May in Central Florida: Hotter Than a Two-Dollar Pistol and Twice as Sticky
May in Central Florida: Hotter Than a Two-Dollar Pistol and Twice as Sticky
Born and raised right here in Florida, where the cattle still graze where the orange trees used to stand, and the only thing thicker than the humidity is the sweet tea.
Well, I’ll swan.
Here it is, the month of May, and Central Florida has decided to quit fooling around and get down to the serious business of making a man question every life choice he ever made that didn’t involve moving to Montana. The azaleas gave up the ghost weeks ago. The dogwoods have gone to seed. And the thermometer is fixing to hit 95 degrees by lunchtime, with a heat index that feels like Satan himself is breathing down your neck while holding a wet towel over your head.
I was born in a little Cracker house out in the sticks, back when “air conditioning” meant you left the truck windows cracked and prayed for a breeze off the Withlacoochee River. We didn’t have no theme parks then. We had cows, and we had mosquitoes the size of B-52s. And in May just like clockwork, those skeeters would rise up out of the ditches like they’d been waiting all winter for the signal to commence hostilities.
You know you’re a real Florida Cracker when you can tell what week of May it is just by how bad your ankles itch. The no-see-ums show up first. Those tiny little devils that you can’t even see until they’ve already signed the lease on your bloodstream. Then come the yellow flies, then the horseflies big enough to saddle, and finally the lovebugs. Them
lovebugs flying around in their little romantic pairs like they’re on their honeymoon and you’re the honeymoon suite.
But Lord, it’s beautiful anyway.
Drive down any back road from Haines City to Lake Wales right now and the orange groves are still hanging on. Even if they’re outnumbered by subdivisions named after the very trees they bulldozed. The jacarandas are throwing purple fits along the sidewalks. The lakes are full and shiny as new quarters, and the bass are hitting topwater lures like they’ve been on a diet since Christmas.
I took my old johnboat out on the Tsala Apopka Chain last Saturday before daylight. Caught six good ones and a sunburn that made me look like a boiled crawfish. By nine o’clock the thunderheads were stacking up over the palmettos like they had a score to settle. That’s May for you: one minute you’re thinking about frying some fish for supper, the next minute you’re tying the boat down and running for the house because the radar looks like somebody spilled a bucket of green paint on it.
The wives and mamas are already talking about Memorial Day cookouts. Somebody’s bound to bring that congealed salad with the little marshmallows in it that tastes like regret and lime Jell-O. The kids are counting down the days till school lets out, which around here means they’ll immediately start complaining there’s nothing to do except the very same things they begged to do all winter: go to the river, go tubing, or go catch fiddler crabs in the mangroves.
And the snowbirds? Bless their hearts, most of ’em have already headed back north. They haul tail dragging their Winnebago’s behind them like repentant sinners. The ones that stayed are walking around in shorts and black socks, looking confused because the price of sweet tea at the greasy spoon diner has gone up four cents since last year.
Me? I’m just sitting here on the porch with a cold drink and a bigger fan than the one that used to cool the cows. I’m listening to the tree frogs crank up their evening sermon. Smelling the night-blooming jasmine that my grandmama planted back when Truman was president.
May in Central Florida ain’t always comfortable. It’ll make you sweat in places you didn’t know you had places. But it’s ours. It’s the month when the land remembers it’s still wild underneath all the strip malls and golf courses. It’s the month when a man can still find a dirt road, a cane pole, and enough quiet to hear himself think.
At least until the mosquitoes find him again.
Y’all stay cool out there. And if you see me at the bait shop, don’t ask me how the fishing is. Just nod and say, “Hot enough for ya, Leland?”
That’s all the conversation a Cracker needs in May.
Leland Shipp — The Voice of Southern Charm & Master of Psychological Thrillers
Leland Shipp is the beloved “Voice of Southern Charm” at The Peddler’s Post, where his monthly articles inspire unity, humor, and community pride across Citrus, Hernando, Pasco, and Sumter counties. His warm, relatable voice and insightful commentary have made him a cherished fixture in local journalism, championing the values that make his region truly special.
An accomplished author of psychological thrillers and horror, Leland’s storytelling prowess is rooted in his deep understanding of human behavior and societal dynamics. With a Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice and a Minor in Political Science, he skillfully weaves complex plots filled with suspense, mystery, and unexpected twists that keep readers on the edge of their seats. His debut novel, Impulsivity, explores themes of decision-making, responsibility, and the profound impact of reckless love—reflecting his keen eye for the darker aspects of the human psyche.
When he’s not writing gripping tales or engaging with his community, Leland finds solace in the great outdoors—hiking, fishing, and seeking tranquility near lakes, rivers, and the ocean. His stories often delve into psychological manipulation, paranoia, obsession, and self-discovery, echoing his love for the natural world and the mysteries it holds.
Beyond his writing, Leland’s humor and community spirit extend across central Florida, making him a familiar and beloved voice in four counties. Whether through his storytelling, community service, or spreading laughter and insight, Leland Shipp embodies Southern resilience, warmth, and mastery—connecting with audiences through words that entertain, provoke thought, and inspire.
