Buck and I talk about selling it. We got it ready to put on the market. Waterfront hideaways have buyers even in a bad market, but we haven’t called a real estate agent, yet. Now it’s too cold. Not a good time to show the old place. And when spring comes, the sheer romance of it will most likely get to us again, and we’ll find a reason not to let it go.

Mine are getting passive aggressive. They closed my study door with a firm, sulky click when Casey tried to come in and enlist them in his campaign to stay in Buck’s book. Sheesh.

It’s great. Our electronic cottage is humming. But sometimes, we have to leave these characters alone to fight it out amongst themselves.

Mid-afternoon, we put down our pens, packed up Maggie, and headed to the Sugar Shack. We stopped by Sonny’s BBQ drive-through window on the way for smoked chicken and potato salad.

I wore shorts and a sleeveless top, which was perfect as long as the sun was still high, but almost too cool as the sun ball fell into the bay. Not complaining. I’ll remember this fabulous almost cool evening when the inevitable all-night heat of mid-August arrives.

There’s nothing like a dock, a sunset, a smoked chicken, a lovin’ man and a sweet as sugar dog.  We watched big pelicans fly in and splash down, mallard ducks swim slow figure eights, and mullet jump.

Even the father teaching his daughter how to drive a jet ski didn’t shatter the late afternoon peace. They were having so much fun, the teenage girl’s laughter was infectious. Maggie was hysterical. Every time the jet ski would come by, she would stand at the edge of the dock, tail up and wagging, and bounce up and down barking and making a growly gurgly sound — the same one she makes when grandkids do cannonballs in the pool.

The jet ski went back to the dock a mile away, and the surface of the water turned opaque and glassy, like meringue that reaches a certain sugar thick glossy stage that signals readiness. We sat close together, holding hands, silent as the sun widened into a large pat of melting butter, and long streaky light in the bay connected the sun to us. That temporal moment sitting on a dock in coastal Florida felt like eternity, an eternity I would choose over streets of gold or pearl gates any day. Any day.

Buck and I  dangled our legs over the edge and balanced our plate lunch from The Tiger (the neighborhood supermarket). A woman from England who seemed to be puzzled over how she wound up in this particular backwater served up the day’s special: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and great northern beans. Comes with a soft squishy church supper kind of roll and tea, sweet or un. We both got a drumstick, gnawed it to the bone, then threw it in for the crabs to feast on.

Spring is here. Puts us in the mood to sweep the roofs of the Shack, put in a new window ac/heat unit in the upstairs and a side bedroom, spruce up the plumbing, and scrub, scrub, scrub.

Azaleas of all sizes and colors are in full bloom. Sounds like an aviary with a felicitous mix of woodland and shore birds. Just being here, my fur begins to smooth.

In some ways, hanging out on the dock is better even than a boat. There is no work at all. No steering. No docking. No ropes to tie. And yet, once I set foot on that dock, I am as surely off the workday grid as if I were in the middle of some ocean with no land in sight. My musts, shoulds, and to-do lists float away on the out-going tide.

The winter has been inhospitable. I couldn’t put on enough clothes to walk out to the end of the new dock to keep the wind from slicing me into neat brunette ribbons.

A $500 water bill from the bay cottage woke us up. An outside spigot sheared off during the last freeze. Thousands of gallons of water spilled out until, mercifully, some Good Samaritan stranger cut the water off at the street. The water service has a one-time-only-for-the-life-of-any-and-all-accounts-you-have forgiveness policy on an unusually high bill caused by a leak.

We got up a punch list to attend to plumbing, electrical and carpentry issues and drove to the sweet little house. It was frozen in time, just as we had left it. I am breathless with relief that the leak was on the outside of the house. All that extra water cascaded harmlessly to the roots of old camellia bushes and dormant crepe myrtle trees.

While Buck worked with the plumber, I climbed the steep, narrow stairs to a large room on the second floor. The wall-to-wall carpet is a shade of veridian that I would challenge anyone to find in nature. The room has sets of glass doors at either end. I see the busy street at the front, some 200 or more yards away, through a canopy of large, moss-draped oak trees. The other end faces Perdido Bay. Both ends have small deck-style balconies. A large closet under the eaves is full to the gills with old clothes left by the previous owner. She owned a dress shop for years, and many of the pieces are leftover inventory from her store. I start to work, pulling them off racks and out onto the floor.

Vintage organza, dotted swiss, and polyester by the mile. Denim jumpsuits, and a pair of jeans with a banana tree embroidered up the leg. Most of them are in a size so tiny they look like clothes for a child made in styles for a woman. They are all on hangers. I roll them around my arm in fat bundles and trundle them down the stairs and into the back seat of the car for transport to the Easter Seal store.

Next, I start to work on the pantry closet downstairs in a hallway beside the kitchen. Something happens to old plastic containers when left alone in a closet. Their texture gets thick and sticky. Disgusting. I take out at least 20.  The owner must been a Tupperware aficionado back in the day. The second shelf is a treasure trove of old kitchen appliances. I pull out an electric juicer, a Sunbeam Mixmaster, a toaster, a wonderful metal and glass blender, and a heavy, gleaming metal device that turns out to be a meat slicer. The meat slicer stops me. I put it on a counter and eye it warily. Unbidden images of John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer float like horrible black specks in my eyes. I find a huge Tupperware container, carefully encase the slicer in it, and make it disappear within the bowels of a Husky Construction Trash bag. Yuck. I run water in the kitchen sink until it is hot, spritz a generous curl of Pomegranate & Mango Soft Soap into the palm of my hand and scrub until the stickiness is gone.

“Ready to go?” Buck interrupts my surgical scrub.

“You bet.”

We stand together for a few minutes on the glassed-in porch and look down the hill, green with a longish beard of rye grass,  to the small white sand beach, out to the gray waves lapping at the dock. Buck reaches for my hand. We look together at the Mediterranean-blue metal roof on the dock’s t-shaped terminus.

“We’ll need to come back to meet the plumber again later this week.” Buck squeezes my hand.

We face one another and smile.

A small pan of lasagna bakes in the oven. Three of the four eyes on the stove work and so does the oven. A bonus. The temperature dials on the oven have all been worn off except for 200 and 250. I guesstimate where 375 might be, and hope for the best.

A well-worn handmade bar stool in the tiny square kitchen is the perfect repository for a bright yellow edition of the PARIS REVIEW.

I suddenly remember leaving a container of chocolate frozen yogurt on the kitchen counter, and run back into the cottage to put it in the freezer. Returning to the dock, my breath catches when I see the silhouetted dog, man and waiting chair, there in the gloaming at the edge of all things solid.

There is mystery in the way found objects assemble themselves. I see nature, romance, woman, man, dog, and a multitude of tiny luminous sparks in the remarkable dark night of life.

Several things happened. The real estate market, even waterfront scarce as hen’s teeth, had farther to fall. It hit with a thud, and has stayed there, with barely perceptible upward movement. Many houses that have been for sale for more than a year (or two) have turned into rental properties, and so everyone is taking in each other’s washing, in a sense. So the Sugar Shack became, almost immediately, temporarily nonviable as an investment, either for rent or for resale.

Buck and I thought owning the old place on Perdido Bay would be a short fling. Then we gave it an affectionate nickname. And then, we fell in love.

We spent the day there yesterday.  The nice widow who sold us the home she and her husband had loved so much left almost all the furniture there. She remarried and moved to the mountains of Tennessee. We’re keeping what’s there, polishing, repairing, and where necessary, covering with a fresh throw. We cleaned, rearranged furniture, and replaced light bulbs yesterday, wondering what on earth we’re doing and having fun playing house.  I could almost imagine the Sugar Shack as a place for the assignations of a couple long-married, only not to each other: a love nest.

Buck watched his Florida Gators win a football game while lounging on a sofa and stealing glances at the white-capped bay.  We ate chili and tortilla chips. Maggie staked out a spot and snored the afternoon away.  I pulled out my black and white composition notebook and favorite blue pen.

At half-time and again at sunset, Buck, Maggie and I walked down the sloping old concrete sidewalk from the house to the new dock. Halloween. Full moon rising in the east, long red sunset in the west, and a chopped up bay blown to shore by a strong north wind. We wrapped our arms around each other, sunlight in my eye, moon glow in his. Maggie pressed close to us, her golden eyes seeming to read our hearts.

My late father was a builder. I loved to ride along in his pick-up truck when he checked on his projects. To this day, being on-scene of a building project flings open treasured old memory files. Even a small dock. There are hammers, nails, and the chatter of young men. Buck looks on, as the blue tin roof is almost finished.

The dock builders are part of a team of competitive speed skaters. It takes money for them to follow their bliss.

In the bottom left-hand corner of the picture, you can see the large leaves of a fig tree. There are two of them in the yard, and they bear loads of figs. . . which the squirrels apparently eat as fast as they ripen. I have seen them green, and I have seen them gone.

The old hand-made picnic table looks too rickety to support me, but I’ve seen several of the dock building fellows sitting there to eat their lunch. They are part of a speed-skating team in addition to building docks, and so they are extremely fit. Even so, two of them doesn’t make one of me. I think the bench seats are safe for sitting.

A large round rock is propped up against the door to make sure it stays closed. There is a hasp, but no lock.

The tiny room contains several old fishing poles, nets in disrepair, and a faded beach umbrella propped up  in one corner.

A child’s webbed beach chair swings slowly from a carpenter’s nail when the door is opened.

A spot on the map tickled our curiousity, and Buck and I — looking for an excuse on a pretty day– packed up a lunch yesterday and meandered down to a part of the local coastline we hadn’t seen for years. We landed at one of the local bays, found the abandoned-looking house for sale that we had seen online at a realtor’s site, pulled into the old shaded drive and parked the car to wander about and look at the water.

The old, ramshackle house sprawled all over the place — looked like it was built in stages on an “as needed” basis. It was clear a lot of happy living had gone on around there. Old pots with plants crawling out of them competed with Confederate jasmine and other creeping vines and plants, mixing and mingling with huge Sago palm trees, blooming old magnolias, fig trees loaded with ripening fruit, loquat and banana trees, gargantuan rounded old hydrangeas in full blue-flowered bloom, thick trunked pine trees, cedars, camelia bushes and English ivy inexplicably running everywhere, even down to the sandy beach where the ruined dock lay in pieces, abandoned from the lick it took from Hurricane Ivan in ’04.

Most waterfront lots around here these days have lost their “old Florida” character. The lots have been scraped off and landscaped within an inch of their lives with ubiquitous big box hybridized plants that could be plunked down most anywhere in the country.

The hodgepodge old house and lot we saw yesterday was firmly rooted in its place in panhandle Florida, and in the last century. Its history was writ large in rusted old crab traps, a wooden swing facing the sunset in a decrepit screened in porch, ancient fishing tackle hung on nails seen through the open door of a storage shed along with a child’s small life jacket at rest on a shelf.

We frightened away a lime green Chameleon from a failing, splintery bench , sat, and took in the view.