Wherefore art thou, sweet Aunt Bea?
To the Editor:
It’s that time of year again. The time when the lords and ladies assemble their baggage trains and go back to whatever magical kingdom they’re trying to make Boca Grande into. When the island sheds it’s Downton Abby patina and morphs back into Mayberry. The time of plentiful parking. The time when local folk stroll down the sidewalks, not the middle of the street. The time of year when cars are actually faster than golf carts. The time you can speak your mind and not be booed. The time when you can say “good morning” or “good afternoon” and somebody will answer you. A time when bicycles go with the flow, not against traffic. A time to wet a line and party in the street.
But alas, the royals have left behind a few sappers. A couple of them peaked out of their gated community to tell us a canard about a future emergency situation.
By the way, fire trucks have been rolled during the offloading of our goods at The Barnichol.
They then went on to tell us how to be good neighbors, and to join the liars’ caucus on bridge weights.
And Mr. Regnery penned yet another “Hail Mary” complete with a chart (its authenticity was not published) that showed a very slow growth rate over the last 14 years. How many souls were in commuter cars? He then went on to say (I think I’ve got this right) that off-island members of the local churches are drinking our water.
So dear Islanders, party on! But watch your six, there are prevaricators afoot.
P.S. Now, like in times of old, lords and ladies are few and far between. I don’t mean to tag this title on all our winter friends. It is meant for those who have bestowed title upon themselves.
Remember, a deed does not grant you and you alone the right to pursue happiness.
Skip Perry,
Mayberry,
planet Earth
