Tales from St. Croix
It was early spring of 1981, but in Southeast Georgia it already felt like summer. For hours, I had slowly and monotonously plowed back and forth across the one hundred and fifty acres of flat, open field, turning dry dirt into rich dark soil with an old Ford tractor. I had done this many times before over the years, as I had spent most of my childhood growing up on a farm and worked from an early age, planting and picking tobacco, soy beans, corn, and even raising cattle.
It was hard work and always seemed to take up most of my afternoons after school, but for a teenager, the money was good and everyday I worked, meant that I was one day closer to leaving the farm.
About a year or so before this time, I was riding my bicycle one afternoon, about a half mile beyond my home, on the dirt road lined with thick pine forests on each side, when I came to an open field. The field was on my right hand side, and the freshly planted corn was about five inches tall and shining green in the afternoon sun. At that very same moment, I heard the low drowning whine of a jetliner passing high overhead,and I immediately stopped my bike to look up. The jet was clearly visible, headed towards the southeast, in the direction of the Sunshine State of Florida. I figured it was probably headed to Jacksonville, as it descended slowly in that direction; maybe ten or twelve thousand feet about the Georgia fields that seemed to me, at that time, to be so isolated from the rest of the world.
I remember very clearly watching the jetliner until it disappeared from sight over the horizon. I recall the feeling it left me with, of longing to be on that airplane, even though I didn't know exactly where it was going, other than South. The feeling of being drawn unexplainably, but excitedly, in that direction...southward...towards Florida, with its palm trees and white sand beaches, and towards the tropical islands of the Caribbean....and beyond.
My Great Aunt, Catherine Hayes Irish, or "Aunt Mable," as we all called her, and her husband, Fred Irish, had moved from Jacksonville, Florida in the early 1970’s to the island of St.Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Uncle Fred was an Architect and had always dreamed of living in the Caribbean. They both experienced some health problems at a fairly young age. I believe Uncle Fred was diabetic and Aunt Mable had a weak heart. After consulting doctors, it was believed at the time that the island life style, with its simplicity and slow pace, along with the fresh, clean air of the Southern tradewinds would be beneficial to their health.
Shortly after they moved to St. Croix, Uncle Fred designed and built a small house. It was perched about 1,000 feet above sea level on the side of a mountain. The house was built on one of the higher points near the center of the island, facing South, in an area known as Estate St. George. This house was only temporary quarters, as they had plans to build a larger house. Eventually the larger house was built next to the smaller one - the smaller house then became the “guest-house,” and they settled into the island life they had imagined.
As often as possible, but usually every few years, Aunt Mable would fly home to Georgia to visit. I am not sure why, or what caused it, but I was completely intrigued by this lady from an early age. She was very special to me, and still to this day I cannot say for sure why I was so intrigued by her...I just was! I do know, and remember fondly, that there was something about her smile and the sound of her laughter that always gave me a good feeling.
When I was 14 years old, Aunt Mable came to visit that summer. I remember the thrill and excitement I felt inside when I heard she was coming to stay with us on the farm for a few days. I think there was something exotic about her in my mind, a free spirit, and the fact that she came from “the islands” made me want to spend every possible second right by her side.
During that visit, we reminisced the old days and she told stories of her younger days, back when she lived there on the farm with the rest of the Hayes family. She sang songs and played the banjo along with my Grandpa, Maurice Hayes, playing the guitar, and Uncle Leroy banging out tunes on the piano. What a great time that was!
At some point during Aunt Mables’ visit, I asked her if I could someday come to St. Croix and visit her and Uncle Fred. She smiled enthusiastically and said she would love to have me come down for a visit.
I immediately started planning it! We decided one year would give me the time I needed to save money and plan the trip. July 1981 would be the month I’d go to the islands. I counted the days... growing more excited every passing month, until finally it was July!
I was now 15 years old. I had worked and saved $500 for the trip. I bought a round-trip ticket on Eastern Airlines from Jacksonville to St. Croix for $406. That left me a mere $94 to spend during the nine days I would be on the island, and I really wanted to bring back some souvenirs for everyone. Aunt Mable flew up from St. Croix for a quick visit with the family, but I think it was mostly to accompany me on the trip down, as she knew this was going to be my first jet plane ride and she wanted it to be special. She and Aunt Bonnie (Aunt Mable's older sister) drove up to Waycross from North Florida to pick me up a few days before we were to leave for St. Criox. We all drove back in Aunt Bonnie's 1976 shiny black Cadillac Coupe to her house on Lake Asbury, down between Orange Park and Green Cove Springs, Florida. We spent a few days there, swimming and fishing in the lake, and going for boat rides in the afternoons. Then, the day I had waited for all year was finally here!
We got up early that morning, which was fine with me! My mind had been racing with anticipation and excitement as I lay in bed that night, I hardly slept any at all. My bags were already packed. All I had to do was shower and eat breakfast. As I got dressed, the air in the house was heavy with the smell of fresh coffee brewing, and eggs and bacon cooking in the kitchen. It seemed just like any other morning, but I knew this day was going to be something to remember.
The drive to the Jacksonville International Airport from Lake Asbury in Orange Park seemed to take forever. Gas prices were high at the time, so rather than Aunt Bonnie driving her huge Cadillac, we rode in her little Honda Civic coupe instead. We were packed in like sardines in a can, but it didn't matter to me, it was all part of the adventure.
We soon said our good-byes to Aunt Bonnie and before long Aunt Mable and I were aboard an Air Florida 737, taxiing out for departure. I vividly remember waiting with nervous excitement for the jet to start its departure roll as we sat on the runway waiting for the departure clearance from the tower. Just then, the engines spooled up and as the Captain released the brakes, the big jet lurched forward and there was this force of acceleration like I had never felt before. It held me firmly against the back of my seat as we went faster and faster; everything outside was passing bye at blinding speed, and just then...the nose rotated and we were airborne. The big jet went up like a homesick angel and I remember thinking how smooth and peaceful it suddenly became as the wheels left the ground.
We were headed to Miami, where we would have to land and change planes. I was fortunate enough to have a window seat on the right hand side of the plane and could see the beautiful eastern coastline of Florida on our way down. I starred out the window the entire hour-long flight, and recognized interesting landmarks as they passed thousands of feet below. The old fort at St. Augustine, The World's most famous beaches at Daytona and the Daytona 500 race track, the shuttle launch pads at Cape Canaveral, were all clearly recognizable. As we descended for Miami, I could see the crowded beaches lined with multi-million dollar condos, and the clear turquoise water seemed to glow in the sun as far as the eye could see.
The changeover in Miami didn't take very long and I was quite excited as we stepped aboard the Eastern Airlines Boeing 727. As a young child, the 727 jetliner, known as the Whisperjet, always fascinated me. I thought they were the sleekest, most graceful, looking airplanes flying at the time. I also particularly liked the color scheme of Eastern Airlines jets, with their shiny polished steel fuselages and two-toned blue stripes running down the sides and up the tail. I had always said as a young child that, "one day I'm going to fly on one of those things." Well, that "one day" was now and I could not have been happier about it.
Soon we were airborne again and as we climbed higher and higher southeast bound, I could soon see the sparkling turquoise water and the scattered islands of the Bahamas passing below. The Captain said that we'd be cruising at an altitude of 41,000 feet on our way down to St. Croix, and that we would be there in about two hours. Aunt Mable quietly read a paperback book about the Devil's Triangle, and I laughed to myself, thinking how odd it was that she would be reading that sort of book while we were flying right smack in the middle of the area known as the Devil's Triangle. But it didn't seem to jinx us any at all, and I sat there perfectly happy, starring out at the endless blue ocean below and thinking about how, from that altitude, the white, fluffy clouds looked like droppings of whipped cream floating on the water.
And speaking of whipped cream, I had always heard that airplane food wasn't all the great. I do not recall what the meal was that we had, but I ate everything that was served. I do remember, however, eating the meal and looking out of the window and thinking to myself, "this sure beats the heck out of riding that tractor in a dusty, hot field all day..."
A few hours passed and soon the pitch of the jet engines changed and I could feel that we were starting a gradual descent. As we came down through the scattered, fluffy clouds, I could see small white spots on the surface of the ocean. There couldn't possibly be that many fishing boats on the water? I soon realized that what I thought were boats was actually white caps from breaking waves. A few minutes more, then suddenly....there it was! In the evening's fading light, the island of St. Croix, lay only a few thousand feet below in the middle of all that ocean. The island was shaped like a Christmas tree turned on its side, and lights from the ground twinkled as we flew around the island's west end and made our approach to Alexander Hamilton Airport on the south side of the island.
There was no concourse to meet the plane and no fancy terminal to exit in to. Just a small tin roofed, two-story building, on the edge of the concrete tarmac. The Captain pulled the plane up in front of the building and soon we were walking across the ramp, luggage in hand, to find Uncle Fred.
The first thing I noticed was that the tropical air smelled sweet and the gentle tradewind breeze was warm and felt just perfect as we walked. Aunt Mable spied Uncle Fred first. He was standing on the second floor balcony of the terminal building, waving to us with a welcoming smile.
I had not seen Uncle Fred since 1969, or so. At that time, he and Aunt Mabel lived in Jacksonville, on St. Augustine Road, in a two-story house he designed that was all glass across the front side. I was only about 3 years old then, and besides the house, the one thing that I very clearly remember, and can still picture in my mind to this day, was Aunt Mable getting dressed in front of me. My Mom, Dad, and Uncle Fred, were downstairs in the living room talking, and Aunt Mable was standing there talking to them and holding me in her arms. She carried me upstairs and into a bedroom, where she sat me down on a dresser. She was talking to me as an adult would talk to a three-year old, I guess, and changing her blouse at the same time. I recall seeing her brassiere and her cleavage. She had a lot of cleavage! And I remember her pulling money out from between her cleavage and laying it on the dresser. I merely thought it was all some sort of magic trick, at the time. I only recently told anyone about that, and never told Aunt Mable that I remembered it, but I still laugh to myself when I think of it.
Uncle Fred still looked the same as I had remembered; still thin and trim with a head full of whitish-gray hair, and always a bit eccentric in his ways. He, more or less, kept to himself during much of my visit, but Aunt Mable told me he would probably do that and not to think anything of it. So, I didn't.
As we were driving from the airport to their home in Estate St. George, I was suddenly alarmed when I realized Uncle Fred was driving on the wrong side of the road! I thought to myself, "What in the hell is he doing? Is he drunk or just crazy?" I was just about to tap him on the shoulder when, I remembered that Aunt Mable said they followed the British rules of driving and this was the way it was done on St. Croix...But, Yikes!!...for a second there, as we approached a sharp curve, I had a pucker factor of about 10+, just knowing another car would come barreling around the curve head-on into us!
I recall the drive up the mountain to their house. The higher you went up the hill, the narrower the road became. It narrowed until finally it was a thinly paved, one lane path, with tall green grass on both sides. Just before reaching the driveway, the road became very steep. Their old Volvo car seemed to be under quite a bit of strain as it slowly climbed the last fifty yards, or so, to the flat, level ground of the driveway.
That old Volvo was an early 1960's coupe. Aunt Mable bought it brand new when she lived on the farm in Georgia and drove it all those years. She had a name for her old car, but I have forgotten what it was. She told me once that the car had been repainted five times over the years. It was a very faded forest green at the time that I was there, but it ran quite well and Uncle Fred was planning to have it repainted for the sixth time. Fire engine red would be the next color!
The first night there, Aunt Mable and I were both very tired from the flight. As soon as we got in and settled, I washed my face and freshened-up a bit and changed clothes. Aunt Mable fixed us a bite to eat of something lite, and soon we were fast asleep. I slept quite comfortably on the living room sofa, which was made of bamboo and wicker with thick, tropical print cushions. At some point during the night, I woke up and realized that none of the doors on the house were closed. The living room had a set of six or eight louvered, folding doors, like the kind commonly used on pantrys or closets. This was all that divided the inside of the house from the screened porch, and they never shut them unless the weather turned bad. It never got too hot or too cold there, and at the time, crime was not a problem, so there was no real need for solid wooden doors or locks. The windows were also a bit different. There was no glass in them. Just simple wooden or metal shutters that would roll out to let air and light in, and a screen to keep any insects out.
The house itself was a very simple design that reflected perfectly the laid-back and easy lifestyle of island living. Uncle Fred designed it so that the ocean could be seen from every room, and the southern tradewinds could flow through the house. Therefore, the house was narrow and long, maybe 25 feet wide and about 85-feet long. This was also an efficient design because the land that the house was built on was on the side of a mountain with about a 40-degree slope, or more. The only flat and level part of the property was the driveway. From the driveway, you could walk right into the guesthouse, but to get to the main house, you had to walk down about 25 steps. That put you at the back door to the main house. There wasn't really a front door, not one that led outside, anyway. Along the front side of the house there were three long screened porches. Aunt Mable's bedroom, bathroom, and dressing room were on the east end of the house, and opened onto a large screened porch that faced south. The kitchen, dining room, and living room opened onto a porch that was about 40 feet long. Uncle Fred's bedroom, bathroom, and drawing room opened onto a porch that was the same size as the porch off Aunt Mable's room, but on the west end of the house. All of the rooms had a wonderful view down the mountain and out across the Caribbean Sea to the south.
All of the walls in the house were painted white. The floors were all teracotta colored tile, and for added protection in case a storm blew water into the house through the louvered doors, the tile ran up the bottom of the walls about 8 inches all around. The ceilings were simple as well, exposed 2x4's and plywood painted white. There was a ceiling fan in every room and on the porches, too.
The roof of the house, as was the case with most houses on the island, was made of tin. Most of them were painted red, or some bright color, adding to the beauty and character of the island. All houses had a cistern in the basement. It rains often in the Caribbean, so water is funneled from the house tops and directed into the cisterns, and used for drinking and bathing after being filtered. It was amazing to me how simple things were on St. Croix, but how everything seemed to have a useful purpose.
My time on St. Croix was unforgettable, and quite an adventure. It wasn't so much the sightseeing, or touring around that intrigued me, but the simple pleasures and things that Aunt Mable and I would do together that has made this trip one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
I remember one night, she and I sat up until 3:30 AM, on a week night, playing Scrabble on the main porch off the living room. There were things about that night that really come back to me that added to the whole experience of being there. I remember hearing foghorns and horns from ships and looking out into the night and seeing their lights as they glided slowly across the ocean. If you were standing on the porch looking out to sea, there was a jungle ridge that ran to the left of Aunt Mable's house, and up the mountain. As we played Scrabble on various nights, I could always hear Calypso music coming from the other side of that ridge. Aunt Mable told me that there was a nightclub over there called Club Cubana, and that the music could always be heard at night. I thought it was just perfect, not too loud or annoying, just soothing and pleasant. The sound of the steel drums in the distance were just what you would expect of hear on a tropical island. So, we would play our board games at night, always accompanied by the island's distant Calypso music, and I would get to enjoying the warm and fuzzy feelings inside from the Cruzan Rum drink that Aunt Mable would, begrudgingly, allow me to have along with her.
Aunt Mable was a funny game player. I had to laugh, after sometimes being annoyed, by the rules she would play by. She would roll her dice when it was her turn to play, but if she didn't like the numbers that came up, she would quickly scoop up the dice and throw'em again! I think she didn't think I noticed! There were times when the game was close and when she would do that, it would make me mad, but I never said anything...just took another drink of that rum...and we both ended up winning about the same amount of times…No harm done. The Calypso music still played, the ships still slipped by in the night guided by foghorns, and I was on a tropical island in the Caribbean...1,500 miles southeast of the doldrums of daily life on a Georgia farm...happily content with a good buzz!
Every morning, Aunt Mable and I would get up early and because of her heart condition, her doctor advised her she needed plenty of exercise. So to get it, we'd trudge up the narrow road that ran past her house to the top of the mountain. We would then hang a right and head down a well worn path, through the tropical forests, picking fresh, wild fruit and berries to bring back to have with breakfast, which was always my favorite meal. It would consist of cereal, usually Corn flakes, with the fruit we had brought back, or pancakes and eggs with the fruit, orange juice and coffee....that wonderful island coffee. I remember sitting on the porch in the mornings after our walk, waiting for her to make breakfast, feeling the warm air and looking out across the torquise sea to the south, think how fortunate I was to be there in her home, on that island, at that moment. What a paradise it was... "One particular island where dreams unwind; A paradise found...a state of mind." (a mix of quotes stolen from Jimmy Buffett & Stevie Nicks...Hey, it works here!)
There were no American chain-style restaurants on the island. No McDonald's, no Burger King, or Denny's. If you wanted to eat-out, you would simply go to one of the two towns on the island. Fredricksted was on the West end of the island, and the larger town of Chistiansted was on the East end. There you would find tables set up on the sidewalks and old women selling delicious meals they had prepared in their homes and brought out on the streets. A few times, Aunt Mable and I would share a big plate of the best rice & beans I have ever had. We would sit in the park, on a waterfront bench near the entrance to old Fort Christiansted.
Colors were so brilliant. The water was turquoise and clear, the sky was the bluest I have ever seen, the clouds the whitest, the trees seemed to glow green, and flowers of every color bloomed everywhere. Sailboats cruised by right in front of where we sat; their sails full and colorful. Other beautiful boats of various kind were scattered about the harbor and bay attached to moorings or just anchored offshore, all pointed straight into the southeastern wind.
One morning, Aunt Mable and I got up early and went for our morning walk. After breakfast we decided to drive to Christiansted for more exploring and to take a day cruise out to Buck Island. We drove the old trusty Volvo into town and Aunt Mable drove around a bit showing me some of the sights, while looking for a place to park. We walked most of the downtown streets of Christiansted, buying a few souvenirs here and there, and looking in the small shops as we passed. Soon, it was time for lunch, so we walked until we found a lady selling plates of those delicious island style beans & rice. We bought one large plate and asked for an extra fork, got two large plastic cups of lemonaide, and set off for what was becoming "our favorite waterfront park bench". There we enjoyed our lunch as sailboats and seagulls paraded by.
Before long, it was time to board the boat for Buck Island. Buck Island is an national park, both the island and that water immediatly around it are protected and only accessible by boat. The trip out to the island took less than an hour and Aunt Mable and I rode on the top deck enjoying the air and the warm sunshine as we went. I took a few pictures of differnt scenes along the way, and soon I noticed Aunt Mable had disappeared to the lower interior of the boat. I went below and found her sitting at the bar, which was in the middle of the boat, near the waterline, which meant there was less motion in that area as the boat rolled and pitched through the water. She was having a fruity tropical-looking drink, wearing her straw hat and pastel colored summer dress, and smiling the whole time. Looking back, I am sure she was probably a bit sea-sick, and the smile was a cover for how she really felt. She just always wanted to make sure that I was enjoying myself, but I am almost positive she couldn't wait for that boat to be securely tied back at the dock in Christiansted.
Soon, we arrived at Buck Island. I have never really done any snorkeling, but they were going to show us just how to do it. The boat dropped anchor about 75 yards from shore on the northeast side of the island near a beautiful white sand beach. I could see the bottom of the ocean off the stern of the boat and the blue crystal clear water looked so inviting. I am sure they told us how deep the water was, but if so, I never heard it. When it was time to jump in with our snorkeling gear, I was the first off the boat and expecting to touch bottom, jumped right in. The water was so clear, but I never touched the bottom, and I almost panicked when I realized I could not touch the bottom. As it turned out, the water was about 30 feet deep. The instructor saw that I was a bit shocked and threw a flotation ring in my direction. All was well again.
I spent the next hour paddling around with my head underwater and one arm hanging on to the floatation ring, watching hundreds of colorful fish passing right by me, sometimes so close that they would touch my arm as they passed. I was amazed at the sight of the beautiful and brilliantly colored coral of all shapes and sizes, and I wanted so badly to break off a peice of it to bring back, but the instructors advised us that it was a protected national treasure and illegal to even touch it. A bit later, the boat captain gave us each a loaf of hard home backed bread to feed to the fish. So I took mine and ducked under water and broke off a small piece of the bread with my left hand as I held the loaf in my right hand. A small fish immediately swam up and took the small offering at precisely the same second a giant fish, of some sort, snatched the entire loaf out of my right hand and took off! That was that....fish feeding was over for me!
As I climbed back aboard the boat, Aunt Mable was laughing at my luck and said, "Don't worry about it, you made that fish very happy, honey!" Soon, we were off the hook and the boat was cruising back towards Christainsted.
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Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were Aunt Mable's neighbors that lived just up the hill from her place. Mr. Taylor earned a living by making concrete blocks. He built his home entirely of concrete blocks that he had made himself. His house was set up very similar to Aunt Mable's, except he had an elevator that took you down into his house from the driveway above. The morning I met the Mr. & Mrs. Taylor, Aunt Mable and I walked up and onto their driveway. There was a crude looking metal contraption. It was a home-made elevator, with a car battery sitting on one side of the grated floor and a counter weight to help the elevator function. Aunt Mable and I announced our arrival on a small intercom and was invited to "come on down". We stepped onto the elevator and pushed a button, and the elevator descended slowly below ground. We were deposted smack in the middle of a small tropical flower garden, which was right in the middle of their livingroom. It was nothing fancy. I particularly remember everything looking quite simple and gray, as everything was practically made of gray concrete blocks.
We sat in the kitchen of the Taylor's home and talked for a while. The kitchen was very simple, too. There was a wooden table in the middle of the room, which Mr. Taylor sat at drinking a can of Coke. There was a sink and a stove. There was only one over head cabinet and that was above the sink area. It had a thin homemade curtain over the front, as did all the rest of the cabinets and cupboards in the kitchen. ........
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*On June 29th 2003, a gorgeous sunny day here in Southern California; a day that I spent sailing off the coast of Long Beach, in actuality, turned out to be a day that would bring especially sad news. Katharine Hepburn died on this day at her old home at Fenwick, near Old Saybrook, Connecticut. She was 96 years old. I was not able to get her out of my mind for a long time - days. I never realized just how great of an actress she was, until several years ago, I watched some of her older movies, and realized that she only improved as she aged. But beyond the fact that she was such a profound and talented actress, she was also a living reminder of my own Aunt Mable. The way she dressed and the way she carried herself, the way she spoke, and even the way she wore her hair reminded me always of Aunt Mable...or perhaps, Aunt Mable reminded me of her.
The year of 2003 was especially a sad year in the respect that we lost so many famous people that my generation, as well as the generation before, identified with. It was a year of great loss. Johnny Cash died; as did Bob Hope and his "Thanks for the Memoreis," and several other well known actors and public figures. Thank God we have memories. What would we do if we could not remember all of the things that brought joy and special meaning to our lives? I guess it would be called Alzhiemer's. President Reagan, is in the last stages of alzhiemer's, as I write this. He no longer knows who he is, or who he was, or anyone in his family. Every moment is suddenly brand new. Is he in a contiuous state of confusion because he knows objects and things, but does not know how they relate to his life? May God be with him, allowing him peace and comfort. No one should have to know that lonely existance.
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Continued from Buck Island and the boat trip:
Back in Christensted, I remember that Aunt Mable and I walked slowly back to the old Volvo. She had parked the car on a side street, just east of the immediate downtown area. We then drove west through Christensted, headed back to Estate St. George. As we went, Aunt Mable told me stories of the conditions of the local hospital on the island. She said there was only one hospital in Christiansted, but they could not afford to provide proper care for patients. The supplies were very limited and doctors were not top notch. Conditions were basically very bad. She told me of local island people who lived in cardboard boxes and makeshift homes all over the island. I, however, never saw any of these type dwellings. What I experienced was a very civilized, laid back culture, full of kind native people, giving all they had to give.
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Today, I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. They were elderly people back when I visited the island in 1981. There were several severe hurricanes that hit the island after my visit. I feel sure that the moutainside home of the Taylor's and the house that Aunt Mabel lived in, must have been damaged, I have no way of knowing for sure. I sent the Taylor's a letter once, about 12 years ago, to see if they were OK. I never recieved a response. I figured they both had passed away by then.
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It has been a few years since I last added to this blog. A job transfer from CA to FL and the routines of life kept me busy. I am now back in Jacksonville, FL and working in St. Augustine...one of my favorite places to spend a little time. Last year, while playing around with Google Earth, I zoomed in on the little island of St. Croix to see if I could actually locate the house where Aunt Mable lived. Much to my surprise, after a few minutes of searching, the house was still standing on the side of the hill just as I remembered it. I appeared to have changed very little over the years. I could actually see the fuzzy outline of the flamboyant tree she had planted in the front yard, although it is a bit larger now. The Taylor's house just up the narrow lane is also still there. I am sure the Taylor's have past on now, but it was comforting to see that the hurricanes had not damaged or changed things much, if at all.
It is funny how things work out in life. I recently purchased a home in Mandarin, a suburb on the south side of Jacksonville, FL. It was not planned, but it just so happens that my new home is only a few miles from where Uncle Fred and Aunt Mable lived in their glass-fronted house at 6934 St. Augustine Road. The house is still there and looks exactly as it always looked, except the front yard was paved over to provide a small parking lot. The home is now a doctors office. I am glad to see that over the years this home, just as the one on St. Croix, has remained unchanged.
Until next time.....
It was hard work and always seemed to take up most of my afternoons after school, but for a teenager, the money was good and everyday I worked, meant that I was one day closer to leaving the farm.
About a year or so before this time, I was riding my bicycle one afternoon, about a half mile beyond my home, on the dirt road lined with thick pine forests on each side, when I came to an open field. The field was on my right hand side, and the freshly planted corn was about five inches tall and shining green in the afternoon sun. At that very same moment, I heard the low drowning whine of a jetliner passing high overhead,and I immediately stopped my bike to look up. The jet was clearly visible, headed towards the southeast, in the direction of the Sunshine State of Florida. I figured it was probably headed to Jacksonville, as it descended slowly in that direction; maybe ten or twelve thousand feet about the Georgia fields that seemed to me, at that time, to be so isolated from the rest of the world.
I remember very clearly watching the jetliner until it disappeared from sight over the horizon. I recall the feeling it left me with, of longing to be on that airplane, even though I didn't know exactly where it was going, other than South. The feeling of being drawn unexplainably, but excitedly, in that direction...southward...towards Florida, with its palm trees and white sand beaches, and towards the tropical islands of the Caribbean....and beyond.
My Great Aunt, Catherine Hayes Irish, or "Aunt Mable," as we all called her, and her husband, Fred Irish, had moved from Jacksonville, Florida in the early 1970’s to the island of St.Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Uncle Fred was an Architect and had always dreamed of living in the Caribbean. They both experienced some health problems at a fairly young age. I believe Uncle Fred was diabetic and Aunt Mable had a weak heart. After consulting doctors, it was believed at the time that the island life style, with its simplicity and slow pace, along with the fresh, clean air of the Southern tradewinds would be beneficial to their health.
Shortly after they moved to St. Croix, Uncle Fred designed and built a small house. It was perched about 1,000 feet above sea level on the side of a mountain. The house was built on one of the higher points near the center of the island, facing South, in an area known as Estate St. George. This house was only temporary quarters, as they had plans to build a larger house. Eventually the larger house was built next to the smaller one - the smaller house then became the “guest-house,” and they settled into the island life they had imagined.
As often as possible, but usually every few years, Aunt Mable would fly home to Georgia to visit. I am not sure why, or what caused it, but I was completely intrigued by this lady from an early age. She was very special to me, and still to this day I cannot say for sure why I was so intrigued by her...I just was! I do know, and remember fondly, that there was something about her smile and the sound of her laughter that always gave me a good feeling.
When I was 14 years old, Aunt Mable came to visit that summer. I remember the thrill and excitement I felt inside when I heard she was coming to stay with us on the farm for a few days. I think there was something exotic about her in my mind, a free spirit, and the fact that she came from “the islands” made me want to spend every possible second right by her side.
During that visit, we reminisced the old days and she told stories of her younger days, back when she lived there on the farm with the rest of the Hayes family. She sang songs and played the banjo along with my Grandpa, Maurice Hayes, playing the guitar, and Uncle Leroy banging out tunes on the piano. What a great time that was!
At some point during Aunt Mables’ visit, I asked her if I could someday come to St. Croix and visit her and Uncle Fred. She smiled enthusiastically and said she would love to have me come down for a visit.
I immediately started planning it! We decided one year would give me the time I needed to save money and plan the trip. July 1981 would be the month I’d go to the islands. I counted the days... growing more excited every passing month, until finally it was July!
I was now 15 years old. I had worked and saved $500 for the trip. I bought a round-trip ticket on Eastern Airlines from Jacksonville to St. Croix for $406. That left me a mere $94 to spend during the nine days I would be on the island, and I really wanted to bring back some souvenirs for everyone. Aunt Mable flew up from St. Croix for a quick visit with the family, but I think it was mostly to accompany me on the trip down, as she knew this was going to be my first jet plane ride and she wanted it to be special. She and Aunt Bonnie (Aunt Mable's older sister) drove up to Waycross from North Florida to pick me up a few days before we were to leave for St. Criox. We all drove back in Aunt Bonnie's 1976 shiny black Cadillac Coupe to her house on Lake Asbury, down between Orange Park and Green Cove Springs, Florida. We spent a few days there, swimming and fishing in the lake, and going for boat rides in the afternoons. Then, the day I had waited for all year was finally here!
We got up early that morning, which was fine with me! My mind had been racing with anticipation and excitement as I lay in bed that night, I hardly slept any at all. My bags were already packed. All I had to do was shower and eat breakfast. As I got dressed, the air in the house was heavy with the smell of fresh coffee brewing, and eggs and bacon cooking in the kitchen. It seemed just like any other morning, but I knew this day was going to be something to remember.
The drive to the Jacksonville International Airport from Lake Asbury in Orange Park seemed to take forever. Gas prices were high at the time, so rather than Aunt Bonnie driving her huge Cadillac, we rode in her little Honda Civic coupe instead. We were packed in like sardines in a can, but it didn't matter to me, it was all part of the adventure.
We soon said our good-byes to Aunt Bonnie and before long Aunt Mable and I were aboard an Air Florida 737, taxiing out for departure. I vividly remember waiting with nervous excitement for the jet to start its departure roll as we sat on the runway waiting for the departure clearance from the tower. Just then, the engines spooled up and as the Captain released the brakes, the big jet lurched forward and there was this force of acceleration like I had never felt before. It held me firmly against the back of my seat as we went faster and faster; everything outside was passing bye at blinding speed, and just then...the nose rotated and we were airborne. The big jet went up like a homesick angel and I remember thinking how smooth and peaceful it suddenly became as the wheels left the ground.
We were headed to Miami, where we would have to land and change planes. I was fortunate enough to have a window seat on the right hand side of the plane and could see the beautiful eastern coastline of Florida on our way down. I starred out the window the entire hour-long flight, and recognized interesting landmarks as they passed thousands of feet below. The old fort at St. Augustine, The World's most famous beaches at Daytona and the Daytona 500 race track, the shuttle launch pads at Cape Canaveral, were all clearly recognizable. As we descended for Miami, I could see the crowded beaches lined with multi-million dollar condos, and the clear turquoise water seemed to glow in the sun as far as the eye could see.
The changeover in Miami didn't take very long and I was quite excited as we stepped aboard the Eastern Airlines Boeing 727. As a young child, the 727 jetliner, known as the Whisperjet, always fascinated me. I thought they were the sleekest, most graceful, looking airplanes flying at the time. I also particularly liked the color scheme of Eastern Airlines jets, with their shiny polished steel fuselages and two-toned blue stripes running down the sides and up the tail. I had always said as a young child that, "one day I'm going to fly on one of those things." Well, that "one day" was now and I could not have been happier about it.
Soon we were airborne again and as we climbed higher and higher southeast bound, I could soon see the sparkling turquoise water and the scattered islands of the Bahamas passing below. The Captain said that we'd be cruising at an altitude of 41,000 feet on our way down to St. Croix, and that we would be there in about two hours. Aunt Mable quietly read a paperback book about the Devil's Triangle, and I laughed to myself, thinking how odd it was that she would be reading that sort of book while we were flying right smack in the middle of the area known as the Devil's Triangle. But it didn't seem to jinx us any at all, and I sat there perfectly happy, starring out at the endless blue ocean below and thinking about how, from that altitude, the white, fluffy clouds looked like droppings of whipped cream floating on the water.
And speaking of whipped cream, I had always heard that airplane food wasn't all the great. I do not recall what the meal was that we had, but I ate everything that was served. I do remember, however, eating the meal and looking out of the window and thinking to myself, "this sure beats the heck out of riding that tractor in a dusty, hot field all day..."
A few hours passed and soon the pitch of the jet engines changed and I could feel that we were starting a gradual descent. As we came down through the scattered, fluffy clouds, I could see small white spots on the surface of the ocean. There couldn't possibly be that many fishing boats on the water? I soon realized that what I thought were boats was actually white caps from breaking waves. A few minutes more, then suddenly....there it was! In the evening's fading light, the island of St. Croix, lay only a few thousand feet below in the middle of all that ocean. The island was shaped like a Christmas tree turned on its side, and lights from the ground twinkled as we flew around the island's west end and made our approach to Alexander Hamilton Airport on the south side of the island.
There was no concourse to meet the plane and no fancy terminal to exit in to. Just a small tin roofed, two-story building, on the edge of the concrete tarmac. The Captain pulled the plane up in front of the building and soon we were walking across the ramp, luggage in hand, to find Uncle Fred.
The first thing I noticed was that the tropical air smelled sweet and the gentle tradewind breeze was warm and felt just perfect as we walked. Aunt Mable spied Uncle Fred first. He was standing on the second floor balcony of the terminal building, waving to us with a welcoming smile.
I had not seen Uncle Fred since 1969, or so. At that time, he and Aunt Mabel lived in Jacksonville, on St. Augustine Road, in a two-story house he designed that was all glass across the front side. I was only about 3 years old then, and besides the house, the one thing that I very clearly remember, and can still picture in my mind to this day, was Aunt Mable getting dressed in front of me. My Mom, Dad, and Uncle Fred, were downstairs in the living room talking, and Aunt Mable was standing there talking to them and holding me in her arms. She carried me upstairs and into a bedroom, where she sat me down on a dresser. She was talking to me as an adult would talk to a three-year old, I guess, and changing her blouse at the same time. I recall seeing her brassiere and her cleavage. She had a lot of cleavage! And I remember her pulling money out from between her cleavage and laying it on the dresser. I merely thought it was all some sort of magic trick, at the time. I only recently told anyone about that, and never told Aunt Mable that I remembered it, but I still laugh to myself when I think of it.
Uncle Fred still looked the same as I had remembered; still thin and trim with a head full of whitish-gray hair, and always a bit eccentric in his ways. He, more or less, kept to himself during much of my visit, but Aunt Mable told me he would probably do that and not to think anything of it. So, I didn't.
As we were driving from the airport to their home in Estate St. George, I was suddenly alarmed when I realized Uncle Fred was driving on the wrong side of the road! I thought to myself, "What in the hell is he doing? Is he drunk or just crazy?" I was just about to tap him on the shoulder when, I remembered that Aunt Mable said they followed the British rules of driving and this was the way it was done on St. Croix...But, Yikes!!...for a second there, as we approached a sharp curve, I had a pucker factor of about 10+, just knowing another car would come barreling around the curve head-on into us!
I recall the drive up the mountain to their house. The higher you went up the hill, the narrower the road became. It narrowed until finally it was a thinly paved, one lane path, with tall green grass on both sides. Just before reaching the driveway, the road became very steep. Their old Volvo car seemed to be under quite a bit of strain as it slowly climbed the last fifty yards, or so, to the flat, level ground of the driveway.
That old Volvo was an early 1960's coupe. Aunt Mable bought it brand new when she lived on the farm in Georgia and drove it all those years. She had a name for her old car, but I have forgotten what it was. She told me once that the car had been repainted five times over the years. It was a very faded forest green at the time that I was there, but it ran quite well and Uncle Fred was planning to have it repainted for the sixth time. Fire engine red would be the next color!
The first night there, Aunt Mable and I were both very tired from the flight. As soon as we got in and settled, I washed my face and freshened-up a bit and changed clothes. Aunt Mable fixed us a bite to eat of something lite, and soon we were fast asleep. I slept quite comfortably on the living room sofa, which was made of bamboo and wicker with thick, tropical print cushions. At some point during the night, I woke up and realized that none of the doors on the house were closed. The living room had a set of six or eight louvered, folding doors, like the kind commonly used on pantrys or closets. This was all that divided the inside of the house from the screened porch, and they never shut them unless the weather turned bad. It never got too hot or too cold there, and at the time, crime was not a problem, so there was no real need for solid wooden doors or locks. The windows were also a bit different. There was no glass in them. Just simple wooden or metal shutters that would roll out to let air and light in, and a screen to keep any insects out.
The house itself was a very simple design that reflected perfectly the laid-back and easy lifestyle of island living. Uncle Fred designed it so that the ocean could be seen from every room, and the southern tradewinds could flow through the house. Therefore, the house was narrow and long, maybe 25 feet wide and about 85-feet long. This was also an efficient design because the land that the house was built on was on the side of a mountain with about a 40-degree slope, or more. The only flat and level part of the property was the driveway. From the driveway, you could walk right into the guesthouse, but to get to the main house, you had to walk down about 25 steps. That put you at the back door to the main house. There wasn't really a front door, not one that led outside, anyway. Along the front side of the house there were three long screened porches. Aunt Mable's bedroom, bathroom, and dressing room were on the east end of the house, and opened onto a large screened porch that faced south. The kitchen, dining room, and living room opened onto a porch that was about 40 feet long. Uncle Fred's bedroom, bathroom, and drawing room opened onto a porch that was the same size as the porch off Aunt Mable's room, but on the west end of the house. All of the rooms had a wonderful view down the mountain and out across the Caribbean Sea to the south.
All of the walls in the house were painted white. The floors were all teracotta colored tile, and for added protection in case a storm blew water into the house through the louvered doors, the tile ran up the bottom of the walls about 8 inches all around. The ceilings were simple as well, exposed 2x4's and plywood painted white. There was a ceiling fan in every room and on the porches, too.
The roof of the house, as was the case with most houses on the island, was made of tin. Most of them were painted red, or some bright color, adding to the beauty and character of the island. All houses had a cistern in the basement. It rains often in the Caribbean, so water is funneled from the house tops and directed into the cisterns, and used for drinking and bathing after being filtered. It was amazing to me how simple things were on St. Croix, but how everything seemed to have a useful purpose.
My time on St. Croix was unforgettable, and quite an adventure. It wasn't so much the sightseeing, or touring around that intrigued me, but the simple pleasures and things that Aunt Mable and I would do together that has made this trip one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
I remember one night, she and I sat up until 3:30 AM, on a week night, playing Scrabble on the main porch off the living room. There were things about that night that really come back to me that added to the whole experience of being there. I remember hearing foghorns and horns from ships and looking out into the night and seeing their lights as they glided slowly across the ocean. If you were standing on the porch looking out to sea, there was a jungle ridge that ran to the left of Aunt Mable's house, and up the mountain. As we played Scrabble on various nights, I could always hear Calypso music coming from the other side of that ridge. Aunt Mable told me that there was a nightclub over there called Club Cubana, and that the music could always be heard at night. I thought it was just perfect, not too loud or annoying, just soothing and pleasant. The sound of the steel drums in the distance were just what you would expect of hear on a tropical island. So, we would play our board games at night, always accompanied by the island's distant Calypso music, and I would get to enjoying the warm and fuzzy feelings inside from the Cruzan Rum drink that Aunt Mable would, begrudgingly, allow me to have along with her.
Aunt Mable was a funny game player. I had to laugh, after sometimes being annoyed, by the rules she would play by. She would roll her dice when it was her turn to play, but if she didn't like the numbers that came up, she would quickly scoop up the dice and throw'em again! I think she didn't think I noticed! There were times when the game was close and when she would do that, it would make me mad, but I never said anything...just took another drink of that rum...and we both ended up winning about the same amount of times…No harm done. The Calypso music still played, the ships still slipped by in the night guided by foghorns, and I was on a tropical island in the Caribbean...1,500 miles southeast of the doldrums of daily life on a Georgia farm...happily content with a good buzz!
Every morning, Aunt Mable and I would get up early and because of her heart condition, her doctor advised her she needed plenty of exercise. So to get it, we'd trudge up the narrow road that ran past her house to the top of the mountain. We would then hang a right and head down a well worn path, through the tropical forests, picking fresh, wild fruit and berries to bring back to have with breakfast, which was always my favorite meal. It would consist of cereal, usually Corn flakes, with the fruit we had brought back, or pancakes and eggs with the fruit, orange juice and coffee....that wonderful island coffee. I remember sitting on the porch in the mornings after our walk, waiting for her to make breakfast, feeling the warm air and looking out across the torquise sea to the south, think how fortunate I was to be there in her home, on that island, at that moment. What a paradise it was... "One particular island where dreams unwind; A paradise found...a state of mind." (a mix of quotes stolen from Jimmy Buffett & Stevie Nicks...Hey, it works here!)
There were no American chain-style restaurants on the island. No McDonald's, no Burger King, or Denny's. If you wanted to eat-out, you would simply go to one of the two towns on the island. Fredricksted was on the West end of the island, and the larger town of Chistiansted was on the East end. There you would find tables set up on the sidewalks and old women selling delicious meals they had prepared in their homes and brought out on the streets. A few times, Aunt Mable and I would share a big plate of the best rice & beans I have ever had. We would sit in the park, on a waterfront bench near the entrance to old Fort Christiansted.
Colors were so brilliant. The water was turquoise and clear, the sky was the bluest I have ever seen, the clouds the whitest, the trees seemed to glow green, and flowers of every color bloomed everywhere. Sailboats cruised by right in front of where we sat; their sails full and colorful. Other beautiful boats of various kind were scattered about the harbor and bay attached to moorings or just anchored offshore, all pointed straight into the southeastern wind.
One morning, Aunt Mable and I got up early and went for our morning walk. After breakfast we decided to drive to Christiansted for more exploring and to take a day cruise out to Buck Island. We drove the old trusty Volvo into town and Aunt Mable drove around a bit showing me some of the sights, while looking for a place to park. We walked most of the downtown streets of Christiansted, buying a few souvenirs here and there, and looking in the small shops as we passed. Soon, it was time for lunch, so we walked until we found a lady selling plates of those delicious island style beans & rice. We bought one large plate and asked for an extra fork, got two large plastic cups of lemonaide, and set off for what was becoming "our favorite waterfront park bench". There we enjoyed our lunch as sailboats and seagulls paraded by.
Before long, it was time to board the boat for Buck Island. Buck Island is an national park, both the island and that water immediatly around it are protected and only accessible by boat. The trip out to the island took less than an hour and Aunt Mable and I rode on the top deck enjoying the air and the warm sunshine as we went. I took a few pictures of differnt scenes along the way, and soon I noticed Aunt Mable had disappeared to the lower interior of the boat. I went below and found her sitting at the bar, which was in the middle of the boat, near the waterline, which meant there was less motion in that area as the boat rolled and pitched through the water. She was having a fruity tropical-looking drink, wearing her straw hat and pastel colored summer dress, and smiling the whole time. Looking back, I am sure she was probably a bit sea-sick, and the smile was a cover for how she really felt. She just always wanted to make sure that I was enjoying myself, but I am almost positive she couldn't wait for that boat to be securely tied back at the dock in Christiansted.
Soon, we arrived at Buck Island. I have never really done any snorkeling, but they were going to show us just how to do it. The boat dropped anchor about 75 yards from shore on the northeast side of the island near a beautiful white sand beach. I could see the bottom of the ocean off the stern of the boat and the blue crystal clear water looked so inviting. I am sure they told us how deep the water was, but if so, I never heard it. When it was time to jump in with our snorkeling gear, I was the first off the boat and expecting to touch bottom, jumped right in. The water was so clear, but I never touched the bottom, and I almost panicked when I realized I could not touch the bottom. As it turned out, the water was about 30 feet deep. The instructor saw that I was a bit shocked and threw a flotation ring in my direction. All was well again.
I spent the next hour paddling around with my head underwater and one arm hanging on to the floatation ring, watching hundreds of colorful fish passing right by me, sometimes so close that they would touch my arm as they passed. I was amazed at the sight of the beautiful and brilliantly colored coral of all shapes and sizes, and I wanted so badly to break off a peice of it to bring back, but the instructors advised us that it was a protected national treasure and illegal to even touch it. A bit later, the boat captain gave us each a loaf of hard home backed bread to feed to the fish. So I took mine and ducked under water and broke off a small piece of the bread with my left hand as I held the loaf in my right hand. A small fish immediately swam up and took the small offering at precisely the same second a giant fish, of some sort, snatched the entire loaf out of my right hand and took off! That was that....fish feeding was over for me!
As I climbed back aboard the boat, Aunt Mable was laughing at my luck and said, "Don't worry about it, you made that fish very happy, honey!" Soon, we were off the hook and the boat was cruising back towards Christainsted.
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Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were Aunt Mable's neighbors that lived just up the hill from her place. Mr. Taylor earned a living by making concrete blocks. He built his home entirely of concrete blocks that he had made himself. His house was set up very similar to Aunt Mable's, except he had an elevator that took you down into his house from the driveway above. The morning I met the Mr. & Mrs. Taylor, Aunt Mable and I walked up and onto their driveway. There was a crude looking metal contraption. It was a home-made elevator, with a car battery sitting on one side of the grated floor and a counter weight to help the elevator function. Aunt Mable and I announced our arrival on a small intercom and was invited to "come on down". We stepped onto the elevator and pushed a button, and the elevator descended slowly below ground. We were deposted smack in the middle of a small tropical flower garden, which was right in the middle of their livingroom. It was nothing fancy. I particularly remember everything looking quite simple and gray, as everything was practically made of gray concrete blocks.
We sat in the kitchen of the Taylor's home and talked for a while. The kitchen was very simple, too. There was a wooden table in the middle of the room, which Mr. Taylor sat at drinking a can of Coke. There was a sink and a stove. There was only one over head cabinet and that was above the sink area. It had a thin homemade curtain over the front, as did all the rest of the cabinets and cupboards in the kitchen. ........
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*On June 29th 2003, a gorgeous sunny day here in Southern California; a day that I spent sailing off the coast of Long Beach, in actuality, turned out to be a day that would bring especially sad news. Katharine Hepburn died on this day at her old home at Fenwick, near Old Saybrook, Connecticut. She was 96 years old. I was not able to get her out of my mind for a long time - days. I never realized just how great of an actress she was, until several years ago, I watched some of her older movies, and realized that she only improved as she aged. But beyond the fact that she was such a profound and talented actress, she was also a living reminder of my own Aunt Mable. The way she dressed and the way she carried herself, the way she spoke, and even the way she wore her hair reminded me always of Aunt Mable...or perhaps, Aunt Mable reminded me of her.
The year of 2003 was especially a sad year in the respect that we lost so many famous people that my generation, as well as the generation before, identified with. It was a year of great loss. Johnny Cash died; as did Bob Hope and his "Thanks for the Memoreis," and several other well known actors and public figures. Thank God we have memories. What would we do if we could not remember all of the things that brought joy and special meaning to our lives? I guess it would be called Alzhiemer's. President Reagan, is in the last stages of alzhiemer's, as I write this. He no longer knows who he is, or who he was, or anyone in his family. Every moment is suddenly brand new. Is he in a contiuous state of confusion because he knows objects and things, but does not know how they relate to his life? May God be with him, allowing him peace and comfort. No one should have to know that lonely existance.
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Continued from Buck Island and the boat trip:
Back in Christensted, I remember that Aunt Mable and I walked slowly back to the old Volvo. She had parked the car on a side street, just east of the immediate downtown area. We then drove west through Christensted, headed back to Estate St. George. As we went, Aunt Mable told me stories of the conditions of the local hospital on the island. She said there was only one hospital in Christiansted, but they could not afford to provide proper care for patients. The supplies were very limited and doctors were not top notch. Conditions were basically very bad. She told me of local island people who lived in cardboard boxes and makeshift homes all over the island. I, however, never saw any of these type dwellings. What I experienced was a very civilized, laid back culture, full of kind native people, giving all they had to give.
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Today, I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. They were elderly people back when I visited the island in 1981. There were several severe hurricanes that hit the island after my visit. I feel sure that the moutainside home of the Taylor's and the house that Aunt Mabel lived in, must have been damaged, I have no way of knowing for sure. I sent the Taylor's a letter once, about 12 years ago, to see if they were OK. I never recieved a response. I figured they both had passed away by then.
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It has been a few years since I last added to this blog. A job transfer from CA to FL and the routines of life kept me busy. I am now back in Jacksonville, FL and working in St. Augustine...one of my favorite places to spend a little time. Last year, while playing around with Google Earth, I zoomed in on the little island of St. Croix to see if I could actually locate the house where Aunt Mable lived. Much to my surprise, after a few minutes of searching, the house was still standing on the side of the hill just as I remembered it. I appeared to have changed very little over the years. I could actually see the fuzzy outline of the flamboyant tree she had planted in the front yard, although it is a bit larger now. The Taylor's house just up the narrow lane is also still there. I am sure the Taylor's have past on now, but it was comforting to see that the hurricanes had not damaged or changed things much, if at all.
It is funny how things work out in life. I recently purchased a home in Mandarin, a suburb on the south side of Jacksonville, FL. It was not planned, but it just so happens that my new home is only a few miles from where Uncle Fred and Aunt Mable lived in their glass-fronted house at 6934 St. Augustine Road. The house is still there and looks exactly as it always looked, except the front yard was paved over to provide a small parking lot. The home is now a doctors office. I am glad to see that over the years this home, just as the one on St. Croix, has remained unchanged.
Until next time.....
posted by Capt Keith | 1:07 AM
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