The Florida I Grew Up In

I was reading a blog post by a fellow artist from Vero Beach recently, and she alluded to a phrase that, for one reason or the other, I fell in love with.

"The Florida I Grew Up In" was the phrase. I believe it was the title of one of her landscape paintings, which was of a sand path winding through large scrub and palm trees.

I seek out places like these on a fairly consistent basis, and I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because I need to reconnect with the natural surroundings of my youth, or because I just yearn for the peacefulness that it lends to my brain when I see such beautiful and wild areas that remind me of my Florida. I'm the first one to take the country road, to get off the beaten path, to wander down those pathways and trails in search of that singular feeling that overcomes my heart when I see those sandy pathways filled with scrub and rustling palmettos – when I smell the dry, grassy scent and feel the gentle warm breezes. These types of landscapes are as embedded in my soul as wide front porches, boiled peanuts and emblazoned fall sunrises. I couldn't be more Southern if I had been birthed at Tara  and said "bless your heart" on a daily basis.

I've heard it said that Florida is not as South as let's say, Georgia or Alabama. I suppose it's primarily because of the reputation of Florida as being a retiree rest home for those who have grown up, lived and worked in the Northern climes. But you'll have a rude awakening if you think for a minute we aren't the South. Just go with the flow, try not to talk too much and enjoy the weather. Don't litter, don't drive too slow and if there's a gopher tortoise in the middle of the road, pull over and get him out of the way of traffic. They're protected, you know. They've foiled many a land developer's plans of grandiose high-rises.

I miss the "Cross Creek" days of my youth, building tree forts in old granddaddy oaks, filled with Spanish moss. We had chickens and rabbits, and Dad used to shoot the marauding squirrels when they tried to eat all the strawberries out of his berry patch – and they ended up in the frying pan and later on the dinner plate, covered in thick flour gravy. I ran barefoot through the woods with my dog, and caught many a panfish from the little pond behind a thick hammock of pine and cypress trees. I didn't have the heart to kill them, though, so I probably ended up catching them twice over. I used to pick native wildflowers from the woods, and bring them home to Mom, and, while they didn't rival the gorgeous zinnias, camellias and gladiola that my Dad had planted for her, she always made a place for them at the kitchen table. I can still remember the smell of the cedar shavings from the planks of board that Dad would plane down to make furniture in his workshop, and feel the softness of the tilled garden earth under my toes when I went to go pick tomatoes for the summer salads.

I've traded my youthful scenery with that of the ocean now. While the river water still flows in my brain, it's been joined with the saltiness of the sea. I can hear the sound of waves along the shore when I sleep and walk along the sand, watching the osprey fly off with their wriggling catch of bait fish and the flocks of pelican flying overhead. There's always motion, always activity, along the beach.

I love Florida and will never leave it willingly again. I'll travel the world, but I know now that Florida will always be my beloved place of being, for she and I have so much history.