Old houses are best they have secrets
shadows trembling everywhere
their weaknesses secret cracks
in the blocks corroded pipes the termites'
patient gnawing…
As you turn south on First Street off 22nd Avenue South in St. Petersburg, you soon go under a large arch mysteriously proclaiming DRIFTWOO. This isn't a comment on modern love, but the entrance to our neighborhood, Driftwood, the final "D" being covered by a huge bougainvillea winding through an equally oversized sabal palm. Driftwood is a small bohemian neighborhood, populated by artists, sculptors, potters, actors, writers, teachers and serious sailors, with the occasional eccentric lawyer and businessman to keep us out of trouble. Integrated racially, sexually, politically and financially, we seem to get along, which is fortunate, since some of us are armed.
Turning sharp left after the arch, you drive below interlocked ancient live oaks along Wildwood Lane and arrive at the old English-style cottage that has kept us in Florida for over 40 years. The house sits on a small lot, about a third of an acre, but it has nine old oak trees, which keep our rooms cool, or at least cooler than outside of Driftwood. We lived here without air conditioning for half those 40 years, for which our kids give us a hard time.
In a way, we bought the house because of William Wordsworth. He was the least chipper of the English Romantic poets, but when, in 1969 — guiding students through England — we visited his ancient cottage in the English Lake District, Jeanne and I were both smitten. We returned to our perfectly nice cement block house in Bahama Shores, complete with a grapefruit tree and pool (and air conditioning!) — and were discontent. We saw we weren't primarily interested in comfort: we wanted a home with a soul.
We're old now, and tired of many things. But not of our house. They'll have to carry us out.
…and remember that young couple who had
such love for each other it overflowed and did
the azaleas sing and birds blaze like roses?
And even the garage long ago burned down
was an object of affection
—Both quotes from "Old Houses" by Peter Meinke
This article appears in Mar 24-30, 2011.