It was 2011 and the meteorologist was boisterous with his waving of arms in front of maps of loud colors and all this a backdrop to the portentous news. Snowstorm of biblical proportions, buy shovels, get your flashlights’ batteries checked.

Eff off, I thought, and I bought a one-way ticket to Miami, departing in six hours. I made the flight, picked up a rental car and with barely a plan, except to drive as far south and as close to the sun-warmed equator as was possible, I was on the road.

Miami’s Medusa junction of highways heading south narrows to bridges arcing over expansive twinkling ocean and linking islands of ever smaller boulders of coral.

Thus I was led to the curved end of the road where it meets with the start of Whitehead Street, the tip of America. The Southernmost point.

Since moving to Key West I’m asked what about the dangerous weather? In the years I’ve lived here there’s been an earthquake, a tornado and a hurricane, all in New York City.

Today, now, reporting on the news from terra firma here in Key West we’ve had nothing but perfect tropical days, blue skies, sunshine, hot and humid. Buffett lyrics?

Ad nauseam the weathermen thrum their drumbeats Driving grannies to early graves. Flooding grandchildren with waves of guilt and panic.

Evacuate?

The only evacuating I’m doing is checking out the Green Parrot. Don’t let those weathermen get you down. Unless it’s down to Key West where the sun kisses your freckles and the liquor flows to the sea.

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