How do we capture experiences? Sights, sounds, smells? How does the crunch of coquina underfoot translate into words?
For a young boy growing up on Ponte Vedra Boulevard a mile and a quarter south of the Club, those questions began forming in my mind in 1970, about the time I first recognized it was Mr. Veal dressed as Santa on top of the old PV Volunteer Fire Department Fire Truck who was tossing candy to us kids as the slow whirl of the engine's siren announced the event in front of the original service station across and down a bit from the old Surf Club. It was Christmas in PV and anticipation was high. Two months earlier our family had moved into the house our father, Byron had designed and built for the five of us on lot 10, block 20. The lot had been given to him as a wedding present in the late ’50s by his parents, Gene and Nell. It was the last of 10 original lots our grandfather had along block 20, with the ninth being the lot next door given to our uncle as his wedding present years earlier.
Uncle Warren never built on his lot and that, when combined with the Landrum’s empty lot next to it, made a wide expanse south of us to Roy and Alice’s, and on the other side of them, a lot or two, was Mrs. Williams. This stretch along the lagoon in the 1940s was a Coast Guard dog-training run that was set up by locals and was mostly sand-spur covered tailings left over from the rutile excavations that created the lagoons in the first place.
In 1970, we could stand on the east bank of the lagoon and, looking west across Rutile Drive, we could see all the way to the A1A bypass, and there wasn’t a single house in sight. South of Corona Road/Palm Valley Road, there was nothing but wilderness marsh, and the original inlet sat mothballed waiting for better times.
Dad’s architecture was of the modern school as taught by the University of Florida, where he graduated before entering OCS in New Port before Naval Station Kodiak, where my older brother Eric was born, and Naval Station Key West where I was born only five months before the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Dad’s architectural style contained a heavy dose of California Eckler and reflected the Jacksonville style of Reynolds, Smith and Hills where Dad onboarded after the Navy when our younger brother Scott was born. It was a stark contrast to the Stockton style of 1982 San Marco Place along Marco Lake in Jacksonville where Dad had grown up and where our grandparents lived.
During the summer of 1970, as the modern block walls of our yet-to-be landmark house were being set, Mr. Christopher who lived with his wife on the beach across the street in an old Coast Guard built house, wandered over one day and ask what was being built. Dad in his work clothes and looking every bit the character of a craftsman, answered without a second thought of how it might come across, “A 7-11,” he said.
Poor Mr. Christopher didn’t know what to think, Dad would later say. Dumbfounded, he almost stumbled crossing the boulevard to his place and within an hour word had spread that a 7-Eleven was being built on the boulevard, which actually solicited calls to Roy Landrum to check it out and Muriel Harrison at the Club being forced to personally quell fears that somehow the community had sold out.
Roy told Dad that afternoon, “Welcome to Ponte Vedra.”
Christmas 1970 was the first of many for us. The lighting of the Christmas tree was an enigmatic and magical experience. A week or so before the community event, John and Sam used John’s longboat to pull the tree raft out into the center of Lake Vedra and anchor it. The electrical juice was cabled underwater and weighted on the bottom with concrete blocks. For a few days the tree sat quietly alone in the center of the lake. As newcomers, we didn’t know what to think or what was ahead. A tree in the middle of the lagoon. It didn’t look too festive. And at night, the yet to be lit tree disappeared entirely. The event was getting closer by the hour.
Preparation for the lighting ceremony was as much a celebration as the evening itself. The day before and that afternoon, the Club brought over tables, chairs and Christmas lights with bulbs as big as mangos when held with small hand. These were not the everyday type of lights you’d see for home use. These bulbs had history. For years they had been used for this one purpose, this one event, this one evening of bringing together the Ponte Vedra Community Association and the Ponte Vedra Club in a celebration of this special place of all places.
This was the time of year when the summer visitors had long disappeared and only the very seasoned would celebrate with the year-round residents. They would all be there. The entire community.
For the young in the group, that one evening of the year was pure magic. We would be under the eye of the youth director as well as every mom in the group. Our parents would mingle, marvel, and enjoy each other’s company in a fashion that signaled nothing short of gratitude.
Christmas 1970 was a very special year.
John Veal was in charge of the tree lighting. It was just dark enough but still light enough to see the tree. The lights in the houses around the lagoon were all out or curtains were drawn. The lights on the lagoon side of the inn were out and for a very short time, only the Christmas lights around the tables created a back-of-house feel in a darkened community,
The countdown began as everyone started moving in the direction of the bank looking east towards the lagoon.
“10, 9, 8,” the count began. Kids stopped playing, adults stopped talking. “7, 6, 5,” all eyes towards the dark center of the lake. “4, 3, 2,” Christmas was now only seconds away.
When the count hit one and John Veal did his magic, the tree in the center of Lake Vedra shimmered to life, casting reflections across the dark waters in every direction. Everyone cheered.
Reds, yellows, greens, oranges and purple speckles skipped across the water as voices spontaneously followed the well-prepared Christmas carols and itinerary printed by the Club to commemorate the evening.
“Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas tree, How lovely are your branches!” everyone sang.
The jonboat was now back on shore and Mr. Veal admitted he ran into a glitch and almost didn’t get the lights on and lit in time, but in typical PV fashion, everything went off without a hitch. The party continued for some time and slowly, one-by-one, the numbers began to dwindle and lights in the surrounding houses could be seen coming on and across the lake and the inn and the surrounding buildings began to light up.
It was the first night of the winter season and we wouldn’t see much activity at the Surf Club until late March or early April. Winter in PV drew a different type of guest. Chicago, New York, St. Louis, Cincinnati and Columbus would all winter down for these months. The Beaches were windy and the waves brought fossils and other treasures tumbling in on the tides.
It was a different time, but in so many ways, such a similar place. It was simply Ponte Vedra — PV for short. Or if you were one of the few who lived it, like some reading these words, it was home.
