Sign of the Times

The temperature dropped into the lower 70s last week, so Floridians broke out the parkas and puffy jackets. Their systems are not built for the autumnal. This is a state of tropical temperatures and any deviation from that muggy norm can create a sense of panic.

Meanwhile, a hurricane attacked the middle of the state in a diagonal corkscrew path that involved losing and regaining windspeed multiple times as it created flooding and destruction some target zones while blowing through others like a sift breath and leaving them virtually untouched.

Welcome to the back stretch of 2020, which is poised to go out like it came in.

My birthday is next month and I have been trying to plan a small gathering. The trusted few who live within my bubble; with whom I have entered a plague pact and have decided that we will share the risk of exposing each other to the virus that continues to rage. We are all on close to the same page and avoid most of the riskiest vectors, although we all have our own exceptions that we are willing to make. Gyms. Candle stores. Hardware stores. Etc.

But it feels exceedingly strange to call around to different breweries to see which ones take outdoor reservations. Everything requires just a little more effort.

I am looking forward to even this halting, half-gasp grab at normality. I love hanging out at breweries, and I miss it.