Capturing History, Before It’s Gone.

Ingraham Highway, Cocoanut Grove, 1880's

Return to Wainwright (Park) P. Crockett

Some

of my greatest adventures happen when I venture outside intothe world armed with my easel, palette, and paintbrush.Several years back I came across this wonderful wreck of an old CoconutGrove home on a corner of increasingly busy Tigertail Avenue, and felt

immediately drawn to paint there. I loved it all the more because it soobviously didn't belong among the new "nouveaux" McMansionspopping up like some regrettable fungus, everywhere. Its state of "wildgrace" spoke volumes about what the Grove had once been, and wasnow being lost, a little bit and everyday, forever. The year was 1993.I thought the place deserted, but it was not.The painting is called

"Welcome to the Peacock Inn,"

and here's why. Inthe middle of my second session, an old man as disheveled and inspiredas the ground he walked upon suddenly appeared out of nowhere, only afew feet away, a large square bandage covering his nose and big 'olshotgun at the ready. He stood his ground, glaring at me menacingly."This is a first," I thought, my heart pounding like a drum. I raised thepaintbrush in my hand and said something like "Don't shoot, I'm only an artist."He immediately responded, "Don't be alarmed. I just carry the weaponfor self-protection," and proceeded to approach and graciously introduced himself. "Sorry about that," he offered, "I didn't mean tomake you nervous." "No, it's all right. I understand," I told him, knowing

the neighborhood, and also feeling grateful that I would apparently havemore time to live!And so we fell in to conversation. Despite the awkward introduction, heturned out to be a dear old man with a big heart, heavy laden withmemories. As my Grandfather used to say, "his best days were behindhim." And he knew it. He asked if I'd like an iced tea and the day wasindeed still and hot, and I said I would very much, thank you, and wetalked for a while before he courteously excused himself so that I mightonce again proceed with my painting, in earnest.I have always loved old people, and the way they have time for you, andthe way they can sometimes feel on fire to pass along incandescentmemories of a once-golden horizon now grown small, and cold. Thisman, now my host, relished an opportunity to speak with a much morerecent Miami native about the "old Grove," and to explain how differentthings used to be. As it turns out, he and his wife of many, many yearslived in a small house toward the back of the jungled property, with fartoo many cats. His wife was "a Peacock," he explained, meaning amember of one of the earliest and most prominent pioneer families tohave undertaken the task of "settling" the wild, heavily forested slice of land along Biscayne Bay they came to call Cocoanut Grove.

Stranahan Hammock P. Crockett 2004

Before the City of Miami even existed, pioneer Charles Peacock, recently arrived from England along with his wife Isabella and their three sons,settled in Coconut Grove and in 1882 opened the Bay View House, latercalled the Peacock Inn, the first hotel in the area. Set in an absolutely