I sit near an old well in the middle of the downtown plaza of St. Augustine. Although I’ve passed this well countless times in my eleven years of residence in this city, I don’t think I ever noticed it. It was just another decoration in a tourist laden downtown park. But now I pause long enough to give the well a second look. I read its bronze plaque – something I never do as a resident of this historic town. In days past the well belonged to the Spanish. Then it was buried and eventually rebuilt. The well’s plaque titles the structure “public well.” This name seems hollow and lacking for such a quaint little well. I prefer to think of it as a wishing well.
The well looks the way I always pictured a wishing well to look. It has a stately, weather-worn stone base. It has a tall angular wooden roof. Spanish moss and stray sticks and leaves litter the roof, making the well look like it belongs in a forest rather than this well-groomed, frequently visited plaza. An old wooden bucket suspended with rope hangs over the well.
Yet, as I approach the well I realize it falls short. I look into it and my daydreams are disappointed. The well does not contain a dark, bottomless opening. Instead, it is filled with dirt. The well’s mystique has been lost and it has blended into a dull reality. Now I merely see a picturesque monument to be enjoyed by tourists.
But then again, maybe not. As I take a last disappointed glance at the well’s shallow dirt bottom, I notice a penny. Maybe the penny fell there by accident or coincidence. But maybe someone else imagined the well was special. I see them closing their eyes, tossing in their penny, and making a wish. Only, they would have to plug their ears so they didn’t hear the anti-climactic thud as the penny hit the dirt. They could imagine the faint, hollow splash of the penny as it fell to the bottom.
Yet, the penny is not the only object I see. Next to the penny I see an old cigarette butt. Once again, I feel that my imaginings have been intruded upon and broken. I wonder who did it? A homeless person? A tourist? A college student? I run through all of the usual suspects in my head. Whoever it was must not have taken the time to dream about the well or even admire it. They did not respect the structure as an object of fleeting fancy or even as a “public well.” For them the word “public” must have been an invitation to carelessly trash the well. But I doubt they read the plaque at all.
As I step away and sit down again, I realize I now have an ideal view. The well is perfect. I cannot see its dirt bottom. I cannot see the penny lying there that never had a chance to reach the well’s true bottom. I cannot see the cigarette butt so carelessly left there. I cannot even see the plaque. Once again, the well is an enchanted structure from another time and place. It is no longer an illusion shattered. Rather, it is a wealth of possibilities.
I get up and turn to leave. Now I must stop daydreaming and return to my own reality of school and my job. My mind turns from its childish fantasy as I begin to think about the details of my day. Yet as I walk away, my thoughts briefly return to the well. I half-hope that I really could go back and buy a wish or two with my spare change.
