Our affection for St. Petersburg, Florida, began in September 1995 as my husband and I settled into a garden apartment on a bayou by Tampa Bay.
Wrenching as the move was from New York - leaving family and friends behind - from the beginning our stretch of Florida near the Gulf of Mexico commanded our attention for all the right reasons.
Never mind the oddball news headlines crawling across the internet that cackle, "Floriduh!" Strange things happen in a state that draws people from every corner of the country and globe: (The luckless parachutist who landed in the middle of a mud-wrestling tournament at a mid-state bar is a prime example. )
"Awkward," you mumble as you scroll such news. Life goes on.
And what life! Nature is in charge. Every day. Clouds so towering I call them Florida's Alps; flowers so brilliant in color they gleam; birds of every luxurious ilk.
And, where else but Florida can you stand cheek to jowl in a crowd to watch spacecraft blast off on missions that may change the course of human history; all the while feeling the power of such hopeful technology rumble under your feet.
We even watched the plumb rise across the state from our dock.
In honor of our 20 years, I invite you to click a link below to hear a poem reflecting the natural fascination I felt - and still do - with the quirky, beautiful place. You can read one poem that has remained true ever since it was written.
Wound Management Division August 1997
Saturday
by Reggie Morrisey, 1997
“Morning!"
"Morning."
Or a silent smile
on the winding paths of North Shore Park.
A pool crowd roars at butterfly trials
as flocks of cyclists weave and dart.
"Morning!"
"Morning."
Or a jogger's huff
where sea gulls,
egrets, and small planes rise.
Where pelicans brood over Coffee Pot
and bank like DC9's.
"Morning!"
"Good Day."
"Your baby came!"
As newborn palms on the sandy beach.
As Dalmatians, retrievers, and terriers strain
against the longest leash.
Dolphins rule a swirling school.
All high-wire abacus chirp and spy.
Our soaring spirits mount the sky
on shafts of sun lighting Tampa Bay.
Pass the cast of a net,
the snap of a rod,
kites flung aloft over rolling blades.
Palatial Vinoy and marina in sight,
museums and pier mere moments away.
Pass still, benched locals whose sighs observe,
"Same old, same old Saint Petersburg."
Florida Alps in Looking East by Vincent Mancuso