Jed Wolf

Dawn crept over St. Augustine, Florida like a hangover on November 6th as I hobbled down my front path to retrieve my Harris/Walz yard sign. Trump had won, and my garden – a nightmare tangle of Chinese Fans, Seminole Hibiscus, and Slash Pines – seemed to mirror the nation’s chaos. The plants had grown wild during the Biden administration, and now that campaign season was over I realized how preoccupied I’d been to even prune.

I’d kept the wave-blue sign close to the house until election night, when I’d finally moved it street-side in a gesture of last-minute courage. Three-fifty at Democratic headquarters had seemed a small price for hope. Now, approaching seventy, I cared less about appearances than I once had – both my garden’s and my own. Tourist towns breed a certain tolerance for eccentricity, and my neighbors were used to our sporadic displays of patriotism, which appeared and vanished like the Airbnb guests we occasionally host.

The sound of rhythmic clapping interrupted my mission. A group of college athletes approached – twenty or so young gods and goddesses from the university, their bare feet striking the pavement in perfect tempo. Our street, just over half a mile around and mostly free of traffic, had become their training ground. Behind them came their coaches, rolling a measuring wheel and checking their watches.

The old performer in me stirred. I’d spent a lifetime on stages of various kinds, and even in defeat, I couldn’t resist the urge to make something theatrical of the moment. The sign in my hands became a prop, the unkempt garden my backdrop. I waited as the first wave of runners passed, their youth and vitality a stark contrast to my morning-after stiffness.

Here in Florida’s paradise, where everything grows too fast and dies too soon, timing is everything. The Century Plant in my garden knew this – it would live only seven or eight years before sending up its magnificent death spike, far shorter than its desert-dwelling ancestors. Our humid climate hastens everything: growth, decay, the turning of political tides. The plant’s sap could send you to the hospital, its barbs could pierce skin, its huge symmetry drawing the eye and blood like exceptional actors and garden things do.

As the coaches approached, I gave the sign my most theatrical glance. Then, with all the flourish I could muster, I flung it toward the overgrown vegetation. It sailed in a perfect arc, landing comically in the crown of a lopsided Robellini Palm. I clapped my hands together, wiping them clean of both dirt and democracy, waiting for at least a chuckle of recognition.

Nothing. The coaches passed without a glance, their eyes fixed on their stopwatches and measuring wheel. My audience of two had rejected my performance entirely. I stood slack-jawed, watching their backs recede, before turning to retrieve my sign from its perch. The Century Plant caught me then, its barb slicing into my knee like a critic’s sharp review of my failed attempt at comedy.

But I couldn’t quite feel punished. Here in sea-level St. Augustine, our Disneyland of ghost trains and booze-cruising tour boats, we’re used to performing on a sinking stage. The town is a perpetual theater of eccentrics, electric bikes and three-wheeled vehicles, where everyone must move quickly to avoid being misinterpreted, ignored, hit, or drowned. My small performance was just another act in this endless seaside drama.

The runners returned, their footfalls now a military cadence on the asphalt. From my porch, I watched them pass – young bodies honed to perfection, futures still unfolding. Among them was a single mixed-race student, his stride matching his peers beat for beat. The garden’s chaos surrounded me: Chinese Fans waving, Agave reaching, Bromeliads clustering in their secret societies. The Century Plant stood sentinel, its barbs catching the morning light like warning beacons.

I touched my bleeding knee and thought about timing – in comedy, in gardening, in democracy. The sign lay forgotten in the palm tree, its blue as faded as yesterday’s certainties. Around me, the garden continued its wild growth, indifferent to elections, aging performers, or the endless parade of youth marking time on our circular street. Tomorrow, perhaps, I would finally get out the pruning shears. But for now, I simply sat, another Florida eccentric in his jungle, watching the future run past in perfect formation.

I decided against blaring “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles” from my Bose speaker, and headed back to our house like the lumbering beast I’d become to rest on my porch to humbly be reborn.