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04/22/11 - (1)
Passing the Sheldon
When I was born, in mid-April of 1941, The three-story Sheldon Hotel, currently undergoing restoration, Yet edging Hollywood Beach, between Buchanan and Michigan, Was five years from being built. My family's first trip to Florida coincided with its grand opening — Just the kind of place Dr. Sam Soule would recommend For Charlotte and Saul to "winter" their sickly oldest child, L.D.
And so it was, for the seasons of '46, '47, and '48, That my sister, Chicago cousins, the parents and grandparents Made that journey, by train, regaled in the palm-treed warmth. (My dad punctuated his work, by flying down, many weekends.) I flourished in that invigorating sunshine — The mischievous, rambunctious, perpetual-motion hellion of a kid, Who hurled coconuts, off the roof of the deluxe Sheldon.
Yesterday, on our four-mile power trek along the Broadwalk, We twice passed the Sheldon's gradual resurrection. Curiously, both times, I flinched noticeably. On our return, you asked why the renascent hotel affected me so. I pointed to the curly-blond-haired five-, six-, seven-year-old Looking down, sixty-odd years below, ready to bombard us, Wondering if you, too, might recognize him as the man beside you.
04/22/11 - (1)
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