I turned 50 last June; my childhood home is actually two years older. My parents moved from
Wilmington NC to Jacksonville FL in 1959 when the Seaboard Coastline
Railroad transferred its headquarters “down south”.
They bought this 3 bedroom, 2 bath ranch home for about $10,000 if I
remember correctly. As you can see in these photos, it boasted a pretty
standard, pretty barren suburban front (and back) yard. That wouldn’t
last very long. My father had the gift of a green thumb. Not just a
pale minty green, but the deep rich green of collards and fig leaves and
honeysuckle vines – all of which came to grow on that tract yard with a
controlled abandon.
Our front yard boasted a ligustrum hedge, the shape of which was
maintained to within an inch of its life with a plumb level and a pair
of hedge trimmers you could probably have used to cut diamonds. On the
side of the house grew enormous poinsettia hedges at least 14 feet
high. For people in Northern climates who only see poinsettias at Giant
around Christmas time, this would have been a revelation. They were a
vivid red that matched the PF Flyer sneakers I wore to tear around the
yards.
The front yard also had crape myrtles with their dark pink flowers,
an azalea hedge (also dark pink) along the front porch, forsythia bushes
en mass along the far side of the house (they matched the color of
paint chosen for the home), a huge magnolia tree (I remember the
lemony-scented blossoms drooping in the hot summer sun), and a paw paw
palm tree. It was the perfect yard for hide-and-seek.
The back yard was not neglected either; more crape myrtles, a back
hedge of ligustrum (perfect for hiding away from a pesky younger
brother), alocasia (elephant ears), a banana tree (that actually bore
bananas!) and a fig tree. The most astounding area, though, was under
my parents’ bedroom window. Here were planted honeysuckle,
night-blooming jasmine, mock orange, gardenias and camellias. It was
truly an allergy-sufferer’s idea of Hell on earth, but my mother adored
it. When the windows were open on a summer night, the smell was lush
and voluptuous.
We also had a vegetable garden where my dad grew collards and
tomatoes and cucumbers and runner beans and the hot peppers he loved.
There was a box turtle in residence as well; we saved her from certain
death trying to cross Old Kings Road.
I have only a few photos of the landscaping during the time I lived
in the house, but the vivid colors and scents of the trees and flowering
plants are alive and still flourish in my memory.
My father and I were never close. He had a volatile temper and never
really wanted children. My mother, who wasn’t able to have children,
wanted them desperately. So in 1961 and 1963, respectively, my parents
adopted me and my brother. When my mother died in 1976, my father was
left “holding the bag”, so to speak, and his Prussian methods of
discipline soon slid into abuse, which I escaped when I left for the
University of Florida on my 18th birthday.
He did give me my love of gardening and all things green. No matter
where I’ve lived, I’ve always had something green and alive around me.
There is nothing more relaxing or renewing than the smell of good soil
and when it’s combined with the sharp scent of herbs or the funny
nose-wrinkling odor of tomato plants, it’s just my idea of total
Nirvana. That part of my father will always be with me, and I am glad
that it overshadows the negative.
I visited my old home when I was back in Florida in 2009 for my 30
year class high school reunion. The subsequent owners (my dad moved
from there in the late 1980s) have more or less decimated the
landscaping to where it almost looks like 1961 again, and although the
ligustrum hedge is gone, the memory of a suburban childhood spent in the
good company of nature and a yard of wonder will remain with me
forever.
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