I’ve been re-reading some economics texts from college. I recently learned that the government still is not able to define poverty. They're taking their sweet time about. Yes, I know, the challenge is to keep the definition impersonal. This got me thinking, because what ever else poverty may be, it is also a highly personal thing. Poverty, well not a self-inflicted wound, is also inseparable from ignorance. One has to be careful here because it is far too easy to set up a political system that favors ignorant people so long as they conform.
With the sprinkling of humor, I define ignorance as those people who watch cable TV. Before anyone gets insulted bear in mind that the majority of people in the world do not watch cable TV. Why, do you? I cable TV creates isolated groups who simply cannot believe that anyone smarter than themselves has ever existed. You know who you are.
My view of poverty hasn't changed much over time. Poverty is highly circumstantial. Rich kids with head-starts still fail; poor kids with no advantages often soar upward. But in both cases there are definable circumstances unique to those extremes, and not anyone in between. And to me, that in between is where most real poverty exists. That huge group is the working poor hidden under a gaunt layer of credit.
In my youth, I was subject to plenty of lectures about success. Many years later, I still issue the same challenge; show me a man who truly made it entirely on his own. There are many claimants so far but not one of them has lasted under cross examination. Whereas one cannot separate luck from financial success, free money from daddy is a definite disqualification. I've met a lot of successful people. But I've never met one who made it on their own. I've mentioned recently that I see publishers of magazines featuring success stories also have the same difficulty.
[Authors note: the focus on money is largely due to discovering my hospital bill came to $74,000 making that the most expensive thing I've ever purchased. Coupled with the fact that before the hospital discovered I had insurance was my true brush with death, I'm reconsidering many factors.]
[Author's note 2016-06-16: Later, the final bill came to $88,000 over what my insurances covered. The above note is not clear. I'm saying that before the hospital discovered I had insurance, they had left me to die. This is documented elsewhere, how they leapt to action when they found my policy.]
Rhonda mentions Deerfield a lot. So this morning I drove up there and took a look around the ferry landing to Deerfield Island. I'd called earlier for a tour, but it was booked solid. Deerfield Island is Millionaires Row and I wanted to see it. It's hard to believe in 1950 only 2,000 people lived up and down that whole Coast way. Al Capone tried to buy Deerfield Island.
My luck paid off, and a tour group showed up, granny and all. The tour guide was a slightly frumpy 30-year-old. Brunette, and it didn’t take long to parlay my way aboard. What, with my winning smile and $4.00. I kept seeing palm trees and fir trees that I know are not native to Florida, so the landscapers really did a number on this area.
I closely examined the pines and palms. None of the trees were more than 50 years old. Either the climate here has changed or somebody has upset the ecology. While the tourists were staring at the waterfront mansions, our busty tour guide notices me pointing out ducks, lizards and nature. I saw a five foot iguana jump down off a branch, bite and grab a white bird (later identified as an egret) and continue down pulling it underwater, drowning it for lunch. I'm the only one who saw the whole thing because everybody else had to turn around, you see, there was a yacht going past on the up side. That lizard moved fast and had used its heavy torso to push the bird along.
Deerfield Island is artificial, as are several other luxury properties in Florida, including Fisher Island. They are composed of channel dredging and seemed to be around 50 acres. There was a brief walking tour revealing all species seen were tropical, that is many different species each represented by only a few individuals. The only wildlife seen was Golden Silk Spiders. I tasted a coco plum, which actually has no taste, if you ask me. I passed on the wild coffee.
Remember, I'm still feeling weak and this tour was a brisk mid-day walk. It was invigorating and most certainly worth 100 mile round-trip. There is a note here that I stopped in to see if Space Hippie was around on the way north, but he’s plainly moved since last summer.
For the record, by now that tour guide lady was really start to take a shine to me. However I don't usually chase women because usually I don't have to and I'm also not very good at it because I don't like doing it. Don't get me wrong, I'm very opportunistic, so well I don't wait around for women to hit on me I'm very good at letting which women know I'm very approachable. I figure if a woman likes me, she should have at the minimum enough confidence to let me know. But as far as chasing women, no more Crazy Liz's, Robynettes and Emilias are needed in my life. This tour guide was a contender.
She picked up I wasn't your average rubberneck. [I'm an educated rubberneck.] However she kept herself in a position that if I approached her, I would've had to do so in front of the entire crowd. The trail passed a tree neither of us could ID. I stated the leaves were oblong, pinnate and alternate. She turned around and looked me straight in the eye. All she would have to say is, to the effect that there is some research material in the main office and what I cared to help her look it up there after the tour was finished. (I had a book in my car, but I was not going to suggest we go there.) I finally concluded the only man-woman scenario she knew of was playing hard to get, which has never worked on me.
Turns out it was a Paradise Tree, a native. Momentarily forgive what I described next because I may need this information later. Those three days flat on my back on that hospital mattress is causing cramps at the pressure points when I walk more than 15 minutes. I found a fairly nice antique shop in Deerfield, almost impressive, with a half-mile of aisles. Mostly furniture. Below is a poster they had for sale. The most unusual item: a Volks-radio. $325.00 but it is the real Nazi German one-speaker radio, with the swastika emblem. These were all supposedly melted down, but the card said this one still functioned.
[Author's note: this was the famous Deerfield thrift, which sadly closed down a few years later.]
An evening at the movies. “Cold Mountain”. That’s the second movie this week with a natural blonde actress, something I really appreciate. (I can only pray this is a new trend that lasts the rest of my life. I admit being very partial to blondes. I'd only dated two non-blondes before I was 30, but these days’ beggars can't be choosers. After 30 the supply dries up, that is, you can get plenty of what you don't want.) This movie drags while doing a good job of portraying important themes. It’s too slow for either a drama or a love story so it winds up disappointing both crowds.
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