| Remembering Pensacola, 1945 |
| |
| "A little backward town," my mother said. |
| "Never heard of yogurt . . . avocados." |
| So she boiled shrimp, fried snapper throats instead. |
| Across the rattling wooden bridge there rose |
| one lone casino—Spanish-style—ahead. |
| We inner-tubed the surf . . . salt water in my nose! |
| Lone beaches the rule—a shell hunter's bliss; |
| but, if elsewhere, oh, those sand spurs could kiss! |
| |
| From water 99 and 44/ |
| 100ths percent pure, Spearman brewed beer. |
| Dirt "O" Street sprouted juke joints galore, |
| and sailors had somewhere to tipple cheer. |
| Catch a show at the Saenger, Rex, or |
| Isis, or Gulf. No drive-in movies here. |
| No Sherman Field. No air conditioner. |
| Vegetable trucks and ice men deliver. |
| |
| And legends! Old tunnels from fort to fort . . . |
| brick fences to keep mosquitoes away. . . . |
| Then, pelicans perched on wharves at the port, |
| and porpoise schools played all across the bay. |
| Small town—not yet time for de Luna's court. |
| But the old milk bottle came down one day— |
| What! Had the milk finally clabbered? No, wait, |
| we gotta make room for an Interstate. |
| |
| No Monsanto then. No steam engines now. |
| "A Thinking Fellow Rides the Yellow," Rand |
| taxis read. You could get stuck, anyhow, |
| on those unpaved roads. But Tater Town sand |
| spawned PJC. A garbage dump somehow |
| became a fine shopping mall. Back then land |
| was dirt cheap . . . not a hundred an acre! |
| Want to get rich? Turn back the calendar. |
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| (Copyright © 2001) |
Previously published in
Emerald Coast Review
The Third Annual Collection, 1991 |
