This is the Way the Roses Grew (and a Daughter, too)

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During the month of May, our back courtyard is the site of a rose explosion.  First the red roses along the fence pop.  Then the pale pink climbers on the garage trellis follow suit.  Each year our family marvels.  We can’t believe these roses.  I’ve written about the evolution of the space behind our house from cement wasteland to cozy enclosed garden.  See Up From the Concrete, Roses.  When I looked back at the photos from that 2012 post, I was surprised to see just how much the roses have multiplied in three years. 

On the last Saturday in May we hosted a gathering and hit the weather just right.  The evening was pleasantly warm.  We were on the porch or in the courtyard from beginning to end, surrounded by roses.  Several friends asked how quickly they grew.  How long did it take the pink roses to reach the top of the trellis?  Seemed like two years, but I wasn’t sure.  So I looked back.  The changes were dramatic. 

This is the way the roses grew. 

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The porch addition, the courtyard and lawn panel, and the changes to the garage were completed in May 2009.  Most of the plantings were in just before Memorial Day.  The climbing roses, each shrub almost two feet in height, were planted at the sides of the garage and between the doors.  The above photo shows the porch without screens and the yard as yet unfenced. 

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Along the fence line, we alternated red rose bushes with taller nandina.  We didn’t realize then how quickly the roses would overtake the nandina. When the plants were first in, the transformation struck us as spectacular, a vision of instant lushness.  Six years later, we’ve grown more accustomed to our leafy flower-filled courtyard, and I’m amazed at how relatively bare it all was back then.  Hardly spectacular.  So much of the iron fence plainly visible, the unadorned white glare of the garage and the stark, naked trellis. 

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I also forgot how young our daughter was when we began the project.  In this picture, from July 2009, she was ten and just out of fourth grade.  Goodness, she looked like a little kid.  Maybe because she’s our only child, and we tend to talk to her more or less as we would an adult, she’s always seemed relatively mature. I’ve never wanted to rush her growing up, but I generally think of her as older than she is.  Yet on that summer morning in her PJs  six years ago, she sure looked like a ten year old, with little-girl bangs and short hair.  That was back when I still laid out her clothes every morning, when I could shop for her easily, when my mother would sew full-skirted Sunday dresses for her.  Back before pierced ears, make-up and high heels, before she developed her own unique sense of style, very different from mine.  Way before she needed a steady supply of long gowns for drama events and prom.  That was my little girl.  Wow. 

Kiko was nearly two.  With relief I note that he looks exactly the same now as he did then.  

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A year after planting, the climbing roses had nearly doubled in height, but were still a long way from reaching the trellis.  The vines were spindly and thin.  In this photo, taken in April 2010, our eleven-year old daughter models her classic (she would now call it old-fashioned and babyish) Easter dress. 

026By July of that year, the red rose bushes were considerably denser and as tall or taller than their neighboring nandina.  Our daughter, eating a homemade popsicle, wears the tie-dyed shirt she made for her fifth-grade production of Alice-in-Wonderland.  Her hair still slightly wet from the pool, she was a typical, somewhat scruffy rising sixth-grader.  I don’t remember it ever entering my mind that she was in an awkward stage.  Hindsight is bracingly clear-eyed.  Still, compared to the less than stellar preteen me  (with glasses that evoked the cartoon character Morocco Mole, braces and an unflattering short hair cut), my daughter at eleven was a personification of tween elegance and beauty.  Much like our roses during their pre-adolescence.

To be continued.  Next up:  Flowers and girl continue the climb. 

Flight of the Maple Seeds

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One sunny, breezy day last week I was out on our back patio talking with my mother on the phone.  There was a near-constant clatter as winged maple seed pods hit the gutters.  They drifted down on the porch steps and onto Kiko, who was sleeping peacefully on the top step.  Although the sound of the seed shower was far louder than rain, it didn’t phase him.  For some reason he didn’t associate it with the approach of his fearsome nemesis, the thunder creature.  See here and here.

I held the phone out so Mama could hear the clickety-clacking.  She asked if I remembered how the maple seeds rained down in such abundance every spring at my grandparents’ house.  I don’t exactly remember the flight of the maple seeds there, but I certainly remember the big old trees.  The enormous silver maples that frame our Virginia house were a major reason the place felt immediately like home.  See here. 

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That was about a week ago.  The seeds continue to fall, in greater numbers than I can recall.  There are many more yet hanging on; from the look of the branches, it would appear that none have fallen.  Yesterday evening my husband spent a while shoveling the thick coating of seeds off the driveway.  That hasn’t been necessary since we lived here. 

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If there are many more seeds than usual, is that bad or good, or of no consequence?  I haven’t been able to find a clear answer.  One online source suggested a larger seed output may be a reaction to stress.  Sending out more seeds is an effort toward ensuring the survival of the species.  Sort of a maple tree insurance policy.  I hope this doesn’t mean our last two old trees are singing their swan song.  It’s not only the maples in our yard that are overproducing; all those around us seem to be doing likewise.  Whatever the reason, it looks like the helicopters will continue to swirl through the air and pile up on the ground for a while yet. 

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The accumulation of the seed pods around the bases of the trees reminds me of the cicada spring of 2004.  See here. 

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The design of the maple seed pod–a delicately veined, elongated angel wing, and its flight–are among nature’s awesome little marvels.  I love it that in the concrete base of our front porch, towards the center, there is one perfect imprint of a maple seed pod.  Every spring it finds plenty of company. 

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It’s hard not to track the maple seeds into the house on our shoes.  To bring them inside in a more pleasant way, this year I painted a floorcloth that depicts the seasonal output of the trees.  There are  buds in various stages, including their first appearance as tiny nubs on bare winter branches.  Of course I included seed pods and silvery green leaves.  Because the floorcloth is in a heavily trafficked area in the kitchen, it usually wears its share of three-dimensional debris, maple and otherwise.  Art, like life, tends to be messy. 

Spring, Still Springing

002As the earth tilts toward the sun, spring’s carefully choreographed lineup continues, introducing beloved recurring players every day.  The second wave of cherry trees has peaked.  Sidewalks and lawns below are transformed into pink carpets. 

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Our redbud’s bright pink flowers are beginning to be edged out by the first of the tree’s yellow-green, heart-shaped leaves. 

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The mulch around the base of the tree is now pleasantly pink.  Periwinkle vines, hearty and fast-growing, seem to pop up overnight.

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Fluttery yellow blossoms decorate the small sassafras tree by my daughter’s rope swing.  Their lemony fragrance floats in the breeze. 

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Dogwood blossoms, like white lace against a dark green ground.

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Tulips, favorites of the deer, are rare in our neighborhood.  They flourish in a few center-of-town spots. 

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Our Japanese Maples, so recently bare, wear spiky clouds of brilliant, luminous red. 

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Azaleas, that staple of the Southern spring garden, are nearing their peak. 

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Rhododendron, up next. More spring favorites are waiting in the wings. 

An Old Lilac, Refreshed

Three years ago, I wrote about my disappointment when the old lilac bush in our front yard produced only one small bloom, high up at the very top.  The shrub had never been as prolific a bloomer as I had had hoped, but as long as I could remember, there had always been multiple blossoms.  It clearly needed some help.  Time for a garden intervention. 

Soon after that lonely little flower faded, my husband and I pruned away some of the older growth, some of the thicker, woodier stems.  The next year, there were a few more blooms.  We’ve repeated the pruning process every year since, with better results each time.  This spring, it makes me very happy to look out the window to more lilacs than ever.  As I sit at my desk, I can see them waving in the chilly breeze of this sunny April day.  The unusually cool weather has at least one advantage:  the lilacs may stay with us even longer. 

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 A bouquet of lilacs:  a beautiful air freshener. 

Lilacs tend to droop dramatically soon after cutting.  Once cut, their woody stems don’t absorb water well.  Here’s how to remedy this. 

Cut flowers early in morning when they’re well hydrated.  The sharper your clippers, the better.  Bring a container of water (lukewarm, with flower food added) outside with you and put the flowers in as soon as you cut them.  Remove leaves from the stems.  If you want to add foliage, cut extra stems of leaves only.  Once you’re ready to arrange the lilacs in a vase (again, lukewarm water, floral food added), make another cut in the stem.  Pound the stem with your clippers so that the last inch is almost crushed.  This allows better water absorption.  Flowers should stay looking fresh for five days or more. 

Uniquely Key West

I’d thought I was done with the Key West posts.  But then I remembered the manatee mailboxes, and the little blue truck that appears to have spent time on the ocean floor, the toothy back yard sculpture, and a few more oddities.  I saw these as I wandered the city’s quiet neighborhoods during our winter visit.  They’re among the many sights that evoke the quirky spirit and laid-back humor of this unique place.  

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On our walk home from Duval Street on New Year’s Eve, we passed this cast concrete postal manatee dressed to party. 

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A few streets away, on the first morning of 2015, another manatee mailbox balanced a Happy New Year beer can on its head. 

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In this shady front yard, a creature left over from Halloween, or a year-round ghost? 

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Gracing a white-columned porch, a Christmas wreath adorned with starfish, crabs and lobster.   

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No guard dogs needed for this gated compound.

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The “Don’t Dredge on Me!” truck, ornamented with all manner of sea creatures, some painted, some three-dimensional, for a diverting, barnacle-encrusted appearance.  It protests the proposed and hotly debated dredging of the Key West Harbor Channel for the purpose of allowing even larger cruise ships to dock. 

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In a classic Key West contrast, the truck, a sort of rolling folk art diorama, is parked in front of this neat white Gothic revival church.  The historic Cornish Memorial AME Zion Church, built in 1903, is named for the freed slave who started the church in 1864. 

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Something that does not belong in a post on the whimsical eccentricities of Key West is the Celebrity Constellation, pictured above, in port during our visit.  I include it here only in reference to the little truck that speaks out against harbor dredging.  Could there be a need for bigger cruise ships in Key West?  Isn’t this ship too big already?  Most locals dread the sight of thousands of cruise ship passengers descending regularly upon their island city.  But here’s what you’d think would make the proposal a certain no-go:  the Channel is located in the protected area of the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary.  It appears ludicrous to argue that dredging could be anything but harmful to marine life and water quality, although proponents  jump through hoops in attempts to minimize the impact.  While the city voted “No” last year to a feasibility study on dredging, the question is not yet completely settled.  May the message of the “Don’t Dredge on Me” truck be heard, loud and clear.  And heeded. 

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Perhaps as well-known as the Hemingway House cats, freely roaming roosters and chickens, and the art they inspire, are a common sight in Key West. 

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I’m not sure what the artist of this back yard assemblage intended, but I see a pitcher plant monster on legs of tree branches.  As Audrey II demanded in Little Shop of Horrors:  “Feed me, Seymour!”

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The Key West Airport is tiny and charming. On our next visit, we’ll be flying (not driving) in as well as out.   

Appalachian Jewels

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When I was a growing up, my parents and I rarely took real vacations.  If we traveled during school holidays, it was usually to visit family in Kentucky.  We never flew; that was another extravagance we didn’t consider.  I enjoyed the drive, which took about eight hours from our house in Atlanta.  I had the back seat of Daddy’s big station wagon to myself.  I read, slept, or best of all, gazed out the window for hours.  In the days before multi-lane freeways straightened the routes, cut through mountains and homogenized the views, the road passed through diverse landscapes.  It offered up-close glimpses of small town Main Street stores and all kinds of homes, from trailers to farmhouses to mansions.  I had no cool tech gadgets and no need for them.  There was a living landscape painting to observe: the quietly vital drama of the changing scenery. 

It was a pleasure to watch urban, then suburban Atlanta morph into Georgia countryside.  I loved the dramatic switchbacks through Tennessee as the two-lane road wound up Signal Mountain.  If we were going to celebrate Easter with my grandparents, time seemed to go backward.  We left full-blown spring in Atlanta, where the dogwoods and azaleas might be in bloom.  The Georgia landscape was awash in green, with a few budding hardwood trees interspersed among seas of pines.  Once in Kentucky, the hills were dressed primarily in drab shades of gray, brown and tan.  Most trees were still bare.  Here and there the cedars, scrappy and resilient, added splashes of dark green.  The only touches of real color were the rosy pinks of the redbuds.  These small, determined trees brave the cold and sound the trumpet call of the new season. 

So it is that redbud trees speak to me of home and family.  Six years ago, when we added our screened porch and created a real back yard, it was important to include a redbud tree.  The silver maples and lilacs were already there.  The redbud was our own addition to the landscape of home.   

I find all redbud trees beautiful, with their slender, graceful branches, bright buds and heart-shaped leaves.  But when we came upon a variety known as Appalachian Red, I knew that was the one for us.  Its buds are deep fuchsia in color instead of the more typical pink.  When they first appear, they resemble tiny, brilliant jewels.  They glow almost like pomegranate seeds.  I love that name, Appalachian Red.  Every time I say it in my mind I see the promise of spring in the straw-colored Kentucky hills of my childhood. 

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Our little Appalachian Red, in its cozy spot outside our family room window.

Local Blossoms, Too

We don’t have to drive to DC to see cherry blossoms.  We simply look out our windows.  Or go out on the screened porch.  Or walk down the street.   

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The views are not quite as grand and sweeping as in DC.   We have no national monuments in our neighborhood.  Only ordinary houses and cars.  We don’t have thousands of cherry trees.  But we do have quite a few, and they are, thankfully, easily accessible and simply waiting to be appreciated. 

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The short-lived blooming season is nearly over for trees of the pale pink Yoshino variety.  Clouds of delicate petals swirl in the air with every breeze and float down to dot the greening grass like snow.  As my neighbor drives past my window, her car appears to be covered in confetti. 

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But cherry blossom time continues, as the darker pink Kwanzan variety trees are now beginning to bloom.  To follow in the lineup are the other faithful superstars of spring:  the dogwoods, lilacs, azaleas, peonies and roses.  They’re patiently waiting in the wings, rehearsing their parts, listening for cues.  They’ll play their roles with charisma, dignity and flair.  And when their brief sensational season ends, they’ll be quietly, diligently preparing for next year’s show.  How reassuring. 

Cherry Blossom Time in DC

Throughout the DC area, the blooming of the cherry trees in our nation’s capital is a much-discussed topic beginning in late February or so.  Will the bloom coincide with the actual Cherry Blossom Festival?  Usually not, but there is always hope.  Over 3,000 trees, a gift from Tokyo during the Taft administration in 1912, border the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial.  At their fleeting, elusive peak, they are a truly remarkable sight. 

It’s a sight I can’t recall seeing at close range during the nearly seventeen years we’ve lived in Northern Virginia.  My husband says we were there once pushing our new baby in a stroller, but I have no recollection of the visit and no photos to prove it.  Our daughter certainly has no memory of it.  Once, on our way to Atlanta for Easter, she and I saw the pink fluffy trees as our plane followed the line of the Potomac on takeoff.  In the spring of 2008 we were at the Tidal Basin, with our daughter and puppy, about ten days too late, as the photo below shows.  001 This past weekend, the trees were at peak bloom.  After a winter that threatened never to end, the weather was almost unbelievably perfect.  Sunny, warm, slightly breezy.  Not hot.  The ideal time to go blossom watching.  Ideal, at least, in a less populated world.  When I suggested a jaunt into DC, our daughter was enthusiastic.  But my husband groaned as though he were suffering grievous injury.  He had taxes to finish, yard work to do, work emails to face.  Traffic would be beyond horrendous.  And it was our first chance all year to relax in the comfort of our back terrace.  

I didn’t press the matter.  I agreed with his traffic prediction.  We live eighteen miles from DC.  Once, when we drove in during the early hours of Thanksgiving morning, it took us a mere twenty minutes.  More typically, it means creeping along for an hour or more on I-66 or the George Washington Parkway.  The Metro should be the obvious choice, but parking at the station, especially during cherry blossom season, is problematic at best.  Better to stay home. 

Around mid-morning we were all in the car, about to run some necessary errands, when H suggested a sudden change in plans: he could drop D and me off on the Arlington side of the river.  Maybe he’d been thinking about what a wonderful, understanding wife I am and how I didn’t protest when he flew off to Aruba over Valentine’s Day.  “I know what the trees look like,” he said, “but since you two like to look at pretty stuff, I’ll drive you.  We’ve gotta go right now, though, because the traffic will be really bad this afternoon.” 

My daughter and I didn’t need further persuasion.  I dashed back inside to get Kiko.  Walking through a beautiful landscape is not quite complete for me without my little dog.  (H and D, however, disagree.  They have a lower tolerance for Kiko’s habit of constantly pausing to smell every twig and blade of grass.)  Kiko had just settled down to nap.  He was lying on the playroom floor looking pathetic, his front paws tucked up under him, like this. 

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The dog appeared stunned when I popped back so quickly and asked his favorite question, Wanna take a ride?   It took him a moment, but he roused himself and stretched.  Oh yes, he’d gladly take a ride.    

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My husband dropped us off just before the Arlington Memorial Bridge.  He headed to Crystal City where he could take care of errands and avoid the crowds of cars and pedestrians.   

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And then, there they were, those justifiably famous cherry trees.  They resemble puffs of pale pink cotton candy sprinkled among the white marble monuments.  Or paper trees in the magic crystal kit my daughter discovered in her Easter basket one year.  Almost too pretty to be real, especially when set against a baby blue sky and reflected in the water.  Worth enduring the slow-moving throngs.  Perhaps even more often than every seventeen years.      

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Casa Marina in Key West: Flagler’s House by the Sea

 

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Casa Marina, one of Key West’s loveliest resorts, combines the best of old and new.  It’s located in a quiet section of the island’s south shore, a fifteen minute walk to the heart of Duval Street.  Like several of Florida’s grandest old hotels, Casa Marina owes its existence to Henry Flagler.  Flagler, a truly self-made man who dropped out of school at age fourteen to work in a grain store, became a partner in Standard Oil with John D. Rockefeller and a wizard who worked his magic in railroads and hotels.  Nearly all Florida tourism, and much of Florida as we know it today, in fact, owes a huge debt to Flagler.  

Honeymooning with his second wife in St. Augustine in 1883, he was enchanted by the area’s beauty but dismayed by its lack of decent hotels and infrastructure.  He built the city’s first major hotel,  the Ponce de Leon (now Flagler College), bought a local railroad line and soon began extending it south towards Miami.  Along the way he built more hotels, including two in Palm Beach:  the enormous Royal Poinciana and The Palm Beach Inn (later renamed The Breakers).  Flagler’s own mansion, Whitehall, built in Palm Beach in 1902, is now the Flagler Museum.

Before long, Flagler set his sights on extending his Florida East Coast Railroad over open water to Key West, which was then the state’s largest city and a busy port.  By 1905, construction had begun on his Overseas Railroad, a project so unlikely that it was often referred to as “Flagler’s Folly.”  The extension was beset with countless construction difficulties and devastating weather events, including two hurricanes.  Flagler persevered, and the Overseas Railroad was completed in January of 1912, when Flagler was in his 80s and a much-admired figure.  He was greeted with great fanfare by cheering crowds when he arrived in Key West in his own private railcar.  He died a year and a half later, from injuries sustained in a fall on the stairs at Whitehall. 

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Flagler planned Casa Marina to be the southernmost pearl in his string of luxurious Florida hotels.  He enlisted his favorite architects, Carrere and Hastings, whose designs had included the New York Public Library, the Hotel Ponce de Leon and his own home, Whitehall.  Flagler died before construction began, but the architects held true to his vision for his “House by the Sea.” When the hotel opened on New Year’s Eve of 1920, it became Key West’s swankiest destination.  The arrival of President Warren G. Harding a few days later further enhanced its reputation as the place to be.   

Flagler’s original building was extended with flanking wings during the 70s and 80s.  While these don’t measure up to the quality and style of the central older section, a recent renovation has eliminated many of the less attractive features of earlier piecemeal restorations.  The resort may be now, more than ever since it’s 1920 opening, attuned to Flagler’s concept.  Its Spanish Colonial style is classic and stately rather than opulent.  This is no garishly gilded palace plopped down in an unlikely beach setting.  Its creamy white exterior gives it the look of a well-planned, red tile-roofed sandcastle.  On the water side, a deep, high-ceilinged arcade offers a gracious welcome.  

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The crest above the center door that leads out toward the beach is said to represent Flagler’s Key to Sunshine.  If you want to avoid warm, sunny weather, by all means stay away from Key West. 

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The arcade looks out to the Atlantic. 

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A water walk bordered by reflecting pools and palm trees leads to the beach and separates the resort’s two large swimming pools. 

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Talented sand artists create seasonal masterpieces at the Casa Marina.  While we were there, Bumble the Abominable from Rudolf set the star atop the Christmas tree.  In the words of Yukon Cornelius, “Looky what he can do!”

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This sandcastle that could have been lifted from of a Maxfield Parrish painting served as marriage proposal. We hope Jessica said yes. 

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Casa Marina has one of the largest private beaches in Key West. 

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Beside the hotel’s main entrance off Reynolds Street stands a Seward Johnson bronze of a bellman taking a cigarette break. 

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Upon our return from Duval Street on New Year’s Eve, our daughter adorned the bellman with a celebratory tiara. 

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Can we go back yet?  Seems like it’s time. 

Hemingway Havens in Key West

Our family is unintentionally following Hemingway’s footsteps in our recent vacations.  Last year in Paris, our favorite café looked toward the author’s first French bare-bones apartment on Place Contrescarpe.  During our winter trip to Key West, we found ourselves firmly in Hemingway country again. 

The writer and his second wife Pauline arrived in Key West from Paris via Havana in 1928.  They hadn’t planned to linger, but the new car that Pauline’s wealthy uncle had bought for them was late in arriving.  The couple moved into an apartment above the Ford dealership while they waited for their car.  During the three weeks they spent there, Hemingway finished A Farewell to Arms, and both he and Pauline fell in love with Key West.

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In 1931, they decided to settle on the island.  Pauline’s generous Uncle Gus (doesn’t everyone need an Uncle Gus?) purchased a spacious and beautiful but dilapidated home for them.  The Spanish Colonial style villa on Whitehead Street dates from 1851.  It was built by Asa Tift, owner of a shipwreck salvaging operation.   (The nearby Key West Shipwreck Museum tells the story of the city’s lucrative salvage industry.) The Hemingways renovated the home extensively and lived there with their two young sons until 1940.   

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Deep, airy porches and tall windows provide shade and ventilation in the tropical climate. 

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Hemingway’s large swimming pool is as well-known as his house.  The pool, the very first in Key West and within 100 miles, dates from 1937-38.  At the time, Hemingway was in Spain reporting on the Spanish Civil War.  Pauline supervised the construction, a mammoth and hugely expensive operation that involved digging through solid coral.  During the 1930s, when Key West lacked a city-wide system of fresh water, the pool was filled with salt water piped in from the water table.  It took several days to fill, and because the salt water was prone to algae growth, the pool had to be regularly drained and refilled, a laborious process. 

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These days the most well-known residents of the Hemingway property are the fifty or so pampered polydactyl cats that roam the grounds and lounge on the furniture. A typical cat has five toes on each front paw and four on each back paw.  Polydactyls have six or more on each front paw and may have additional toes on each back paw.  The Key West felines are said to be descendants of Snow White, a polydactyl cat given to Hemingway by a ship captain.  Polydactyls were popular as ship cats because sailors considered them to bring good luck. 

At feeding time at the Hemingway house, the cats head to the garden terrace in droves, providing a good opportunity to see their wide variety of toes.  Some appear to be wearing mittens because of an additional toe. 

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In the pavement near the garden, concrete proof of extra toes.

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This tabby struck me as macho tough guy (perhaps in the Hemingway mold) but my daughter found him to be a sweetheart. 

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This cat has claimed a comfy spot on the hassock of a chair in Hemingway’s writing studio above the garage. 

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Another signature Key West attraction associated with Hemingway is Sloppy Joe’s Bar, originally owned and operated by Joe Russell, who became a close friend and fishing buddy of the author.  Hemingway began patronizing Russell’s speakeasy during Prohibition.  In the photo above, preparations are underway for the New Year’s Eve midnight conch drop. 

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When Joe Russell’s bar officially opened on Greene Street in 1933, it was known as the Blind Pig.  With the addition of a small dance floor, it became the Silver Slipper.  Hemingway, who had frequented a bar in Havana known as Sloppy Joe’s, was instrumental in the final name change.  A rent increase that Russell refused to pay prompted a sudden change of location in 1937 to its current spot on Duval Street.  Russell and his customers were said to have carried drinks and furniture down the street to a vacant bar in the middle of the night, with service never ceasing.  The original building above, which dates from 1851, first housed an ice house and morgue.  It became Captain Tony’s Saloon in 1958.  A young Jimmy Buffet played there often in the 70s.  (The bar and its owner Tony Tarracino, a former Key West mayor, are the subject of Buffet’s song The Last Mango in Paris.)

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The outdoor courtyard of the Blue Heaven Restaurant and Bar on Thomas Street marks the location of the boxing ring where Hemingway refereed matches. Originally located in the back yard of the author’s home, it was moved when the pool was built.  During high season, the wait will be long to eat outside under the old trees of the merrily lighted courtyard.  We waited, and it was worth it.  Live music, a friendly, celebratory atmosphere, wandering roosters and cats, great seafood and Key Lime pie make a meal at Blue Heaven one of the quintessential Key West experiences. 

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A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.