One of St. Petersburg's most distinctive characteristics is the strangely uniform eclecticism of its neighborhoods. Even in the nicest, most newly refined enclaves, rows of expensive modern homes are never more than a few cross streets away from dilapidated pre-makeover edifices sitting on sandy, weed-strewn lots.
There are blocks of affluence, even opulence, abutted by blocks of what can only charitably be called vintage working-class housing. And it seems that
every block (at least every one not within a deed-restricted community) features at least one strikingly out-of-place facade, a domicile that takes you back 40 years or $40,000 just looking at it.
The effect is either charmingly funky or infuriating, depending on the proximity of your own property.
Many of the lots in question appear not just aged, but willfully neglected as well. It's gotta be more than a little annoying to be the guy who spends every Saturday seeding and mowing and trimming and edging, only to watch as the next-door neighbor's yard sprouts not just sandspurs, but newspaper baggies and formerly seaworthy boats. It must suck to work so diligently at raising one's property value, when the people next door seem completely oblivious to the effort.
I imagine it to be extremely frustrating.
I have to imagine it. I wouldn't know; around my place, there's nobody like that to contend with, because it's me.
I am my block's token white trash.
I don't know how it happened. I didn't used to be white trash. I don't come from white trash. Peaches isn't white trash. Not that I've got anything against white trash – I actually kind of like the term, in a defiant sort of way, and some of the most interesting people I've met have undoubtedly had the term regularly and casually applied to them. I'm just saying that, up until a year and a half or so ago, I don't think there was a whole lot about my life that would inspire the use of those particular words to describe me.
But somehow, I bought a house. And somewhere between that occurrence and now, I started down a slippery slope that's led me to become, I suspect, both the bane of my neighborhood association and the subject of polite deprecation at the dog-walking parties that spontaneously break out in the alley behind my place.
Don't let anybody tell you that you're either white trash or you aren't; you can definitely become white trash, a born-again redneck, without trying too hard. In fact, that's how you do it: by not trying too hard. It happens by degrees, like beach erosion, or falling in love with a friend.
It started with the newspapers. Our front yard is a treacherous place, full of nettles and sharp-leaved trees and broken glass. (People throw a lot of stuff into our yard as they drive by, probably because the spots where stuff actually grows haven't been mowed since 1990.) We don't go out there often, and as a result, we sometimes forget to bring in the papers until people think we're dead or out of town. After a neighbor thoughtfully and pointedly piled about two weeks' worth of the Times on our porch, however, we bought snake-proof boots and used them daily.
Then Peaches' beloved Ford Taurus died, and it took us a decidedly white-trash length of time to get it out of the driveway. Having a broken-down car on the premises is a traditional white-trash rite of passage, one I'd previously avoided by asking friends with nice houses to let me stash my broken-down cars at their places. This time, though, the busted head gasket came home to roost. Though the vehicle eventually disappeared, our status never recovered – we might as well have been breeding kittens in an abandoned refrigerator.
After that, a series of little things sealed our fate. Somebody backed into one of the downspouts, detaching it from the house; it lay there accessorizing our driveway for about six months and still hasn't been replaced. Following a fishing trip, I hung a large cast-net over our rickety fence to dry; ambitious and likely poisonous vines have now sewn it to the treated wood.
When my father helped me extend the fence to build a dog run, some decorative railroad ties had to come up; they're still leaning against the oak tree, rotting.
None of these things, by themselves, telegraph the presence of white trash. Taken together, though, they strongly imply a certain disregard for appearances. But hey, we work hard. We only come here to sleep and cook and watch trailers for movies we don't have time to see.
Late last week, we received confirmation. Not many people get official notice that they've achieved white trash-dom. We did. It came in the form of a note taped to our fence, by our neighbors in back, across the alley. They'd just been blessed with a new baby, and the exhausted mother was unable to rest during the day because our puppy, Milo, is a bit of a demon.
I occasionally left Milo outside when running errands (never all day, and never in inclement weather). What I didn't know was that Milo apparently barked from the time I left until the time I returned; the poor woman couldn't catch a nap after putting the newborn down because it sounded like the Hound of the Baskervilles was all coked up and chewing his way toward freedom and innocent flesh.
We were mortified. I mean, is there anything more white trash than the scary, barky, undisciplined dog? We're only a couple of years away from having the neighborhood kids concoct legends about Milo (and us) while poking sticks through the fence to drive him into a foamy frenzy.
Needless to say, Milo doesn't stay outside anymore. And the crushed downspout no longer decorates the driveway – I hid it behind the shed. Granted, the railroad ties are still there, the deck is still accentuated by piles of leaves and my "fishin' shoes," and the front yard still isn't going to win any landscaping awards. But in our defense, we like and respect our neighbors, and anytime they come over, there's cold beer and good tunes and acoustic guitars galore, and we might even put on some pants before engaging them in interesting conversation.
We still hold on to the rationalization that we add a little eccentricity to the block. And hey, at least we got rid of the goddamn car.
scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com
This article appears in Feb 2-8, 2005.