“You’ve got to accentuate the positive,
Eliminate the negative,
And latch on to the affirmative.
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between.”---Johnny Mercer
The Town
What a difference a year makes. 365 days ago, you’re careening down Las Vegas Boulevard at 80 mph, warbling Get Me To The Church On Time. Twelve months later, you’re cooling it at the beach, 2250 miles to the east. Must be four years since Siobhan and I have traipsed around the ancient streets of vibrant St. Augustine. It’s a good thing someone invented vacations and anniversaries, otherwise some of us would never leave home.
For those among us annoyed by drastic change, The Oldest City is a beacon shining through the night, a paragon of immutability, a paean to the eternal. Unlike most cities, which glorify growth and progress, St. Augustine would like things to remain just as they are, thank you very much. It’s acceptable to throw up a new hotel or open a modern restaurant, just keep it on the other side of the Bridge of Lions, if you please. We detest, absolutely abhor newfangled goings on west of the viaduct. If you are a couple aspiring to and celebrating permanency, this is your Shangri-La. It will last forever. Hopefully, you’ll do as well.
We don’t do well with East-to-West highways in the northern part of Florida, so any trip to the sea requires a considerable amount of twisting and turning through otherwise unvisited communities like Orange Heights, East Palatka, Hastings and the redoubtable Spuds, heart of the vast Florida potato-growing industry. If you show up there at just the right time, you can get a glimpse of the noble pickers tossing their produce into waiting railroad cars for transport to hungry Irishmen throughout the South. Anyone interested in viewing this spectacle can telephone the erstwhile Spuds Chamber of Commerce. He’ll get back to you in a couple of days.
Less than two hours of intrastate wrangling delivers a body to the quaint St. Augustine Visitor Information Center, just north of St. George Street, headquarters for Old Town rambling. Parking at the Visitor Center used to be free but now they’ve gone and built a large garage and, well, someone had to pay for it. That would be you at a flat rate of $12 a day, which includes clean, roomy bathrooms, a free map of the area and a lovely little chat with Eleanor at the help desk. Eleanor will advise you of everything you always wanted to know about the town and several things you didn’t. Give her a big tip o’ the cap and mosey on.
Just inside the main gate of the Historic District is Siobhan’s favorite local retailer, Around The World Marketplace. This store has everything, including wooden chickens, a vast array of Mexican tiles, totem poles from New Guinea, emergency underwear from Hong Kong, dried ox penis from Brazil and funny hats from Yugoslavia. Yeah, we know there’s no Yugoslavia any more. What does that tell you? Siobhan bought a wooden chicken and I picked up some emergency underwear. When traveling, you can never be too careful.
St. George Street is a pedestrian Valhalla, no cars allowed, narrow, maybe three-quarters of a mile long, teeming with trinket shops, clothing stores, restaurants, specialty shops and confectionary dispensaries. There might be more fudge, taffy and ice cream on this one street than anywhere south of Coney Island. And what’s this business with peppers? Since when can you make a living selling nothing but hot sauce and peppers, some of them fiery enough to burn the skin off an armadillo? The pepper merchants will actually challenge their customers to ingest these fiendish concoctions, creating hullaballooed contests with prizes, drawing huge, sadistic crowds. It’s like the Golden Era of professional wrestling, entrants signing legal documents absolving the retailer of all hospital costs and/or funeral expenses incurred in the trial. Showgirls stand at the ready with buckets of ice and fire extinguishers. The crowd goes wild as the contestants drop to the floor in pain or run screaming from the shop, then the audience lines up in long, snaking queus to purchase this misery-inducing product. Too bad Dante didn’t stick around awhile longer. He could have created a 10th Circle of Hell for these barbarians. But remember, Bill---we’re accentuating the positive.
Sunday morning, comin’ down
The Beach
If you go to St. Augustine for the day, the best beach option is Anastasia State Park on the island of the same name. Just take a left at the Alligator Farm and follow the short road to the toll gate. It costs a few bucks to get in but the small fee ferrets out the riffraff, who wouldn’t pay a nickel extra for a night with Helen of Troy. If you’re staying overnight, as we were, you’ll prefer an oceanfront hotel where you can walk out of your room onto the beach. For some reason---perhaps because it is less than three miles from the Amphitheater where we’d be attending a concert that night---we chose the Holiday Isle Oceanfront Resort, just a short jaunt across the dunes from the sea. The place, undergoing a bit of reconstruction, was unspectacular but serviceable. Our room was of modest size, but the bathroom, tricked out for handicapped use, was big enough to drive a tank through. We changed our clothes and went down the the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky. Every time we go to the beach we try to figure out why we don’t do it more often, then we go home for another four years. It was a brilliant, sunny Saturday but the beach was relatively uncrowded, most hotel guests preferring to cram around the lively pool area. I’m not sure why people pay for oceanfront rooms then gather by the pool, but I’d have to admit it is closer to the alcoholic beverages and seems to be relatively sharkless.
We adjourned in midafternoon for drinks at the Conch House, just down the road. We like the Conch House because you can sit on a bench in a hut with a thatched roof overlooking the water, pondering the great questions of the day. I had a Goombay Smash, which allegedly contained seven kinds of rum. If so, they were delivered into the glass with an eyedropper. Nonetheless, it tasted good and if anybody was in dire need of a designated driver I still qualified. We gobbled down some kind of fish dip and advanced to the Amphitheater to get the lay of the land. I’d tell you she lives just south of the lighthouse but that would be crude.
Anniversary Waltzers at The Conch House
The Infamous Goombay Smash (lite)
It’s another Tequila Sunrise
Bill, guarding lives
The Concert
We learned from Chaz, the security guard, that parking is a big issue at the St. Augustine Amphitheater. Not enough room, turns out. There are a few spots next door at the Elks Lodge and a shuttle runs back and forth to the lot at Anastasia State Park nearby, but a big-name performer drawing an SRO crowd guarantees headaches. “People start coming in at 4:45 for a 7 p.m. concert,” Chaz advised. Not us people, I told Siobhan.
At the hotel desk, I asked about transportation and got a card from the clerk advertising the Taxico Shuttle Service, which turned out to be a busy fleet of four vehicles operated by a jolly black entrepreneur named Mike. Taxico had a one-way charge of $7 a head, the round-trip coming to $28, only eight bucks more than the venue’s parking fee. Mike deposited us at the concert at a sparkling 6:30, which was lots better than 4:45. We gave him a tip for his sunny disposition. And so he wouldn’t forget us when the show got out.
The amphitheater, itself, is a visual treat, neatly appointed and easily accessed with a plethora of volunteers to answer questions and steer customers in the right direction. All 4200 seats are spic and span, although the backmost third of them are not protected by the abbreviated roof, so don’t forget those ponchos, boys and girls.
John Mellencamp, aka John Cougar, aka John Cougar Mellencamp was performing this night, along with Emmy Lou Harris and Carlene Carter, the twelfth stop on his ambitious Sad Clowns & Hillbillies Tour. You’ll remember John in at least one of his incarnations. He first turned up in 1976, since then turning out 25 albums and a healthy number of memorable ditties like R.O.C.K In The U.S.A., Small Town, Pink Houses and Pop Singer, all in the eighties. Bill even named one of his horses, Thundering Heart, after a Mellencamp song. Like few others, John has adapted and stood the test of time. His St. Augustine audience, entirely over 50, was appreciative and enthusiastic. Some might say a little too enthusiastic.
Now, I know in the old days a few hippies, stoned to the gills, migrated beyond the pale. Who can forget the incessant demands for Free Bird from some jamoke at every concert or the hippettes who felt the only acceptable seat was on someone’s shoulders, viewers in the rear be damned. But the great majority respected the music, quieted down when it started, actually listened. Where have all the hippies gone, long time passing? Not to St. Augustine, apparently.
Maybe it was asking too much, mixing hillbillies and rockers. Carlene Carter and Emmy Lou played to distracted audiences, obsessed with idle chatter and beer refills. Rude doesn’t begin to describe this crowd. And, of course, we had the usual problem found at virtually all venues these days: it was impossible to hear the lyrics. If memory serves, about the only place which has figured this out is the Florida Folk Festival at White Springs, where the words to the songs are actually considered relevant.
When John Mellencamp finally arrived much later in the evening, the crowd woke up. The folks had no other option after the bass was turned up to “optimum” and the ground began to shake beneath them. With the beat so dominant and the lyrics lost in space, every number sounded the same. This did not bother the boozy crowd one whit, as it swayed left and right in homage, loving every moment, recording the evening on thousands of iPhones to share with the neighbors back at the subdivision. Like brave troupers, Siobhan and I remained almost to the encore. When the end was in sight, we summoned Mike and his taxi. He arrived faster than Wonder Woman’s invisible plane and we were back at the hotel in minutes, glad for the fact. I turned on the television and watched Florida’s baseball team finish off TCU in the College World Series. The festive anniversary celebration was puttering to a quiet stop. The party was over, but we were glad we came.
If all this sounds less than celebratory, it is not intended to be. It’s more a reminder. We remember, on this occasion, as in the balance of life, we have choices, and we have chosen to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch onto the affirmative and not mess with Mr. In-Between. In marriage, in any relationship, the ship sometimes sails on stormy seas and clever navigation is essential. Some days the music is sweet, other times the bass is intrusive. Sometimes, in the midst of the swirling masses, it’s difficult to hear the words. Life is never perfect. Even the Garden of Eden had its asp. On special occasions like anniversaries, it’s important to recognize the treasures we’ve got. We’ve got rhythm, we’ve got music. We’ve got daisies in green pastures. We’ve got our gals, who could ask for anything more?
The Peanut Gallery
Mellencamp takes the stage. You’d recognize him anywhere, right?
That’s all, folks….
