Little Voices in the Breeze...

We shared a thoughtful visit to that that pier, blown by gusty breezes that spoke of a celebration of life along with indelible memories that still call it home today.

Twenty-eight years ago, we moved from Virginia to St Augustine. Back then, our rental house was on the opposite side of the lake that we back up to now, in fact, you can see our old neighbors house from our current backyard.

We had one of those $19. plastic pools on the concrete slab just outside of the sliding glass doors. It was half filled with dirty water, grass clippings, and dead water bugs. Way too warm to be refreshing but hey, it was fun for the girls anyway. They loved it. Hannah and Ruth were 3 and 8 at the time so sometimes they ran out back and just stripped down and jumped in. Little girls giggling and doing cartwheels on the shaded, soft grass, no one to see or care. Except for our immediate neighbor who was 112 years old, petrified like King Tut. He squinted out through the blinds of his bedroom window to spy on the girls. He didn’t like them to not be in proper bathing suits and told us so. Improper for the girls to be in our back yard in wet underpants even though he was the only one who could see them. He disapproved behind Venetian blinds bent just so.

I didn’t tell him to go have intercourse with himself because I knew he was long past having intercourse with anything. Just a lonely old man, waiting to die, angry that he hadn’t been able to take a proper shit in 30 years.

I felt sorry for the guy.

Ruth, Hannah and I often drove over to The Riverview Club where this pier stretches out into the Intercoastal. They stared, wide-eyed, down at the bait fish and crabs, dropping bits of crackers to entice them. I cast live shrimp up and down the pier. Flounder can’t resist live shrimp. Cleaning Flounder right there and bringing home fresh fillets, I was puffed up with my ability to do so. Such a manly man.

Dredged in cornmeal and Old Bay, fried lightly in Olive oil…hard to beat.

I was obnoxious with Carla demanding that she praise my obvious survival skills and ability to put fresh food on the table that was both delicious and “free”.

Fast forward those 28 years and we can still hear the chatter of little voices lifting above the heat snakes slithering up from the bleached wood of the hot decking. “Dad, will we see a Manatee? Dad, can we jump down into the shallow water?” Dad, what are jelly fish really made of. I know it’s not really jelly. Right?”