Jed Wolf

I live in a charming neighborhood among million dollar waterfront properties and more modest homes on the tip of an elegant island that oozes with Florida history.

Formerly a salt marsh, our yard was dredged from the Matansas river in the 30’s. The Matansas, which means “slaughter” in Spanish, ran red in 1565 with the blood of hundreds of shipwrecked French Huguenots hacked to pieces by Pedro Menendez. As a result, at certain times around here, especially during hurricane season, ghosts abound.

The owner of the titty pink house across the street is my friend. His name is Frank. Frank remained in his house during hurricanes Matthew and Irma and piled his ruined furniture on the curb twice. It’s a big house which should probably be torn down but Frank’s so easy going, it doesn’t matter. One end has an affordable apartment which he’s rented to dubious characters over the years. Frequent peeling out, 3am “fuck you” dramas and regular flashing cops resulted in my tall front gardens and blackout window shades.

Throughout my life neighbors have proved challenging but it’s best to get along. When opportunities present themselves, I offer friendly advice, make jokes, do favors and when all else fails, write songs. Blizzards, floods and homophobia has taught me the benefits of being neighborly. Daves mother, a first generation Italian American sage, used to say I “talk to the worms on the street.” A couple of men around our little circle who pitch in during storms and keep our eyes on things playfully compete with each other for the title of mayor.

When prospective buyers were perusing the “for sale” property next door, I provided a litmus test. After introducing myself, leaning on my pitchfork, I told them about the drug addict who hung himself in their prospective garage which also had two feet of storm water swirling in it twice. Realtors prefer to mention the abundant historic sites or the Fountain of Youth but I figured anyone freaked out by the area’s flip side ought to be informed. I saved the story about the dog a few houses down who’d partially eaten his owner’s dead body and the story about the guy with Alzheimers who’d pushed his neighbor into heaven ‘till after my new neighbors moved in.

St. Augustine’s an interesting place. Indigenous people thrived here where fresh water, abundant food and arable land made sweltering North Florida tolerable. Later Spanish settlers resisted French and British invasions by walling off the town and building a fort. St. Augustine was a haven for Minorcans, a proud mix of Italians, Greeks and southern Europeans who welcomed escaped slaves from the north. St. Augustine’s relationship with refugees attracted Martin Luther King as well as the KKK and the recent removal of a civil war monument downtown drew equal ire and praise this week.

Only certain types dare to live close to downtown which regularly floods with tourists and sea water. Its gorgeous architecture evokes a colorful history but in order to afford living here, un-wealthy people must be creative. Before Covid our Airb&b was booming. Among our first guests were a gay couple interviewing for a job in Jacksonville who got the job then needed a place to live full time. They adored our quirky neighborhood and around that time, Frank’s apartment across the street became available. The price was right, our former guests moved in and Frank was thrilled because they weren’t deadbeats.

But when Covid hit, Frank gave into his drunken daughters and their boyfriend’s and allowed them to move into the main house and Frank moved onto his boat. Now something’s going on over there all the time again and cops have reappeared. In exchange for rent, Frank insisted his daughters and their dubious friends paint the house. Though I suggested beige, grey or sage green, it wound up mostly titty pink and was never finished. When I offered to landscape free of charge (to hide it) with plants dug up from swimming pool builds, Frank gratefully took me up on it.

Occasionally while beautifying Frank’s weedy front lawn and being cheered on by, and receiving donations from other neighbors, one or more of Frank’s daughter’s n’er-do-well boyfriends would come out to ask why. Jake took a peculiar interest and even helped me dig one day attacking the powdery ground like a crazy person. I told him, “slow and steady wins the race,” in a wry, fatherly tone but Jake had never heard of that and continued to brutalize himself and the ground in the hot sun. He said he wanted to be a cop so I got Jake a job installing swimming pools.

At first my boss was thrilled and took him under his wing but soon Jake began showing his true colors and his twisted reason for wanting to be a cop. Like he had to the ground, Jake unleashed his misery at the crew so my boss had to let him go. I’ve seen Jake around and wave but he pretends not to notice. The other day he stuck a “GUN OWNERS FOR TRUMP” sign facing our house, in one of the three front gardens I’d created in their yard – the one closest to the gay couple’s apartment and me.

I first learned about St. Augustine’s dirty little secret from a liberal in a speedboat bounding along on the Matanzas river soon after we moved here. Shocked and embarrassed for not noticing the dearth of blacks and gays amid the reds and ochres of the grand hotels, perhaps I’d been too overwhelmed by our dramatic move upon our arrival but lilly white neighborhoods like mine were all I noticed from then on. Talk of race and politics is taboo around here especially during an election season when late summer trees begin to sway and tourists retreat after Labor Day leaving St. Augustine’s heavy history to blow around unabsorbed.

“Might they put their sign on their side nearer all their vehicles, “ I asked Frank. “Instead of aiming at at us?” Frank told me not to worry on the phone and said he’d have his daughters get rid of it.

In the 2016 hurricane season, the crummy old block house we bought here on this lovely landfill jutting into the Matanzas was a total loss. I camped here at that time to see if the house might be salvaged and walked a lot in the autumn rain. Ghosts abounded on election night and some in pick up trucks rode around sticking Trump signs on every lawn. Before I left, figuring the windows were already broken, I stuck a lone Hillary sign out in front of my disastrous investment for a few long minutes but new to the neighborhood and fearful of what neighbors might think, I threw it back in the house which would soon be demolished.

Today, 50 something days from this election, I peeked from behind the tall bushes I’d planted in front of our new house at the motley group of malnourished-looking white kids in the yard across the street, beers in hand moving their Gun Owners for Trump sign a respectful foot outside the garden I’d made. “What’s wrong with them,” I thought remaining still. They’d obviously heard from Frank.

But I was the one who’d hidden our Biden sign when the tree guy came for fear of him dropping limbs on our house and when he finished, I re-placed it behind our tall front garden near our gay front door where it would be less conspicuous.

Now it’s out front.