The Other Sunshine State

By Kelly Friedman

Warm air gently cushions you as you walk down the perfectly paved sidewalk flanked by attentively watered sod and towering palm trees. The sun high up in the sky provides an everlasting warmth while slight breezes keep the day from becoming sweltering hot. Shorts are always an option, and people are amicable as they pass you on the sidewalk, or sell you the freshest orange juice possible. Florida in February is beautiful. This is why so many grandparents choose to live in Florida, or stay there for at least the winter, like mine do.

I used to have a week-long break in February when I was in Elementary school, known as “Ski Week” at some schools. However my family took our “Ski Week” as a trip to sunny, stress-free Florida to visit my Jewish grandfather, and grandmother who could be considered Jewish by association. I was seven when we made our first journey across the country. It took what felt like a full day of flying, as airports are always a stressful thing for families:

“Kelly, keep up. Watch where you’re going!” my mother would holler as we sped down a walkway.

“Kelly, put your tray table up.”

“But I’m almost done with this—”

“Kelly, you need to put it up now,” my father instructed just as we took off from the Oakland Airport. After a transfer in Houston, upon our second “leg” of the journey, the most frequently asked question was:

“Are we there yet?”

“How much longer?” I would chime in after my sister.

“Eighteen hours,” my father would snap before going back to his newspaper.

After finally touching down in Florida, we drove for an hour from the airport to Boynton Beach, past an abundance of palm trees and long flat roads, strip malls and entrances to housing developments, before we reached the gates of my grandparents’ complex. We pulled up to their house, which was almost indistinguishable from the one next to it, the one across from it, and the one on the other side. My sister and I flopped out of the car, ran through the garage door, and into the arms of our grandparents. As usual, Nana had her hair perfectly coiffed and colored, and Pop-pop wore his typical polo golf shirt. Both of them were relieved to have something to do other than wait for us and watch TV when we arrived.

“Oh you made it! I was so wor-ried! Auch, look how big you’ve grown!” Nana exclaimed as we embraced her; the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 filled my nose and her gold earrings were cool on my cheek.

“Hello there!” Pop-pop said followed by a strong squeeze under the arms.

“Hi Nana, hi Pop-pop!” I responded, happy to see them but more happy that we had reached our destination.

“Are you hungry? You must be hungry. I picked up some things from Tombergs,” Nana offered. We walked into the kitchen and the smell of roasted chicken and latkes hit me so hard I almost fainted from hunger. Of course after a day of dry pretzels and unsavory airport food a hot, Jewish meal was just what I wanted. I helped myself to a plate of chicken and added a thick toasted brown latke and a dollop of apple sauce right next to it. Maybe some coleslaw, maybe some kasha if I was enticed by the tasty-looking pasta. After a bite though, I was reminded of its bitter taste and gritty texture and left it untouched for the remainder. This first meal was always a delicious way to start off the relaxing vacation.

My parents took their vacations seriously: they spent whole days reading newspaper after newspaper next to the pool. We went on one or two outings, but not much happened besides going to the beach or out to eat. The day after we got there, my dad’s brother and family came in so my sister and I managed to avoid boredom. Ally and I swam in the pool together while her brother and my sister confined themselves to the upstairs most likely watching TV or bossing each other around.

To break up the monotony and save the labor of cooking dinner, we went out to one of Florida’s few decent Japanese restaurants one night. We drove a few miles to an unimpressive strip mall and entered the heavily air-conditioned “Ichiban.” The restaurant was dimly lit yet you could feel the air humming with dinner-time chatter. I looked to my right and saw the trendy sushi bar, and over it, a flat-screen TV broadcasting the baseball game. It was impossible to determine faces or outfits in the blur of darkness that was Floridians dining in the general seating area.

When I looked the other way, toward where we were going to be seated, I was confronted with a completely different atmosphere. There were four large tables with two hibachi grills at each, and chairs surrounding each one giving the impression of family-style-meets-entertainment-dining. My whole family just managed to fit around one full table, and as I squeezed in between my sister and Ally, I lost my aunts and uncles on the other side of the table for most of the night as our chef greeted us rolling his cart behind him. He settled into his station, smoothly maneuvered a large knife into one hand and a carving fork into the other and BOING CLACK CLACK CLANG, burst into his rhythmic routine of flying, twisting metal against the grill. They moved in a blur, hands jerking and guiding the utensils faster than you could follow. With a finalizing THWANG of the metal-on-metal show, the chef moved to his cart and calmly squirted oil on the grill, preparing it for our meal. We sat stunned for a moment after such a show, ears still ringing and brain attempting to process what we had just witnessed.

“Hibachi Chicken Dinner?” the chef asked my cousin at the end of the table.

“Yes.”

“Kids Hibachi Steak?”

“Yeah.”

After going around the table and confirming that he had the right preparations, the meal was on. He dumped a large bowl of cooked white rice onto the grill for fried rice, as well as an assortment of cooked vegetables which he sliced and diced this way and that with his sharp, shiny knives. When cutting an onion, he slowed and with the carving fork gently penetrating the top, carefully sliced the onion laterally. With a slice he then poked a few rings out, left some rings in place, and all of a sudden there was a volcano of onion rings. Swiftly he squirted flammable fluid into it, lit a match, and the harmless onion became a fiery torch.

“Ahhh!!!” we all squealed, once again shocked by the sudden flames and heat that were burning high and close to the chef’s face. Only after a few seconds the fire burned out, but continued to smoke.

“Choo choo,” the cook said while ringing his knife against the grill in an attempt to imitate a steam train. He proceeded to cross cut the volcano into bite-sized pieces after the eruption died down, and our attention wandered as the trick ended. I sipped on my Shirley Temple, the red syrup hyper-sweet on my tongue.

Soon the chef was in the final stages of cooking our meal. He seasoned and chopped the chicken, then looked up to find me staring intently at the grill. Watching the veggies fry up and the beef turn from bright pink to brown, the smells around us intensified, as did the growls in my stomach. The cook took this as an opportunity to perform another one of his tricks. He scooped a bite-sized piece of chicken on to his spatula, looked at me again, and motioned for me to open my mouth. I obeyed, but was extremely skeptical. Okay he better be good. He must be if he thinks he can flip a piece of chicken into my mouth. By then he had the whole table’s attention, who were instructed to chant,

“One! Two! Three!” My mouth and eyes open wide, I watched the chicken as it was catapulted from its place, across the table, and towards my face. It came sailing through space and I closed my eyes as it brushed my cheek and fell onto the floor.

“Awwwww,” everyone said together, disappointment evident in their faces. My cheeks burned, he missed! I failed! And I have chicken juice on my face! The cook was not so easily deterred. Feeling as though he was entirely capable despite the first attempt, he scooped another piece of chicken, made eye contact with me, and prepared to shoot. I didn’t have time to make a choice as to whether I wanted it or not, so I opened my mouth wide again suddenly determined to catch the chicken in my mouth.

“One, two, three!” my family said again. The chicken was coming towards me, it was on the right trajectory, it was almost in my mouth then—I looked down and the chicken was in my lap. Just as it was closing in on the win, my big teeth got in the way and the meat bounced off of my front tooth, deflecting it from its goal. DARN! I was so close.

“Awwww.”

“Shucks…”

“Kelly!” I looked up sheepishly, cheeks pink again, and picked up the chicken from my lap, popping it easily into my mouth using all of two fingers. The various reactions from my family seemed filled with disappointment all directed at me. I had failed to meet their expectations, and they were not quiet about it. People from other tables had even paused with their next bite in mid-air to see what all the commotion was about. Why did my family have to make such a big deal out of it? It was just a little piece of chicken! I wanted to be invisible in that moment, so people would stop looking at me with judgmental, disapproving eyes. I wanted everyone to forget about it. Why couldn’t they just let it pass and act normal? I had never shied away from my family’s—or anyone’s—attention, but for some reason I felt like a failure for not meeting their expectations.

Later that week, we made another one of our few adventures outside of the housing complex: to the beach. This beach was unlike any beach that we had at home—it was always so warm that you were never cold wearing only a bathing suit, and the sun stayed strong and bright in the sky for the entire day. What shocked me most about the beach was the water. It was a comfortable temperature, in fact, so warm it couldn’t be the ocean. I was used to freezing ocean water that required a mind and will of steel to go any further in than two toes. On this shore the water was pleasant, like a pool, maybe a few degrees cooler than a bath. And it was blue--light blue! Not gloomy and almost-black like the waters of the Pacific. No, this beach was like the ones in movies, a real beach.

My dad was too protective to let me swim in the ocean on my own, so he took me into his arms and we waded in up to his waist. We levitated in the water with every wave, and my dad’s “ooooOOOOHHHHHH”s and “wooOOOAAAAAAA”s, kept me giggling. My dad went in the water wearing his trunks, his sunglasses to shade his sensitive eyes, and his hat to protect his balding head. As big and scary as the ocean was, I felt safe and untouchable in my dad’s arms. Toward the end of our dip, my dad turned towards the beach probably trying to locate where my grandma was sitting. I was tired of being in the water, and was looking forward to building a sandcastle complete with seashell embellishments. A couple of loping waves passed before SMACK! I was thrown out of my dad’s arms and full into the ocean.

The waves pushed and shoved me around; there was pressure on my limbs, torso, ears, and neck from all sides. I was tumbling around and my flailing arms and legs made no progress in finding up or down.

Bubbles and white noise surrounded me and I began to notice the mounting strain on my lungs. I kept struggling but couldn’t find the surface of the water. I thought surely I would float up and break through the water, but time was passing and I still felt meters under the sea.

The oxygen in my lungs was running out. This is it. I’m going to die. This is how I’m going to die. I’m never going to see anyone I know ever again.

A millisecond after this revelation, I broke the surface of the water and was spat onto the shore, rolling and choking. The air suddenly felt cool and freeing. I caught my breath. I rubbed the water out of my eyes and squinted at the warm sun, just the same as we left it. I looked around; where was my dad? I finally located him in the water, upright and searching for his glasses and hat that had been knocked off in the blow. I stood up on unstable legs, and searched for my grandma sitting on the beach. I wanted to be near someone, to talk to someone, so that I might shake the feeling of isolation and helplessness and fear faster. I hobbled over to her sitting under an umbrella, reading Vanity Fair.

“NanaNanaguesswhat?” I paused for dramatic affect, “I almost died!”

“Really,” she said, not looking up from her magazine and seemingly not registering what I had just said.

“Nana I almost DIED! There was a huge wave and I got pushed under and everything was moving really fast and I didn’t know where I was and I thought I wouldn’t ever see you or dad or anyone else ever again!”

“Oh. Well I’m glad to see you’re okay honey,” Nana responded with a quick glance up over the rims of her Chanel sunglasses before resuming her political editorial atricle. I sat down on my familiar sail boat towel, in disbelief at my grandma’s reaction. She heard what I said, right? Why didn’t she act like it was a big deal? As I sat recovering from a new blow, my dad came staggering up the beach.

“Dad I thought I was going to die! Did you think you were going to die?”

“No.” As he sat down on a towel on the other side of Nana, he grunted and mumbled, which was most likely the extent to which he would express his feelings on the incident. He repositioned himself on the towel, straightened his glasses, and opened his Mojo magazine. Just like that my near-death experience was trivialized to something not even worth mentioning.

When we got home I recounted the experience to my mom and my cousin Ally. My mother expressed slightly more compassion, but didn’t seem half as horrified as I expected her to. Ally showed interest but quickly forgot about it as she resumed reading her book. I didn’t understand; why was it when I told people that I thought I was going to die, that my life was actually going to end, no one seemed to believe me or care? Why did a piece of wayward chicken evoke more of a response than being swallowed by the ocean?

“Kelly do you want a popsicle?” I turned around to find that my mother had followed me outside, with a deep red strawberry popsicle in hand.

“Thanks mommy,” I said, and tried to take the popsicle while hiding my misty eyes. Without asking any questions, and disregarding the popsicle juice on her towel, my mom brought me close to her body in a reassuring hug. I didn’t understand the ways of grown-ups, but I knew that she, as well as my dad and grandparents and all other aunts and uncles, still loved me—even if I didn’t understand the ways they showed it.