Smith - A Land Remembered

A Land Remembered

A Land Remembered

Patrick D. Smith

Pineapple Press, Inc.

Sarasota, Florida

Copyright 1984, 2012 by Patrick D. Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Pineapple Press, Inc.

P.O. Box 3889

Sarasota, Florida 34230

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Smith, Patrick D., 1927

A land remembered.

1. Title

PS3569.M53785L3 1984 813.54 84-12098

ISBN 978-0-910923-12-5 (hb: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-1-56164-116-1 (pb: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-1-56164-539-7 (e-book)

Hb: 45 44 43 42 41 40 39 38

Pb: 40 39 38 37 36 35 34 33

Printed in the United States of America

To the grandchildren

Dan, Kimberly, Joshua and Matthew

with love from Grampy

A Land Remembered

MIAMI, FLORIDA

1968

The silver Rolls-Royce glided off Key Biscayne as smoothly as a dolphin cutting the green water of the bay. Solomon MacIvey sat on the back seat, staring intensely at each house they passed, at the spotlessly manicured lawns, as if seeing these things for the first and last time. As they neared the causeway he muttered, For what this one island is worth today my pappa could have bought the whole damned state back in eighteen eighty-three when I was born. Folks has gone as crazy as betsybugs.

Thats right, Mister MacIvey, the driver agreed. They all gone plumb crazy.

When they came to a park bordered by stately royal palms the old man squinted his tired eyes at the entrance sign: Solomon MacIvey Park. Then he leaned forward, shook the drivers shoulder and said, You see that, Arthur? Bought that fifteen acres back in oh-nine for forty-seven dollars and fifty cents. Can you imagine it? And some folks thought Id been skinned for paying that much. Bet not one damned soul who uses the park can say who Solomon MacIvey is or could care less. Probably cuss me as some empire-building bastard who stole everybody blind back in the old days and then gave this park to salve his conscience.

The black driver nodded in agreement as he turned from the Rickenbacker Causeway and headed up Brickell Avenue. You sure you want to go through with this, Mister MacIvey? he asked, knowing what the answer would be but feeling he should ask again for the last time. I could turn around and go back right now if youll change your mind.

Ill not change my mind, MacIvey grunted, and therell be no turning back. I dont want to see that big house again. Not ever! Not a single MacIvey died in a fancy place like that, and Im damned if Ill be the first. Well go to Punta Rassa as planned, but first I want you to drive up Miami Beach. I want to see it one more time.

Yes, sir, Mister MacIvey. Ill turn across the MacArthur Causeway.

As they crossed the causeway they could see cruise ships making their way into the port, their masts decorated gaily with multi-colored banners. Then the Rolls turned left onto Collins Avenue and moved slowly up South Miami Beach.

The streets here were lined with shabby, rundown apartments and hotels, porches filled with old people sitting in cane-bottom chairs, staring at nothing, some asleep and others perhaps even dead and as yet unnoticed, men and women who had retired from the harsh climate of the North and ended up trapped in the rococo world of South Miami Beach.

It aint nothing but a walking cemetery, MacIvey said, staring through heat waves that already drifted up from sultry sidewalks. Should be turned back to the gulls and terns.

As they continued up Collins Avenue it suddenly changed, as if a boundary line had been drawn across the island, the beach now lined with majestic hotels, one after the other, interspersed with towering condominiums, a concrete and glass canyon blocking the view of the ocean except for those willing to pay to see it from a balcony.

And then they came to the La Florida Hotel, sitting like a stuffed frog, rising boastfully above all of them, thirty stories, with the letters MCI blazened across its top. The old man said, I hope someday the son of a bitch gets blown down. I should a never built it in the first place.

From this point north the avenue was lined with motels and cocktail lounges and fast food emporiums and souvenir stores with their display windows stuffed with junk, some of it authentic Florida souvenirs made in Hong Kong.

MacIvey then said, Thats enough, Arthur. Id rather try to remember it like it was when I first saw it. Get us off of here at the very next exit.

The driver turned left onto the Julia Tuttle Causeway leading to the mainland. The old man said, You know who Julia Tuttle was, Arthur?

No, sir, I sure dont.

Hell, I do! My mamma visited with her first time we came here in eighteen ninety-five, a few months after the big freeze. She lived in a part of old Fort Dallas. I think Mamma and her had tea together, or maybe it was fruit juice. When the freeze killed everything in Florida except for here, Julia Tuttle sent old man Flagler some orange blossoms up to Palm Beach, just to show him they were still blooming at Fort Dallas. And thats how come he ran his railroad on down to Miami, cause the freeze didnt kill the orange trees. Mamma liked her, but she never got to see her again. And Ill bet ole Julia Tuttle would throw a tissy fit if she could see what this causeway leads to now. Shed probably want her name off of it.

They turned left again at the mainland, cruising down Biscayne Boulevard, its northern section jammed with more motels and junk food shops, service stations, massage parlors, porno movies, bars, adult book stores, the sidewalks empty in the early morning sun but teeming at night with prostitutes and junkies and winos and professional muggers. Then they came into the downtown business section of Miami, passing the MacIvey State Bank Building with the letters MCI across the front entrance, then Bayfront Park with more winos and junkies and panhandlers and muggers.

The driver slowed and said, What you want me to do now, Mister MacIvey, head out Highway Forty-one?

Not quite yet, he responded. Before we leave I want to see one more thing. I want you to drive through the area where they had the riot.

What? the driver questioned, not sure he had heard right. How come you want to do that? Ive heard its not all over yet.

Dammit, you heard me, Arthur! the old man snapped. I want to see! Drive through there!

Yes, sir, Mister MacIvey, he responded, shaking his head in disagreement but following orders.

He turned left at the next intersection and followed another boulevard, and soon they came to an area of gutted buildings, boarded-up storefronts and burned automobiles not yet removed from the streets. People standing idly along sidewalks stared with hostility as the Rolls ambled by.

They did a pretty good job of it, MacIvey commented as they moved out of the area. But this isnt the end of it. You mark my words, Arthur, therell be more, and the next one will be even worse. You bring this many different kinds of people together its like throwing wolves and panthers into a pen full of cows. The fur never stops flying.

As they moved slowly through the congested traffic of the lower Tamiami Trail, the old man shook the drivers shoulder again and said, You know, Arthur, I dont know why some folks was so shocked by the riot. Hell, this whole state was born of violence. You cant go anywhere without stepping on the skull of some man or animal that was killed. The whole damned place is littered with bones.