Everything in Florida Wants to Kill You
That's Why I Live in Georgia
I grew up in the suburban-ish section of New Jersey. By the time I was 15 I could get anywhere in the state by bus and train. By 16 I could navigate all of Manhattan via ferry and subway. I knew things.
Keep your wallet in your front pocket.
Don’t get on an empty subway car.
Never make eye contact with a guy yelling at invisible people — even if he is making a really good point.
These skills served me well; I never had any seriously dangerous encounters — except one time when I ignored the Penn Station hustler who was actually a bus employee trying to let me know my gate had changed.
I felt pretty confident and streetwise.
When my eldest daughter was born, my wife and I moved to the never-ending summer of Ocala, Florida, from the Arctic tundra of Omaha, Nebraska.
This is where I would learn that street-smart doesn’t equal Florida Smart.
Florida men and women may do crazy things because it is Tuesday, but they aren’t the main threat.
In Florida, the grass is hostile. There are snakes and prehistoric land lizards. But even those don’t rise to the level of sheer feral animosity packed into a space not much longer than a fingernail. I’m talking about tiny, angry ants who consider attempted murder a positive personality trait.
Snakes are generally polite enough to announce themselves. Terrifying but polite. Alligators aren’t bright enough to hide and hurricanes usually give a few days’ notice.
Fire ants skip all that.
