The Unmistakeable Smell of Mud

View from the window: tide marsh with cardinal

When we left for Florida, it was minus twelve. When we came back, it was minus twelve. 

In between these two low points, we had a lot of fun.

St Augustine is an interesting place. It's a living city version of one of those exposed cliff faces where every layer accounts for an age in geologic time. 

The Spanish colony of St. Augustine was founded in 1565.

Since then the historical strata in St Augustine show: 

• the three-hundred-plus-year-old fort Castillo San Marcos 

• the reconstituted historic old town from the 17th and 18th centuries

• the vestiges of the American revolution 

• the repurposed monolithic architecture from the age of the great American railroads

• the markers scattered throughout the town recalling the struggle for human rights

• the living reminders of the hippie movement at local watering holes 

The small badge says: "Horn Broken, watch for finger"

• and, in the most up-to-the-minute layer, the touristification of all of the above, so that slaughter, warfare, thievery, economic imperialism, slavery, environmental destruction and oppression are all branded as entertainment for children and summed up in the cheerful amplified narration of the tourist train drivers.

Bruce and our gracious host Ed demonstrate the fun of working on a road gang. And Ripley puts its spin on the death of 300 French soldiers at the hands of (the desperate and starving) Spanish.

Since we've been home, the only thing I have had trouble believing was that it was ever going to be warm again.

But, two days ago as I walked across the Allan gardens on my way home, there was the unmistakeable smell of mud, a sure sign of spring.

Molly's next-to-penultimate post can be found here.

Thanks for reading!

Karen