In the 1970s and early ’80s on Mallory Square, the late afternoon air smelled almost of anticipation, with a hint of salt water blown off the Gulf of Mexico. Across the harbor lay Christmas Tree Island, fringed with scrubby trees and ringed with a necklace of liveaboard sailboats at anchor.
On the crowded Key West pier, a kilted bagpiper paced with steady rhythm as he piped. A cat performed intricate tricks and leaps under the direction of an exuberant Frenchman. A thin sun-bronzed man sporting a long ponytail walked a tightrope, eliciting gasps and murmurs.
Guitar players, jewelry sellers and the beloved “Cookie Lady” — hawking baked goods from the basket of her bicycle — stood out against the crowd.
People were everywhere. Visitors and Key West locals, old and young, hippies and diamond-draped matrons, and small children practically vibrating with excitement were all gathered to sample the exotic banquet of faces, sights and sounds on the waterfront pier.
And I, a relative newcomer still awed by the color and character of the island that had claimed my heart, sat on a blanket attempting to sell creations made by my glassblower friend Mike Dennis. Sales were few, but that didn’t matter to me; I was just happy to be a small part of the nightly pageantry.
A few years before, in 1973, emerging entertainer Jimmy Buffett had released his now-classic song, “I Have Found Me a Home,” about Key West.
Early in his island sojourn, Buffett absorbed the vibe of the outpost at the tip of the Florida Keys — whose history embraced pirates and shipwreck salvors and rumrunners, and whose inhabitants over the years ranged from legendary playwright Tennessee Williams to roguish saloonkeeper Captain Tony Tarracino.
The song captured that vibe and that magic, communicating it in simple lyrics that evoked images of sunburned days, bike rides down ramshackle lanes, and the sights and scents of flowers so lush they hardly seemed real.
My first encounter with “I Have Found Me a Home” came shortly after my arrival in the late 1970s, as it wafted from an old record player in a hippie-style apartment on William Street. If I hadn’t already fallen head-over-heels in love with Key West, hearing that song would have done it.
I practically wore out the record, playing it over and over, absorbing the lyrics that perfectly described the island’s carefree lifestyle:
“The days drift by; they don’t have names;
And none of the streets here look the same
And there are so many quiet places
And smilin’ eyes match the smilin’ faces.”
Those smiles, and the genuine nature of Key West’s warmth and welcome, were particularly apparent at Mallory Square — where crowds of visitors, locals, street performers and vendors gathered each night, glorying in life as the sun sank toward the watery horizon.
On those evenings beside the harbor, the air was heady with the breath of humidity. Salt water and incense added to the musky perfume, while buskers performed improbable feats and mismatched guitar chords drifted out on the breeze.
When the sun finally went down, to the accompaniment of laughter and applause, most on the square felt a warm appreciation for the moment of magic they’d shared.
Maybe a few even felt, as I did as I packed up unsold glass creations, the sense of belonging that inspired Buffett’s chorus in his early ode to Key West:
“You can have the rest of everything I own
’cause I have found me a home …”
