City of Miami: Holiday on garage sale permits? ... by gimleteye

In the Sunday Herald, writer Glenn Terry reminds us of a code enforcement officer from the city showing up-- on a neighbor's objection at his recent garage sale-- that he lacked a permit from the city. Now that we are giving away millions to millionaires (Florida Marlins) and cutting government services (and employees) from the working class but few top managers, doesn't it make sense for City of Miami Commissioners and the Mayor to offer the struggling people a holiday: suspend garage sale permits and forego whatever income is derived from penalizing people trying to extract a little value from unneeded and unwanted possessions? Of course, that will give regulators a little less to do than patrolling code enforcement violations: they should be retrained to root out white collar criminals, some of whom are paid with tax dollars to moonlight for private industry while on the city payroll.


Good to be home after trip to chigger country

BY GLENN TERRY
Special to The Miami Herald

Cool mountain air is such a blessing in July. That's why my wife and I spent last month mountain climbing. It wasn't hard since we exercise regularly, wear sensible shoes and let our VW van climb the mountains for us.
Getting to the cool mountains is the hard part. It was hot and uphill.

Our first leg took us to Mount Dora, a Coconut Grove-type village on a lake north of Orlando. It's a charming place that all of you should visit.

Unlike the Grove, there is plenty of free parking; and, by golly, you can see the water.

We took our puppy, Pi, into their bakery for dogs. When we saw the fresh doggie doughnuts priced at $2.50, we took her out.

Next we went to a place even hotter than Miami. Tallahassee was the site of this year's Hialeah High School reunion. For various reasons, most of my classmates have spent the past 44 years getting as far from Hialeah as they can.

Coconut Grove is far enough for me.

Francesca and I camped by a beautiful lake on the north end of town. We laughed as we hosed off tiny white ants that seemed intent on crawling up our legs. We had better things to do, partying with old friends and remembering how it was when our biggest problems were pimples.

The next day we headed north. South Georgia was even hotter than Tallahassee. Our van's ancient a/c system seemed more like a heater. The sweltering heat became an afterthought when the itching started.

We soon realized that yesterday's ``baby ants'' were actually chiggers, miniature alien-like insects that burrow into your skin.

It had taken a day for a 100 or more bites to rise up and blister on every part of our bodies.

Mosquito bites are like kisses from heaven compared to these. After rubbing on oceans of calamine lotion the damn things disappeared -- three weeks later.

After Atlanta the road started tilting up and the air temperature went down.

Breathing cool air seemed like vacation enough for us. For 24 days we wound around the hills of North Georgia and the Blue Ridge Mountains.

In Southwest Virginia we traveled ``The Crooked Road,'' the home of Old-Time Mountain music.

I'll write about the people and places we visited in some other column. I could probably write one just about Kyle Barker, the volunteer who took my ticket as we entered a Piedmont Blues concert. In a long conversation later, I learned that the retired meat cutter's daughter was 1979's Miss America.

We dove into constant activity for days and days, to keep the chiggers off our minds, then headed back to Miami.

It felt good to get back.

It's home and oh so different from Hialeah. After living in a 16-foot box for four weeks our house seemed spacious and filled with too much stuff. We decided to have a garage sale at my place on Loquat Avenue.

One Saturday morning we spread out all our extras and placed signs by the road. For three hours all sorts of folks stopped by, paying us for the privilege of hauling our junk away. It was great fun until a city of Miami code enforcement officer arrived.

When I could not produce a garage sale permit, he whipped out his citation book.

A neighbor, he said, had reported us.

I looked down at his shiny black shoes hoping to see tiny white ants crawling up his legs. Mr. Code Enforcement then pointed out that he could give me another $75 fine for having my garbage can by the road on the wrong day.

His co-worker, Mrs. Code Enforcement, had busted me two years ago (another $75) for putting a dog bed in my trash pile. This is sounding too much like a Carl Hiaasen novel.

I wish it were.

TELLING KRIS GOODBYE

The good news is that most of our neighbors are very nice people. We saw a number of them at Kris Pelligrini's memorial service a few hours later. The South Miami resident was taken from us much too soon after a long, courageous fight with cancer.

Coconut Grove had a wonderful downtown bulletin board until 1980. It was in the passageway that leads to the back of the Sandbar Grill.

At the service Bob Pelligrini, Kris' husband of 35 years, bragged through tears how he had put a ``room for rent'' notice on it in the early 1970s. He added, ``The next day a lovely young Canadian came to my door. She radiated beauty inside and out. She melted my heart.''

They had a romance to be envied.

Others mentioned how she and Bob had traveled the world and how Kris brought sunshine into every room she entered. The 200 friends and family who had gathered agreed.

How strange it was to have the healthiest, most exuberant person I knew snatched away after living just 57 years.

Kris was amazing as were the many friends who had gathered to say goodbye.

ONE OF MANY FRIENDS

One of them was the remarkable Mark Reno. He is so much more than former U.S. Attorney General Janet Reno's little brother. He is the tropical version of a mountain man, at his best in the Great Outdoors.

He and his wife Ann spend most of their time in the forests of Ocala but visit South Florida often.

Last year, he invited my sons and I to meet his new pet pig, a striped squealer named Oink.

It was entertaining to see the 30-pound piglet dragging my Ian around as he tried to walk him on a leash.

When I saw Mr. Reno at Kris' gathering I asked him how Oink was doing. ``Oh just fine,'' he answered. ``She is like our 200-pound dog now. We take her on trips when we can. Oink enjoys riding in the back of the truck. When she gets too hot we pull off anywhere we see a hose and I ask, `May I hose down my hog?' ''

Everyone has obliged the Renos so far. If you're watering your front lawn and Mark and Oink should stop by, be a good neighbor. Lend him your hose and for goodness sake, don't call code enforcement.

Glenn Terry is an educator, attorney and activist who lives in Coconut Grove.