Jed Wolf

Rearranging weeds in my mother’s neglected, salt-inundated flower beds on Long Island Sound drove her out of her mind as did most things I did including making miniature water gardens with running hoses. Only trolls and plastic horses appreciated acorn walls and daffodil bird baths or how fresh rhododendron blooms would remain fresh plunged in soggy ground.

Muttering with French or German accents, Pierre might kiss Adolf or hump Evette like a dog from time to time but chastity was firmly molded into stubby troll features. Troll sex was silly.

Their long locks fascinated certain boys who preferred them to Barbie’s permanent hairdos. I could be mesmerized with troll hair color, length and consistency when stuck inside on rainy days but found Barbie’s tits and Ken’s whatever salacious and threatening. I’d rather landscape real troll villages which was impossible indoors.

Excavating low tide beaches as a kid, I dug rivers with locks for straw boats to navigate. As the tide rose, I feverishly landscaped cathedrals and castles based on photos of my 3rd grade teacher’s travels to Paris and Heidelberg. I cared not so much about towers and flags but designed elaborate formal gardens and troll hunting woods. Summers were spent building and burning in the sun and rescuing egg-laying horseshoe crabs while awaiting the onslaught afternoon waves.

I learned clods of roots and seaweed walls worked better than other kids’ plank bulwarks at keeping out the sea. Vegetative matter though ugly, absorbed the slap and shock of mini breakers while wood and trolls were easily swept away. Even the biggest rocks eroded everything surrounding them faster than heavy piles of kelp.

I still love busting my ass sunburned in difficult gardens. Covered in sweat wearing skimpy shorts with ground-in knee and fingernail dirt, I’m finding myself child-like and free a lot here in Florida. Gardening in this poor sandy soil with the threatening sea and exotic, complex weather feels familiar.

The code for new construction here is ten feet above sea level and we brought in fill-sand which is all you can get. I’ve made a winding path in our new front yard from various large, old concrete pavers buried in back. It leads slightly up hill. The old house was at seven and a half feet and the house we built is now at eleven. The street we’re on is seven. Matthew was a nine foot storm surge. Irma, eight. We’re safe as are plantings near the base of our new foundation which is now slightly above nine.

This area was a tidal marsh and underwater twice daily until the thirties. Like much waterfront development along the Eastern seaboard, Davis Shores was one of Florida’s first reclaimed salt marshes. Dredged shells are just below the surface everywhere here and it’s possible to find Spanish artifacts. It’s a weird, challenging place to grow stuff where trees can flourish for fifty years then be killed overnight in a storm.

Everything in our yard must be able to withstand scorching sun, deep shade, drought, floods, salt and cold snaps. I’ve got a few things up high near the house which shouldn’t get any more salt for a while (knock knock) but the entire back yard remains at seven feet and will flood in a hurricane.

Luckily most of this double lot was neglected and perfect for someone like me to sink my paws into. The back is under a canopy of tall oaks and long leaf pine. It’s overgrown privacy reeks of old Florida. The largest trees on this part of the island are in our back yard and can be seen from across the river downtown.

Though there’s a lot of shade, there’s a large, sunny area where I removed and old storm-damaged tangerine. All manor of prickly weeds sprang up so I cleaned the area out and have been collecting wildflowers to fill it with since April. Lack of rain’s been an issue though, as has been my lack of experience with this climate. I felt guilty, naive and obsessed with keeping my planting’s alive until the last few days.

It’s been pouring since Sunday. More is expected and though rainwater percolates straight through this sandy soil, the sudden resulting green everywhere is other-worldly. Plants so prefer rain to chlorinated city water or nasty well water. Every single one of my hundreds of cuttings is thriving. Wildflowers are sprouting and the last few nights I’ve fallen soundly to sleep dreaming of roots.

Though it’s been warm since February and often in the eighties, storm and cold-damaged vegetation was just sitting everywhere parched. Now it’s putting on growth like there’s no DEP. Overnight it looks like Costa Rica around here. Thunder’s been booming for days. What a difference rain makes. Suddenly there are screech owls, whippoorwills and unidentifiable shrieks at night like everything and everyone around me is joyous. Dave is happy that I’m happy and the kitties have stopped whining as well.

Hurricanes and real estate values knit this community together. All my neighbors know what grows here and doesn’t or will soon enough. Some neighbors are already newer than Dave and I and this place will teach them everything they need to know in time, like it does us.

It’s spring. Though there are houses for sale ‘cause some have just had enough nature drama, we love it and cherish the considerable time spent outside – the big exotic birds everywhere, the sound of the ocean and distant weekend wafting bands.

We’re among the first to build up since the storms. Our neighbors are thrilled and inspired by our commitment to build a fitting house and our attention to gardens. We all discuss what we love about our neighborhood – a lot.

In a recent conversation with a total stranger between downpours I found myself saying, the hurricanes followed by an unseasonably cold winter and spring drought seem linked together. “I’ve had a hard time letting go of weather-related anxiety,” I said. I’ve been carrying a subliminal suspicion this storm ravaged place or I am cursed.”

My new friend knew exactly what I meant and said everyone was haunted by the same feelings.

I’d given up on rain and used stinky well water for months to irrigate. I chose relatively drought tolerant plants collecting much from people’s trash piles and from the roadsides. I knew once established, everything would require a lot less water but the lack of rain in this alien subtropical climate some were ready to leave seemed more than shrug worthy. It was driving everyone nuts and people around here freely share their opinion.

“Let ‘m leave,” she said. What good are folks who don’t appreciate the whims of nature?”

I’ve never met such friendly, like-minded people, seen such gorgeous sunsets, dramatic lightening bolts and finally at long last, daily deluges of heavy, healing rain.

My problem isn’t neurological decline, white knuckled dread of retirement or early onset dementia. Suddenly it’s well designed downspouts, and storm draining freshwater lakes. It’s rivers flowing back the sea and coffee on our big, wide exceptionally dry porches listening to happy roots.

Rapture.