Jed Wolf

My grandfather was an architect. In 1960 he turned over his business to his “Madman” son, who’s charisma, design sense and need to be away from his family grew the firm greatly.

My father drove a Jaguar XKE, and various BMWs to-and-from Manhattan to Connecticut, where he appeared for cocktails and weekend tennis. I vaguely remember vertigo in his suite of offices on the Upper East Side – other unctuous architects, attractive secretaries and dizzying views of the East River from the 68th floor.

My dad called me a “pill” back then. I didn’t blame him for not wanting me around. Neither did I, but I wanted him around even less.

I considered his autoCAD renderings sterile. I flaunted my green thumb, painted landscapes and was drawn to express in any way he couldn’t. One time in my late teens around the time he’d designed the first outlet mall in St. Augustine, after smoking pot with him, I told him I hated malls, Helvetica and the color white. Like many sons, I feverishly admired and resented my father. I remember calling him from Vermont in my early twenties just to tell him how very much I enjoyed my new job hand-digging human graves. We too often heard merciless pins drop between us. My dad raved about St. Augustine and I, the Canadian border.

Since moving to Florida, my singing gigs barely paid the bills so when Covid-19 shut them down, I had to find other work. I’d proven my shoveling prowess during our pool build, so I dug alongside our pool guy’s backhoe for a day or two.

Now I pass my dad’s outlet mall racing around this hot county meeting with potential pool customers two days a week. The other three, I do these.