is like one of those video memories. I just don’t remember it, I can see it like I’m watching a video. I’ll always remember seeing Aunt Mary take a sip of espresso out of one of these cups and she looked like she had gone to heaven. I came up to her and I asked if I could taste some. She said “No. You are too young for coffee. But one day you will know how wonderful this is.” She was so right! And I always think of Aunt Mary when I have an espresso. Especially when I use one of the same cups that I got from my mom.
The Sweater
I’ve had this sweater since around 1995 or so. Whenever it gets cool enough here in Florida, I wear the sweater. For years, almost every time I do, people come up to me and compliment me on the sweater. For example, today some 30-something guy came up to me in the parking lot of Whole Foods and said, “Hey. Nice sweater.”
“Thanks.” I said.
Then tonight, still wearing the sweater, I went to Publix for a mango-key lime pie for dessert. The check out person was a young woman probably in her mid-twenties. An even younger bag person was there too. The check out person, said, “I love that sweater! Is it a Tundra?”
I laughed and declined her offer. She was disappointed. But as I was leaving she says to me, “Look. Don’t take less than $70 for that sweater. I’m serious.”
The bag person said, “But, you only offered him $35.” The check out person said, “Yeah, but he doesn’t seem know what’s going on,” she rolled her eyes.
I said, “I don’t know what a Tundra is. I’ve had this sweater for around 30 years.”
She said, “I bet it’s a vintage Tundra! I’ll give you $30 for it right now.”
“I’m not going to sell you my sweater.” I said.
“Let me see the tag.”
I said, “Sorry. I cut it off years ago. It was bothering my neck.”
“Damn!” she muttered. Then, “That’s okay. I’ll give you $35 for it. I’m not kidding. Take it off right now and I’ll give you $35.”
Seven Windows to October
(Remembrances of lake houses I have known)
One minute green. Literally the next minute red and yellow and brown.
Right before your eyes in real time.
Playing hockey on a rink of fallen leaves using branches as hockey sticks.
Little helicopters and butterflies descending. Won’t be long now.
Somebody’s got to clean up this mess with big green plastic heavy-duty leaf grabber mitts and an XXXL durable polypropylene garden waste bag.
A walk in the park.
Misty breath puffing harder and harder like an old steam train trying to make it up the hill. Heart is beating. Good news.
Shoulda brought my scarf.
It’s like hunting racoons at midnight under a freezing First Quarter moon in Smithfield with Tim and Uncle Shotgun.
Rifles, baying hounds, Jack Daniels and cheap, cracked, slip-soled faux leather dress shoes. Shoulda brought my coat and hunting shoes too.
Cool, mist swirling. Endless espresso.
Can you really have too much? It’s endless!
Strawberries. Homemade shortcake.
Freshly shaken and rested crème fraîche.
Camachos. Amaretto.
The breakfast of legends!
Old barn. Single bare lightbulb. Five pool tables covered with tarps.
Remove one tarp to reveal, as the smell of dust settles in, a table with pockets and bumpers in the middle. Kind of like Bumper Pool but full regulation pool table size.
Dreams of fortunes in bars. Red and white clacking balls angling and sliding around the bumpers into worn woven leather pockets.
Fortune dreams winding up in an old barn covered with tarps and dust under a single bare lightbulb. Just like dreams of fortunes.
Some Summer lake houses were not built for winter. Not even ready for fall. No heat. No air conditioning. No hot water.
Broken pipes. Bathe in freezing cold lake water. Use Neutragena because it is environmentally friendly to the lake.
Black bean burritos with homemade hot chili sauce.
Tilpsing a reeb. Goes down cool with the chili sauce.
Janet Planet’s main man is on the record player. Latest vinyl. A record player.
Too late to swim.
Too early to skate.
Too wet to plow.
Water level’s dropping.
Can you canoe? Can you kayak?
Should you? Would you?
Wake up! Surf’s up!
Meeting for the first time.
Welcomed like no other.
Feels like home.
Always feels like home. Always the first time.
La Segunda Central Bakery – Ybor City
I’ve been going to the La Segunda Central Bakery, the Ybor City location on 15th Street, since I was a kid. It first opened it’s doors in 1915. Although you can go to the bakery year-round, a Christmas Eve morning trip has always been a favorite and special time for me to visit the bakery.
Christmas Eve dinner (Noche Buena) has always included roast pork, black beans and rice, platanos, olive salad, flan and many other dishes. And, for as long as I can remember, loaves of Cuban bread from La Segunda Central Bakery were an essential part of the dinner.
Noche Buena dinner was always at my grandmother’s or my aunt’s house before I began hosting my own Noche Buena feast in 1984. I stopped in 2007 when my daughter took it on. For many years when I first started doing Noche Buena, my father would pick up the bread from La Segunda Central Bakery in Ybor and bring it to dinner. I eventually took over the Cuban bread pickup tradition after he passed in 1999. And to this day, I still get the bread for Noche Buena.
Here’s how it went. You had to be at La Segunda on December 24th at 0630 am when it opened. I used to shoot for a 5:30 arrival as people would start lining up at the door before it opened. Once the doors opened, you would step inside, rush to the ticket machine, take a ticket and then wait for your number to be called. Inside the bakery it was literally shoulder to shoulder with customers, tickets in hand. Although I’ve never seen them run out of bread, there have been years when I missed out on one of my favorites, the Nutty Buddy.
Once you heard your number called, you would muscle your way to the cases and place your order with the person behind the counter. One person took your order, picked your items and cashed you out. Usually, the order would consist of six loaves in paper (I never was a fan of getting the loaves in those plastic bags. Had to be paper for me), Guava turnovers, Guava and Cream Cheese turnovers, a couple of pounds of assorted Christmas cookies, gigantic cinnamon buns, bear claws, apple turnovers and of course, my favorite… Nutty Buddies.
In the early years, I would see contemporaries of my father waiting in the crowd. One year I saw the two Ybor City Reds there at the same time! While waiting for your number to be called, you would chat with those around you; strangers and friends. Invariably, I would eventually get asked my name and my connection to Ybor. And many times I would hear things like … “I knew your grandmother’s family. The Penzatos right?” or, “Yes, I used to go to your grandfather’s machine shop on 4th.” and “I went to high school with your mother at Jefferson!”
Early on, the neighborhoods that you had to go through to get to the bakery, and the neighborhood surrounding La Segunda itself, were not the best. For example, directly across the street from the bakery, there was a row of old, rundown abandoned houses that squatters used for any and all activities. A couple of times when I was leaving the bakery there were police cars across the street. They weren’t there for traffic control or for Cuban bread.
The route that I took to get to La Segunda from my home in the Clearwater area, was to first cross the bay on the Howard Frankland Bridge, and as soon as I got to the other side, just head east on Columbus Drive until you got to 15th Street. If it was early enough, somewhere around Columbus Drive and Nebraska Ave, you would pass hookers heading home from their evening shift. I always thought that it was good luck to see “The Christmas Hooker” on the way to the bakery and would diligently report my sightings and the entire La Segunda experience later that night at Noche Buena dinner.
For many years I would make this run to La Segunda by myself. No one else wanted to wake up at 4:30 to get to the bakery before it opened. My youngest daughter was the first to want to make the O’Dark Thirty run with me. I had to wait until she was old enough for me to explain about Chirstmas Hookers and crack houses because it was likely that we would encounter those things on our trip. One year, Kate even got video of The Christmas Hooker which we shared later that night at Noche Buena dinner. Another time, on the way back from the bakery, Kate wanted me to stop and give a hooker some pastries in the Christmas Spirit of Giving. I thought that it might be looked upon as some sort of an exchange of pastries for services rendered to potentially hidden police stake outs. Wanting to avoid some sort of sting, we just kept heading home. Kate made the trip with me diligently for years until she went away to college. It was always a huge, fun time!
Once, going against all tradition, but hoping to avoid the stress and anxiety of wondering if there would still be Nutty Buddies by the time my number was called, a week before Christmas Eve, I ordered online. I was highly skeptical that this would work. I got there at a way-too-late time of 7:20AM because I thought that wouldn’t have to get a ticket and wait in line for my number to be called. I had to park a couple of blocks away. Not being 100% sure about the online order, I got a ticket anyway, just in case. I got ticket #12. The number being served was #81. Only 31 people in front of me (the numbers repeated after 100)!
I shouldered my way up to the “Call In Orders” line. I was about four back when I got eye contact with the woman behind the counter. “Did you call in?” she asked. “Online.” I said as I held up the copy of my online order. “Give it to me.” She waved me up, took my paper and entered something into the terminal. She printed out a two-foot receipt and handed it off to one of the people working the counter. It was 7:30 and they were just calling #84. Maybe this online ordering thing was going to work after all.
Eventually, my other daughter and my grandsons and my wife would accompany me. But, by then, the crack houses were long. And I haven’t been able to get up early enough to log a Christmas Hooker sighting in a long time. Although there is still pretty much a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd still waiting for their number to be called, I don’t recognize anyone anymore. I still chat with the people who are waiting; mostly all strangers now (however last year I did see the Castillo brothers). Once, we spoke with someone who ended our brief chat when his number was called with the following statement, “Every morning you wake up. And every morning you die. Life is strange.” Just another Ybor City prophet-philosopher waiting to order his Cuban bread. You never know who you’ll meet at the Segunda Central on Christmas Eve morning.
But then…
“Sir! Online order? Bad news.” she said.
“Oh no! Don’t tell me that you’re out of Nutty Buddies!”
“No. We ran out of Flying Saucers. Sorry.” she said.
“But, I got my Nutty Buddies?”
“Yes. Got ’em.”
Whew! No problem. “To make up for not having the Flying Saucer, pick any another pastry.” “OK. Guava Flip.” I said. She boxed it up.
“I also want these two one-pound boxes of assorted Christmas cookies.” (
(They were not in my original online order.)
“OK. Just take them.” she said.
“Well, I haven’t paid for them.”
“They’re on me.” she said. “Merry Christmas!” I gave her a $20 tip. In and out with the goods in around 30 minutes!
Stopped at La Teresita for a Cafe con Leche to go. Ate the Guava Flip and sipped on the Cafe con Leche on the ride home!
Merry Christmas indeed!
