Down the rabbit hole to Boca Loca by the Sea

Time traveling has its risks. Last weekend, my sister and I visited our parents in Florida for a few days. You know those snake oil psychologists who say they can guide you back to the womb, should you care to go? I made the trip without their assistance last week, and it wasn’t pretty.

How lucky am I that my folks are trucking along on their own in a beautiful South Florida community? Very. That doesn’t mean, however, that they aren’t playing starring roles in a Seinfeld sitcom set in perpetuity in Boca Loca by the Sea.

From the overheated condo, keeping the folks cozy against the 96-degree weather outside, to driving 6 miles an hour in a car that flies the Jolly Roger so they can spot it in a parking lot, they’re right out of central casting.

Usually my sister and I take turns visiting on our own, but this time we went together, thus the slip through a time warp to the 1950s, when she and I and our mom and dad were a four-person family unit. Suddenly, there we were again, sitting at the kitchen table, my mother asking us why we weren’t hungry and my dad heading off to bed at 9 p.m., calling, “Good night, kids.” Or asking my mom, “Where are the girls?” We girls, mind you, are 60 and 64 years old. My sister and I shared a bed, which we haven’t done since I was 8 and she was 4; in those days I made her give me a nickel to sleep in my room.

Eating is a major focus in my parents’ household, and so is thrift. The combination can sometimes be deadly. My son, who visits them often, warned us to check all dates on all food. Interesting. I discovered three containers of yogurt and blueberries from last February, and frozen bread that was sealed in a block of permafrost. In the freezer I excavated a pillar of cheese the size of Mount Rushmore that Mom said was a very good buy at Costco.

I had just finished reading a book called “The Frozen Rabbi,” in which a young boy finds a really old rebbe in the family freezer. Let me tell you, it gave me pause.

“You want a bialy?” Mom asks. Understand, bialys are a staple of life.

“No,” I say.

“Why?” she asks. Clearly, I am ruining her morning. Every refusal of food, especially bialys, must be defended.

This time of the summer, the air is still in Florida. Very still. After breakfast, we do what my folks do: relax until lunch and then nap until dinner. I feel I must get out, so I tell them I’m walking over to the swimming pool. My mother says I can’t go alone, so she sends my 92-year-old father to be the lifeguard. 
To help with floating, which she apparently thinks is unlikely in my case, she gives me her “noodle.” My sister and I fight over the noodle. Mom says we can each have it for 10 minutes.

When we go out to Publix, I drive. Well, not really. I’m behind the wheel, but my mother is driving even though she’s seated in the back with Dad. She directs, corrects and periodically sounds an alarm with a violent intake of air. She’s like a human GPS who can sense any cars within a half mile and sees only danger in their proximity.

We stop for gas and all four of us get out of the car. Dad gets out because Mom tells him to pump the gas. Then Mom gets out to tell Dad what to do. My sister gets out to show them how to insert the credit card, and I get out to replace the gas cap. Easy. For the next two hours my mother talks about the price of gasoline and the “bastards” in Washington.

I loved the visit because my sister and I shared the experience. After all, we’re the only two people in the world who grew up with these two particular people. We knew them when, and we’re the victims — make that products — of their upbringing. As I told my sister, we are very, very lucky to be only moderately neurotic.

I felt out of sync the entire weekend because I move fast and they move … well, maybe “move” is too strong a word. It’s just their nature and disposition to walk slowly and drive slower than regular people walk. They need a minimum of 45 minutes’ advance notice to leave the house. They plod along because they are careful — mindful of falling, suspicious of strangers, worried about choking on their food, fearful of crazy drivers and paranoid about Casey Anthony buying a condo in their community. I get that; she’s a party animal, and the night life at Boca Loca really rocks.

We seemed to have the same conversations we always have: Mom says Dad should go back to dentistry, although why she would encourage him, at 92, to put sharp instruments in the mouths of innocent people is a mystery. We discuss their upcoming medical appointments, which pretty much fill the 2011 calendar, and of course we talk about dinner.

There is dead silence when Mom offers to take something out of the freezer.

Copyright © 2011 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com or (516) 569-4000 ext. 304.