Mr. B.’s brother, also Mr. B., (and whom we will call Mr. B2, as if he is riboflavin) came to town last weekend for a brief visit. Mr. B2 lives up in Georgia with his wife and his extended family. Mr. B2 is a systems engineer at a paper plant and he is so often on call that it is hard for him to get any time away.
Mr. B2 and his wife came to Friday night’s concert, and on Saturday we took them to the La Chua Trail to see alligators in the wild. There are no pictures from this expedition because I defected early. A black cloud was rolling near the prairie and I am not yet of that odd Florida persuasion that calls for enjoying the outdoors during thunderstorms. I could hear some rumbles, so I made it about an eighth of a mile before turning back. Mr B2’s wife made it out onto the berm that runs alongside the canal, but turned back herself when the humidity became too intense. This made her the 65th menopausal woman I have met this year whose bodies become Slip’ n Slides in the oppresive Florida heat. You might think this is fun for men, but it is not. It only causes them to cast longing glances at UF coeds whose bodies glisten not with perspiration but with gold shimmer particles embedded in tanning lotions.
The intrepid B. Brothers made it all the way out to the observation deck and back, a three-mile round trip trek that must have felt like walking a treadmill in a sauna for an hour and a half. When Mr. B admits to feeling the heat, you know it is too hot to be outdoors. The heat index felt somewhere around 110.
Meantime, Mrs. B2 and I had gone to WalMart so that Mrs. B2 could purchase a swimsuit off the clearance rack. We caught up with the B. Brothers later and we all flopped into the pool at my apartment complex, which, due to the high heat, felt like warm piss. We splashed around for an hour and then spent the rest of the evening at my apartment, where Mr. B2 and I had a lively discussion about Sherman’s March to the Sea.
The next day, we took Mr. B2 over to Kanapaha, where I took the following photos. Mrs. B2 once again defected and spent the visit in her SUV with the air conditioning on full blast. The sun was hotter than it was the day before and it felt painful when it touched the skin. It was that hot that I envisioned the sun exploding and dropping fireballs all over the state of Florida, which would have wiped out the upsets over Charlie Crist’s dropping out of the Republican Party as well as all of those empty, unsellable condominiums in the southern part of the state. It also would have answered the question, definitively, about whether we have a football team this year with a big, fiery “No.”
A rude botanical, the carnivorous Purple Pitcher.
I hope you weren’t fooled into thinking I was going to name all of these plants. That would require a painful act of memorization or the carrying around of a small notebook in which to take notes, which strikes me as just too fussy.
I was taking a picture of a Firecracker Flower when I saw this dragonfly resting atop the identification plaque. If the dragonfly hadn’t alighted there, I’d not have known the name of this flower either.
I was on a bit of a streak, but the streak ends here.
Those B. Boys are intrepid wayfarers, braving heat, gnats, and ferocious rabbits in the course of their adventures.