Misc. biographical newspaper articles, Baker County, Florida File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by La Viece Smallwood (no email address), through Carl Mobley (cmobley@magicnet.net). USGENWEB NOTICE: In keeping with our policy of providing free information on the Internet, data may be used by non-commercial entities, as long as this message remains on all copied material. These electronic pages cannot be reproduced in any format for profit or other presentation. This file may not be removed from this server or altered in any way for placement on another server without the consent of the State and USGenWeb Project coordinators and the contributor. *********************************************************************** La Viece Smallwood ------------------------------------------------------------ The following are some of the articles written by La Viece (Moore-Fraser) Smallwood, Author, Poet, and Genealogist. The articles were published in The Baker County Press, The Baker County Standard or The Florida Times Union Contents: * Profile - Mamie Mae Burnsed * Claude Scoles * Myrtie Rowe remembers Macclenny years ago * Dr. John Holt A man of endless talents... * Miss Ida - Legacy Of Midwifery To Gospel Tunes * Profile - Lacy Richardson - Keeping that 'ole time' tradition * Profile - Verdie and Dewey Fish - Pioneers that made do..... * The Talents of 'Abbie' Cook..... * Moniac native learned of Christmas a bit late.... * Brothers keep time at a distance * Lawton and Essie Conner * A long road of hard work - Sammy Walker * Old Macclenny was a 'moving' thing for Gilberts * Almost a century of Baker memories - Annie Mae Combs (in file 2/2) * There was no special welcome for this Baker County hero - Edgar kirkland (in file 2/2) * A lifetime of helping - Sippie Hartenstine's still going strong (in file 2/2) * John D. McCormick (in file 2/2) * John Calhoun & Bertha Mae Bennett Crawford Family (in file 2/2) * Fay & Harold Milton (in file 2/2) * Hardy & Carrie Hogan Rhoden (in file 2/2) * The ' good ol' days' bring fond memories for Elva Dinkins (in file 2/2) _____________________________________________________________________________ Main Street Sanderson's Her Beat Profile-Mamie Mae Burnsed By LaViece Smallwood Mamie Mae Burnsed has lived on the main street of Sanderson most of her life, watching people come and go as well as the years that have changed them. "People used to stop and talk; now everyone's in such a hurry," she said from her home located on the main thoroughfare. Sanderson used to be especially busy on Saturdays," she continued. "Most folks had to walk to town for their weekly groceries or mail. Some had horse and wagons. It was an all day affair with most families. Everyone was so glad to visit and catch up on the news. Now they just drive up in their cars, rush in for their groceries or mail and drive right off, always in a rush. Use to they'd linger for awhile." Mamie was born to Baker County natives, Emma Fraser and George Washington Burnsed on September 17, 1899, who were living in Bradford county at the time. "My dad was working there at a saw mill," she said. "We were poor but we didn't suffer. We had the things we needed." Living in what she termed a shackey house, heated by a fireplace with an old wood cook stove, the family decided to move to Green Cove Springs for a better job opportunity. "My dad sold our horse and wagon and rented a double wide wagon and mule team to move our things to Green Cove," she said. "My mama ran a boarding house and that's where I met "Shorty" (Eliud Clair Rodgers) who was a saw mill man from South Carolina." Mamie and Shorty were married June 21, 1916, in Green Cove Springs where their little girl, Emma Lucile, was born in 1919. "After about a year I noticed "Ceil" wasn't developing properly," said Mamie. Both she and Shorty were crushed when they found out their infant daughter would never grow into a normal child or adult. Eventually they moved to Baker County, joining her parents who had returned and gone into the grocery business. The sandy road through Sanderson, known as Highway 90,. was being paved, all the way to Jacksonville, and along with construction of the Sanderson overpass and school house. The year was 1925. "Ceil died with pneumonia a year later at the age of seven," related Mamie. "She never walked. I took the best care possible of her and we loved her very much. She was a beautiful child, just look at her picture," she said pointing to a photograph hanging on a nearby wall. "I didn't want another child, at least for awhile," she said, "because I wanted to keep Ceil's memory longer, but one day, a few years later, I was out in the back yard dressing a chicken and a young neighbor boy came to the fence and asked me if I'd heard about a baby that had been left in Olustee. "I hadn't heard about it, but I went and told Shorty," she said. "Later Shorty heard that the Sheriff (Joe Jones) had stopped at a grocery down the street with the little baby on his way to Macclenny. Shorty went down to find out more information and fell in love with the little fellow. He asked the sheriff if he'd stop by our place "and show the baby to Mamie." "Well my ma was there too, and she was beggin' us to take him. He was a cute baby. Must have been mighty poor people who left him. He had a pillow slip for a diaper, a bottle of milk, and an old piece of army blanket wrapped around him. "He had been left on a deserted store front; and luckily someone heard him cryin' 'cause at that time there was no such thing as fence laws and hogs were roaming all around. What if one had got the poor little thing?" she said, emotion rising in her usual calm voice. Continuing, she explained the Sheriff informed them the Judge would have to rule on the case and make the decision, but he'd let them know. "Shorty didn't sleep much that night for thinking about wanting that baby," she said. "The next morning (Sunday) he got up and drove over to Macclenny taking a little pillow with him to lay the baby on. The sheriff still said he'd have to wait until the next day (Monday) when the Judge could rule on it, so Shorty had to come home without him. "Early Monday morning the Sheriff's wife, Alma, brought him to us. "Oh, I'm so proud I took him," she said, "He was the best little boy and we all loved him so." By this time, Shorty and Mamie had taken over her parents' general grocery store, and times were some better. "Back then I purchased staples such as sugar, rice, grits, etc., in one hundred pound sacks and emptied it in huge bins or cans. Nothing was prepackaged then like it is now. We just weighed out the amount customers wanted and put it in a bag. "Sugar and rice sold for five cents a pound and bacon for eight cents. You could buy good steak for twenty cents a pound," she said. "I sold cheese for 20 cents a pound, eggs ten cents a dozen and milk was ten cents a quart bottled from her mother's cow and glass milk bottles. "Buttermilk was five cents a quart," she continued. "We had no refrigeration like we have today but used a carbide refrigerator that kept it cool. "People ate might common food back then like dried beans, grits and meal. Most people had their own gardens, but I sold produce like lettuce and fruit such as bananas. It was delivered to us on trucks from Jacksonville. "People coming to town to buy groceries stayed all day and usually bought a five cent cold drink and nickel pack of crackers with maybe a slice of cheese cut off the old cheese block for lunch," she said. "They could eat what they wanted for fifteen or twenty cents." Shorty died in 1946 and Mamie worked the next sixteen years with the Sanderson school lunch program, raising Sonny as a widow. In 1972, at the age of forty-one, Sonny died with a heart attack. "Some people say Sanderson don't grow none, but it does," she said. "There are houses all over the woods out there. The people here are mighty good to me. They know I never leave unless I go to the doctor and they drop in occasionally to say 'Hello' and to see how I feel. "I know most it won't be long before I have to leave Sanderson and go to the nursing home," she said wistfully as we talked. "I don't want to go. I wouldn't really mind as much except that I dread to move away from my little home and Sanderson where all my memories are." [NOTE cwm: Mamie died 10 Mar 1986 and is buried in Manntown cemetery along with "Shorty" & "Sonny"] _____________________________________________________________________________ Claude Scoles Memories of France and World War I By LaViece Smallwood Shortly before noon on Sunday, June 28th, 1914, crowds gathered in Sarajevo, the capital of the Austrian province of Bosnia. They came to see Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, and his wife Sophie. Suddenly a man jumped on the running board of the royal touring car and fired a pistol. Two shots struck Ferdinand and one hit Sophie, who was trying to shield him. They both died almost immediately. The assassin was Gavrilo Princip, a hyoung Bosnian student who had lived in Serbia. Austria-Hungary, suspected that its small neighbor, Serbia, had approved the plot to kill Ferdinand. As a result, it declared war on Serbia on July 28, 1914. By October 30, the Central Powers - Austria-Hungry, Germany and the Ottoman Empire - were at war with the Allies, Belgium, France, Great Britian, Russia and Serbia. Other countries later joined in the fighting. A single act - the shooting of Ferdinand marked the outbreak of World War I, but there were several basic causes. The United States tried to remain neutral in the early years of World War I. The British angered Americans by searching neutral ships. But Britain, as a nation at war, had the right to search under international law. Americans turned against the Central Powers when they learned of German submarines sinking unarmed passenger ships, and German atrocities against civilians. The entry of the United States into the war boosted Allied morale, and fresh American troops reinforced the battered Allied armies. Americans had decided that by joining the Allies they would help "make the world safe for democracy." American doughboys, as the soldiers were called, marched aboard troopships singing George M. Cohan's "Over There." One such red blooded American was 19 year old Claude Scoles, who enlisted along with many of the friends he was born and raised with in Mt. Vernon, Ohio and who marched aboard one of the thirteen convoy troop ships with 50,000 other American doughboys heading for France in 1917. "It was real rough, everyone was sick," remembered Claude from his retirement home in Glen St. Mary. "I'd never been so far from shore that I couldn't throw a stone and hit it. we came down between England and Scotland expecting trouble in the channel because that's where the German submarines congregated. If a piece of paper fell someone would shoot at it we were so scared." Much of the war involved hand to hand combat in trenches between the largest armies ever seen up to that time. New and improved weapons gave each side more efficient machines to kill the enemy. Claude Scoles, trained for combat in America received new training in France to use the French weapons, and usually traveled in boxcars by train to and from locations. "French girls, hired as breakmen had to keep their doors locked on the trains at all times," he said, "guarding against love starved soldiers." "We slept in trenches to keep from being shot. You couldn't dig an inch without hitting water, so that meant we stayed wet and muddy all the time. It rained constantly. "We wore hob nailed shoes, and wore wool cloths with wrap leggings (like an ace bandage only it's wool). Their argument was we wouldn't catch colds if we wore wool summer and winter, and all the time," he said shaking his head at their unfounded reasoning. "I got a bunch of coody's (body lice) once and I looked like a zebra all spotted over with iodine they put on me to kill 'em, but I didn't get rid of them until we got to where we could change our clothes. "There was a terrible flu epidemic in France and people were dying everywhere. I came down with something, never did know what, and lost 45 pounds. I refused to go to the hospital so many were dying. I just took CC pills, all it was was a laxative, and I finally got over it. Everyone thought I was doomed to die. "We got to go on R&R (rest and recreation) occasionally," he said. "France was the most filthy country in the world, you couldn't breath for flies. Worse place I ever seen. Toilet facilities were very primitive. The French used chamber pots and usually dumped it out their windows. If you were walkin' along the streets you'd best walk out in the middle of the street or up close to the building or it would hit you for sure. Flies were everywhere. Gads, it was terrible," he shivered remembering the situation. "Everyone got French dysentery from poor water." Even so the Americans found time for jokes and fun on their $30 a month salary plus $3 extra for overseas duty. "Once I went into a French Tavern and this beautiful French girl kept smiling at me and at the same time uttering some of the most foul words imaginable, smiling all the time. Americans sitting at a nearby table laughing hysterically revealed they had "taught her some friendly American greeting words," he said. "That poor French girl thought she was saying nice words to me." Even so, his outfit E Battery, 134th Field Auxiliary, 37th Division, which is known as Buckeye (being from the sate of Ohio) were given a commendation from Edward Burr, Brigadier General of the USA for outstanding conduct. His outfit was one of the first combats to be shipped home, landing on American soil in New Port New, Va. The peaceful little Ohio town he left wasn't quite the same. Perbnhaps because he lost some of his friends serving him on French soil, perhaps because his parents had migrated to Florida, but regardless, a few years later found Claude Scoles leaving Mt. Vernon, Ohio once more, only this time for Baker County, Florida. "My dad, Clement Laird Vanlandingham Scoles, had bought a house here from Mr. Getsy, also a native from Ohio. I stopped by to visit, on my way to Miami, and stayed. I've never regretted it," he said with a abroad smile. In 1928, he met and married a native Baker Countian, Lillian Mae Prevatt, daughter of Kel Prevatt and Mary Lou Combs. "Both of us were old enough to know better," he quipped, explaining he was 30 and she was 26. "I had a brand new car and a good job at the Glen St, Mary nursery," chimed in his wife explaining she was head propagator of the green houses. "Yea, but you were waitin' on ole number one," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I got her job at the nursery too," he said. "People asked me what happened to her and I told 'em I fired her," he laughed, but admitted he wanted her home raising their family which incidentally are the three children they're so proud of, Robert, JoAnn and Wendell. Slowly and carefully he picked up a letter addressed to Cpl. Claude Scoles and said, "This letter's from an 84 year old friend of mine in Ohio who served with me in our outfit. He writes that at our last reunion only twenty eight were known to be left from the original 208 in our outfit. "It's been over 60 years since those days in France and my memories are growing dim," he said as he wistfully folded a handmade cigarette. [NOTE cwm: Claude died 24 Oct 1980, & Lillian on 27 Dec 1993. Both are buried in Taylor cemetery] _____________________________________________________________________________ Myrtie Rowe remembers Macclenny years ago. By LaViece Smallwood Myrtie Rowe grew up in the Kyler section of north Baker County where her parents Robert E. Lee Taylor and Elizabeth Williams owned. a grist mill and country store. "You couldn't go too far from home in those days," said Myrtle speaking of the turn of the century times. "There were only about two cars in the whole community. Everyone else had a mule and a wagon." "It was especially exciting to visit Macclenny and see the train go by," she said. "We'd have to really hold on to our mule." School for Myrtie was a three room school house not far from her home. "But when I spent the night away from home with friends we'd have to get up. before daylight, fix our breakfast and pack our lunch and start walking in the dark to get to school on time. "We'd have the best school plays, and more fun than you can imagine. Nothing compares to it today. They were absolutely the greatest. We'd put our whole heart into it. "We'd carry a lunch bucket to school everyday and eat on the playground with the hogs and all," she said. "Once a hog grabbed my sandwich right out of my hand and took hold of my finger and all. I still have the scar," she laughed holding up the injured finger as proof. "Young people back then really enjoyed going to church. We'd walk to Sunday School in the mornings but go back in the mule and wagon at night. Services started about 7:30 p.m. but lasted until after midnight," she said, explaining that after the preaching, the altar call was held. "On our way home at night us kids would lay down in the back of the wagon and look up at the stars. As Myrtle grew into her teens her attention began to turn toward the boys, one in particular who lived across the branch. "I could see Verg plowing in the fields each day as I was grinding corn at the mill," she said. "He was older than me and already had a girl friend. Some times they'd come over to my house to play the organ and sing and she'd call me her little girl. It turned out her 'little girl' was in love with her feller. "I remember one time I was having to plow corn and I saw Verg driving by in his mule and wagon going someplace. I didn't want him to see me plowing so I hid behind the barn with the mule and plow until he passed on by." Courtin' was done in groups those days, Myrtle explained. "We'd have bon fires out in the yard, play games, go to cane grindings, candy pullings and peanut boilings, she said. "Mama didn't believe in dancing, but we'd go to things that turned into, it", explaining that the boys would come by in a wagon gathering up the girls to help 'hull peanuts' or any other kind of help neighbors might need. "Back then everyone pitched in to help neighbors," she reflected. "After we. finished up our peanut hulling or what ever we'd been called on to do," she continued, "We'd somehow get into square dancing. "Once I danced a hole right through the bottom of my new pat'en leather sandals. We only got two pair of shoes a year and I was scared to death mama would find out. When I got home I patched them up with some leather we had, but she noticed anyway," recalling the scolding she got from her mama wasn't too bad. "Mama was the boss when it came to saying what we did," explained, Myrtle. Pa always said, "It's ok with me if it's ok with your Mama." "I remember once my daddy was camping out in the woods, cutting cross ties with some hired hands. I had gone to a peanut hulling and afterwards it just turned into a square dance. I looked up and there stood Pa." He said, "What are you doing here? I'm going to tell your Mama." I said, "What are you doing here? You ain't supposed to be here either." That was the last she heard of that. When Myrtle reached eighth grade that was as high as the Kyler school taught. Plans were made for her to go live with a brother in Okeechobee, Florida to further her education. This news soon reached Verg, who, with his brother. Ira, had gone into the grocery business in Macclenny. A marriage proposal followed and a new life in Macclenny began. I helped in the grocery store," said Myrtle. "White bacon sold for four cents a pound and twenty four pounds of flour sold for seventy five cents. Live hens were a dollar each." Four children blessed their marriage which lasted a. short twelve years. One morning, while Myrtie was preparing breakfast, Verg had a heart attack and died. She sold the store and went to work. Later, she married Charlie Rowe, a sawmill man, and opened another store. With Charlie's two children and her four, they lived next door to their business and raised their family. Twenty five years later, her second husband suffered a heart attack and died. Today she still lives in the home she and Charlie occupied spending her time in community and church activities. A past president of the Macclenny Woman's Club, she is present chairman of the county Red Cross, and President for the county Council on Aging. She has been President of the Church of God Ladies Auxiliary for twenty eight years. Myrtie Rowe's love for people is evident in the service she renders. Friends say she is the type of person you can depend on day or night to help out when needed. "I wouldn't have it any other way," she contends. "My life in Baker County has been good." _____________________________________________________________________________ Dr. John Holt A man of endless talents..... By LaViece Smallwood Volumes could literally be Written about the illustrious, fruitful and productive life of John Holt, Doctor of Psychology, Ordained Methodist Minister of the Gospel, educator, author, composer, pianist, organist, missionary, artist and poet to name a few. "I'll tell you why I think I do so many things, the accomplished 86 year old spritely achiever said. "I used to offer my students as much as twenty dollars if they ever caught me idle. To this day if I listen to television or music, my hands are busy," he said, pointing to an array of crocheted handiwork, most of which he designed. He also quilts and embroiders. Handing me a stack of books he has authored, he explained that one of them, entitled "Dirt Roads of Georgia" is his autobiography from age five. "I grew up in the backwoods, greatly in the backwoods," he emphasized. "There were no cars, no roads, no nothing. My dad was a Naval Store Prospector, and traveled around buying up run-down or abandoned turpentine establishments, building them up and reselling for profit. I was taken out of school a lot. My dad just took me to school each time we moved and said to the teacher, "I don't know what grade he belongs, just put him where you think he should be. I was eight or nine before I got out of the first grade "Of course," he continued, "Since I left home, my personal way of life has led me to fifty-four different homes. I've got a list of all of them." At the age of eighteen Doctor Holt had passed a teacher's examination and was teaching eighty one students in a one room abandoned church. "We had no desk. The students sat in the pews with their pads on their laps. I made $210.00 for a year's work." His talents as an educator were recognized immediately and offers of jobs came from far and near. He soon found himself principal of a school with fourteen teachers. "World War I was raging and it looked like Germany was going to whip us," he said, "so I enlisted in the Marines and went to France. I was promised my job would be waiting. Upon my return I found the laws had been changed and was told in order to teach I needed a Bachelor's degree in education. I didn't know what It meant, nor had I ever heard of credits. I knew I had to have a job and I desperately wanted to teach, so I went to Furman College in South Carolina to apply for enrollment. "There I was told I must have a high school education before applying to enter and there I stood with an eighth grade education. My experience didn't count, they told me. "Finally after crying and begging, they consented to let me take an entrance exam, (which they never got around to giving). With only six weeks left of school I convinced them to let me start then so I could start learning. I ended up with the highest score in the Freshman class, finishing college in three years." Ironically, 63 years later,. word of his success in the educational field reached a school he once attended in Fitzgerald, Georgia, which extended an invitation of honor for him to graduate with their 1975 graduating seniors and receive a high school diploma. This he did. Prior to 1975, he received a Bachelor degree in 1924, Masters in 1928 and Doctorate in 1953. From his first graduate job as Superintendent of Schools in Douglasville, Georgia, a position offered to him upon graduation, he advanced to Dean of Schools at Furman, his Alma Mater. He was the First Dean of Georgia State, as well as the first at the University of Tampa and Thomas Edison, helping to organize them, writing their catalogs, setting up their courses, hiring their faculties. The Georgia Superintendent of Schools brought other superintendents to observe his record keeping system. "The depression hit and people by the thousands were roaming the country in search of work," he said. "I was asked to take the position of psychologist for the State of Florida. My office was in one of the state's many transient camps in Miami where I was personally responsible for the mental health of 1200 people. "After the depression, I felt I needed a long vacation. I'd never crossed the Mississippi River, so I bought a travel trailer and took a trip out west for three months. In Wyoming I stopped by the Arapahoe Indian reservation. I wanted to see what they looked like. Something really struck me. I had a feeling I just had to go back and live with those Indians, and I did. One of my greatest desires since age twelve (when I joined the church) was to, be a missionary. I returned to Florida, packed up my things and headed back to Wyoming and the Arapahoe reservation. I mastered their language which was difficult, because you see, it's not a printed language. I stayed sixteen years. While there I had very little contact with other people." After leaving his work with the Arapahoes, he .traveled around Wyoming investing his time in education and his money in philanthropies such as building five churches with "my own hands and money". "I think I've traveled in almost every civilized country on the globe and I found the nicest people in the world right here in Baker County, now that is true," he stressed emphatically. "They are the friendliest and best and make the staunchest friends. I've got worlds of them in this county and I wouldn't take a million dollars for any one of them." Baker County prior to this time was no stranger to him. His brother, A. P. Holt, settled here in the 40's, bringing him here many times, for visits. During the 50's he left the Arapahoes to be with his grieved father who had moved to Macclenny after the death of his mother. During this time he owned Macclenny's first jewelry store and wrote a weekly column entitled "Let's Face The Facts" for The Baker County Press. His editorial type writing style focused on worldwide problems as well as state and local government affairs. County problems, such as unkept store fronts and messy window displays brought about a clean up campaign and praise from merchants and local residents alike. Another time he was visiting in Baker County, on vacation from the Arapahoes, he was persuaded by then Baker County School Superintendent Jimmy Burnsed to take the job of Principal at Taylor School so it could open for the school term. He obliged. Dr. Holt has mastered most of his feats by self mastery and determination. At the age of eight he asked, his sister to explain the lines and black symbols on her piano music. Today he plays complicated pieces by such famous composers as Beethoven, Bach, 18-20 pages long on the piano and organ. Once, when he was very young, his father bought a box of books at an auction. One was a Bible written in Spanish. Before long he had learned to read it by comparing the English version with it word for word. The box of books turned out to be one of his greatest treasures, exposing him to great authors such as Shakespeare. One of the books entitled "Happy Hearts and Homes That Make Them," he attributes influenced him more than any other one thing in his life. Quotes, such as "You judge a person's intelligence by what he does," "You can't have friends without being friendly," "The city of happiness is in the state of mind,". "Nobody has any right to respect you unless you respect yourself," "You can't buy happiness, no need to look for it because it's a creation of your own mind." Living by philosophies such as these is perhaps the reason he never once in his life had to apply for a job. Opportunities were always extended to him. His contributions were recognized when he was selected to appear in the 7th edition of Personalities of the South, honoring American leaders for their outstanding ability and Service to Community and State. Proof that Dr. John Holt has a swollen heart and not a swollen head occurred when a "Service to Mankind Award" arrived in the mail for him. Feeling unworthy and unqualified to have received such an award, he said to the postmaster, "I don't believe this belongs to me, I don't know of any service I've rendered to mankind," but the postmaster assured him there was no mistake. Still unsure and completely astonished that he should be selected for such an award the postmaster advised him to speak with the president of the club that presented the award. The Baker County Sertoma Club's president, James Smith, assured him there had been no mistake. "I never knew there was even such a club in Baker County," he said. "I treasure and appreciate that one plaque more than any other honor I've received." And he has received countless others. For years Dr. Holt has transcribed books for the blind, teaching himself the Braille so masterfully he was accepted as a Braille writer by the Library of Congress. His services were free, a labor of love. I have never said I couldn't do anything," he said. "if I couldn't do it, I learned how." The hand painted Holt Coat of Arms, which hangs proudly to the right of his entrance door reads, "Exaltavit Humilies" meaning, "He exalts and helps humble people." Quite appropriate for Dr. John Holt? Agreed. "I'm writing a book now," he said, as we were winding up our conversation. "You've heard of Death With Dignity? Well my book is "Growing Old With Dignity." A man can walk straight and tall if he wants to." And that, Dr. John Holt, is why you are considered ten feet tall. [NOTE cwm: Dr. John G. Holt b. 1894 d. 1984 buried Woodlawn cemetery] _____________________________________________________________________________ Miss Ida - Legacy Of Midwifery To Gospel Tunes By LaViece Smallwood Ida Gainey stood at her door expressionless after learning someone wanted to write about her life in Baker County. Regaining a little composure, she managed a big grin and a natural "I'm so glad ya'll came".. greeting. "Let me get my teeth in," she said as she showed us to our seats. "My, my, who would want to know anything about me?" Ida Gainey vividly remembers the painfully poor days surrounding her youth barely surviving in a family of nine children. "I watched my mama a lot when I'se a little girl,". she reminisced.from her Baxter home in northern Baker County. ."She prayed a lot." There was an ole stump she'd go to, or down by the creek, or in her room. I member she was a good mama, she endured, she never left us children until God took her." "Mama" was Laura Mizell who married Danel Raulerson, a blacksmith and reared their family "up from Moniac" a rural Georgia Community near the Baker County line. "We missed school a lot," said Miss Ida, as she is fondly known throughout the community. "We'd go to school totin' our lunch pails with no shoes on. We poor children starved lots of times. We'd come in from school and might find a cold biscuit and a piece of onion, and go straight to the cotton patch. "Lots of times we'd go to bed cold and hungry. Sometimes we'd cover up with the feather mattress, take feed sacks and stuff them with corn shucks or moss to sleep on,". she said. "Part of the time we didn't have clothes to wear. I Had one dress I wore to school. I'd come home and change into a rag and wear my dress back to school the next day. "I only went to the fifth grade, but I'm grateful 'cause I learned to read." Mis' Ida reached for her "little black memory book" as she tried to remember special dates. My mama died the year I got saved," she said turning the pages of the worn little book. "Here it 'tis. It was 1933." In 1924 at the age of fifteen, she had met and married Odus Gainey. "Odus loved me, but, well I guess I should be 'shamed to say this, but I had another feller lik'in me too. So Odus bought my sister a pair of shoes so she could dance with him and make me jealous. I didn't lik' that much. The next day he was at church with another girl, so I sat right down and wrote him a letter. In it I said, Odus, you shore did hit my heart yes'ta'day, and I didn't know I loved you so." "I got a reply right back and he said he'd never do that no more." "It weren't long before I'd had a mind to marry up with him. My daddy heard we was plan'in to run away. He told me if'in I ran away, I'd git back faster than I went, so in about a month or two we got married, and moved to Baxter." Hardships didn't improve with marriage, In fact the $1.25 Odus made a week working as a section laborer, with the Southern Railway wasn't enough to cover their expenses. More times than not, all they had to eat for breakfast was greens. Ida found herself expecting their first child. In her seventh month of pregnancy while fishing down by the creek she slipped and fell backward while pulling on a fish line. The baby never moved again. Two weeks later she lost a baby girl. In 1926, her only child, Mildred,, was born. "Peoples' always asked me why I ain't ever had more children," she said. "It was after I had grandchildren that I learned the reason myself, explaining that once when Mildred was a baby she was hospitalized for an infection. During this time her husband told the doctor he felt one child was enough, and told the doctor to do somethin'. "Now I never have felt that was fair,. but Odus had raised his Pa's bunch and I guess he figured he'd had enough children to raise. Sides that, times were hard." These circumstances were contributing factors to a very important part of her life. "I developed a love for people and their children," said.Mis' Ida, relating how she'd go stay with expectant friends and neighbors until the doctor arrived to deliver their baby. "The doctors use'ta tell me to pay attention so I could learn to do it by myself." One such family had 18 children so'Mis' Ida got lots of practice. "Sometimes the doctor never got there and I'd have to deliver the, baby myself," she said. "The county nurse suggested she become a registered county midwife. It was in April 1944 when she first applied for a license. Soon she was equipped with a black bag that carried all her midwifery supplies and an official looking white uniform. "Mis' Ida, the times come," was a familiar voice into the night and day, as her services were needed more and more. "I got paid $20 a baby,. regard less how long I stayed in the home," she explained. The price was never. "upped.", was the same when she retired forty years later. Noting the mighty poor. Conditions back then, "I never lost a baby" she said proudly. "I had lots of experiences," she said, getting up from her rocker to get the original little black bag that accompanied her each time she was "fetched" to go. Reaching inside the dilapidated and fatigued bag she pulled out her record book of births. "A lady came by not long ago and wanted to know when she was born. Seems they couldn't find a record of it at the State Board of Health. I had it right in my bag. Reckon the state lost their copy," she said thoughtfully. Soon after becoming a midwife, husbanf 0dus died. "He had to retire 'cause of diabetis'," she recalled. "He only drew $56 a month retirement from the railroad. It weren't enough money to buy sugar pills and he died. Just up and Went out yonder under the shade tree," she said pointing toward the front yard. "He sat down in a chair, went into a coma, and was gone. He wouldn't take no shots, he refused any help from the county nurse, so he died." Changing the subject abruptly she said with a chuckle, "I delivered a baby girl one Easter day, and they named her Ida Easter. "Thing about some of these people they'd wait too late to git a doctor, or git to the hospital," she'said shaking her head in dismay. "I 'member once, after I retired, I was sittin' here a quilt'in (pointing to a quilting frame attached to her ceiling) and a man came running in saying, "Mis' Ida you gotta come, she's done had the baby." I told him I wasn't licensed no more and I'd git in trouble, but he kept pleadin' and'pleadin'. Finally I said, ok, lets go and when we got there to his house, I found his wife on her back in the yard with the baby on her belly fightin' off hogs from eatin' her baby. That's where he'd left her to git me 'cause the baby came before he could git her to the hospital." Later, I went to the doctors office to talk to 'um 'bout it and they said not to worry 'cause I saved her life." Midwives were forbidden to prescribe any kind of treatment she explained. "I waited all day once in freezin' cold weather on a delivery," she said, "but nothing happened. Someone said, "Mis' Ida you care If'en we gives her some liquor?" I told 'em I couldn't tell 'em nothing. Then they said, "Well how 'bout if we fix her some low bush mercale tea? I said I can't tell you nothing to do. It got supper time and they fixed some cornbread and peas. Finally I told 'em I was going home and I got up to leave. It scared that poor girl 'cause I was leav'in. I heard her screaming, 'Run here nurse, run here, it's a comin', it's a comin'. And sure 'nuf it Was." "Times were sure hard back then," she said, remembering one time she was invited to eat a meal after delivering a baby and being there all day. All that was on the table was a smoke house bone and cornbread. Ida Gainey's not the, least bit bitter. She is not even disillusioned. In fact, she is grateful "for what the Lord has done for me" beginning with her daughter Mildred, her six grandchildren and six, (presently) great grandchildren. Life centers around her family and the Baxter Church of God. "I'm the mother of that church," she said proudly. "I stood at the door and fought the devil for that church." "Before you leave, let me show you what the Lord's give me," she said rising from her rocker and seating herself at the upright piano. As her fingers scaled the keys in perfect gospel tones, her voice rising above the worldly cares outside her door, eyes closed, as if in vision... the words were sung with feeling and conviction, "I have Jesus, now I have everything." [NOTE cwm - Ida Raulerson Gainey b. 1909, d. 29 Sep 1992 buried North Prong cem. Odus Gainey b. 3 Mar 1903, d. 18 Jun 1966 "] _____________________________________________________________________________ Profile - Lacy Richardson Keeping that 'ole time' tradition By LaViece Smallwood Except for a paved road and modern automobile you could almost imagine yourself back in the past, say. about fifty years ago, when you drive out State Road 229, about three miles south Of Sanderson to visit Lacy Richardson. A two-rutted lane, flanked on either side with tall stately cedar trees, leads you up to the log and weather-boarded 19th century home place.. Freshly swept dirt yards, free from even one blade of grass, with neatly arranged flower beds scattered about, add to the nostalgic scene from days past. The old outdoor toilet to the right of the back yard leans dejectedly to one side, and. the century old barn stands stately nearby. Clad in overalls and denim shirt, Lacy Richardson sits in one of the comfortable rocking chairs that grace his front porch in the cool of the giant shade trees. To the right and left of him, within a block or two, are the modern homes of five of his eight offspring who keep the home fires burning by doing things today they were raised up doing in the past. "For instance," said his daughter Rachel, who with her husband and daughter live a stones throw away, "we grow and raise most of our food, grind our own corn into meal and grits and we are building a smokehouse to preserve meat, like Daddy and Mama used to." Lord, it was good eatin' too," chimed in her father. Lacy Richardson was born nearby. He's not absolutely sure if it was over on the "ole Pierce Place" or not, but he knows his great granddaddy, Elisha Greene, settled the land in 1830 where he found pure water, on high ground along the South Prong of the St. Mary's River in what was then Columbia County (Baker in 1861). It was here he lived and died raising a family of thirteen children by his second wife, Elizabeth Driggers. The eleventh child born to them, Andrew Jackson Greene, was Lacy's grandfather. Andrew's marriage to Marry Jones produced fifteen offspring; the sixth child, born in 1891, Sadie Lovania, was Lacy's mother. Sadie married Ellis Stephens Richardson January 23, 1907. Their first child, Lacy, was born in December of that same year. "I was raised on Griffin's Nursery where my father was employed," said Lacy. "There wasn't too much to do as I grew up back then. You couldn't call yourself datin' 'cause they wern't no money or cars to do nothing. You'd just meet up with the girls and talk a little." After graduating from the eighth grade at seventeen years of age, he took a test to become a teacher and passed. Instead, though, he went to work for the state as a rodman, helping a road surveyor. He returned to Baker County in 1926 and became employed again by the nursery and met Emma McDonald. "The way that come around, we was both working at the nursery," he said. "I asked her dad for permission to marry her and he said he wouldn't give her away, so I told him I'd take her anyway. He didn't say nothing and I didn't say anymore." Three weeks later, with his dad, Ellis's borrowed car and ten dollars in his pocket, he headed out toward the McDonald home. "When I got there for Emma, her dad got in the car and went to Macclenny with us to get married," he said. The year was 1930. "My parents had a big ole house and we moved in with them." "The bottom fell out in 1930, " he said, speaking of the depression years. "I worked six days a week at the nursery and was asked to give one of those days in free labor back to the nursery. The worse thing was going to buy groceries on a $2.50 paycheck. "I done it for awhile, until it looked like we were going to starve, then I moved into a little house on my Dad's place to help him with the farming, while he stayed on at the nursery. Our first two children, Wilford and Joyce, were born there." In 1934 Lacy helped his dad build a new home. In return for his time and labor Ellis Richardson gave his son his present home and about 30 acres of land. The original log home was later insulated by adding weather boards. In 1951 the home was wired for electricity and in 1965 indoor plumbing was added. Six additional children were born. Eventually he was able to do some turpentine work on his land, along with farming. Later he spent thirteen years as a guard at the State Prison in Raiford. "I had the death watch and guarded more than one before their electrocution," he said. "Do, you believe in capitol punishment?" I asked. "They got to do something with 'em," came his reply. "I sat in the electric chair once, but I was sure it wasn't connected up when I did it," he said. Prisoners are running the prisons now, he continued. "if they don't get what they want, they riot." Though times have changed, and Lacy Richardson is most certainly aware of it, he isn't letting it affect him much, one way or the other. "People 'round here use to have feuds," he said. "They'd meet' up at Sanderson and kill each other once in a while. There's been less killing in the past twenty years than ever before. "Use to be moonshine stills all over the county," he continued. "I put me some in a wash pot one night in the smoke house and a car drove up just as I got the fire good and started. I put the fire out and went to see who it was. It was the Sheriff, Shannon Green. His car had broke down and he needed a flashlight. I never did try to make no more. You could buy a five gallon jug for $4.00." More than 100 years ago, Elisha Greene was fighting wild Indians in a primeval wilderness and his wife, Elizabeth, was making her family's clothing on a loom. While their great grandson has no desire to go back to those days, he's content not to go forward either. "I'm satisfied with things just the way they are," he said, rising from his chair, extending his large frame to just beneath the rafters of his porch. "See the logs," he said, pointing proudly to one exposed beneath the timbers? This house is still the way it was when it was built and I like it just that way." [NOTE cwm - Lacy was b. 31 Dec 1907, d. 19 Dec 1989 and buried in Swift Creek cemetery, Union Co., FL] _____________________________________________________________________________ Profile -Verdie and Dewey Fish Pioneers that made do..... By LaViece Smallwood Most of the early pioneers in America built their first homes and furnishings from materials obtained off the free land and fed their families the same way. They used looms to spin the cloth they wore on their backs and such natural products as indigo weed and red oak bark to make dyes for it. Corn shucks were used to make bonnets and sun hats, soap from crackling grease and potash, starch from grated roots. They swept their dirt and clay yards with brooms made from gallberry bushes and mops from corn shucks. The early settlers of Baker County were no different from anyone else. They simply lived off the land. "Every year in the fall when the crab grass would die, we'd gather the grass and make grass mattresses," said Verdie Fish, the former Verdie Rhoden. "Sometimes we'd make our mattresses out of moss, gathering it green, boiling it in a syrup boiler until the green was gone and it was dead, then we'd hang it on the fence to dry. You could work it up real fluffy to make a nice mattress. Every year we'd have to re-moss and add even more moss to make it thicker. We didn't have bed springs back then, just solid boards on homemade beds. Our pillows were made the same way the mattresses were. "If anybody got a good feather bed back then in those days that was something," she said explaining that both geese and ganders were really valuable to have. "I've walked many a mile on a hot day through the hot fields carrying a bucket of water for the geese. They helped to keep the grass down in the cotton patch and produced about one pound of feathers a year. I've had to hold many a one's head for my mama to pluck the feathers, usually about three times a year. If they ever got a hold of you they wouldn't turn you loose either." Mama was Josephene Combs who had married Nathan Rhoden. Verdie was the fourth of their eight children. My mama cooked the best food in a fireplace. She used as much dead wood as she could; it resembled coals. When the fire died down under the vegetables she'd rake the coals out. The women back then knew just how many coals they needed to make the fire hot to bake the best bread I ever ate." "Mainly they made corn broad; made up into what they called pones (dry enough to mold). They used plain meal, salt, and water. They knew how, don't think they didn't, and it was baked just right. "We used a hand mill to grind our corn into grits and meal. "I used to enjoy going to my grandmother Rhoden's (the former Doriann Thompson who married William Newton Rhoden). She had honey bees. My dad and uncle would rob the hives and that fresh honey with homemade butter and hot homemade biscuits was so good." Her grandfather, Richard (Dick) Combs fought in the Battle of Olustee when his horse was shot from under him, killing the horse and sending a bullet soaring through his thigh. It was the only horse the family owned. "During my parent's generation they used to make caskets. The sawmill would usually donate the lumber and the carpenters, their time. The neighbors would all gather to help. The women folk would line the inside with white material and cover the outside in black with a pretty border around it. I think they were made better then than today," she continued. "They were made of heart cypress the shape of the body. A hole would be dug the shape of the coffin down in the clay and the casket would be lowered flush, and a board laid on top. The clay kinda sealed the casket in place. You'd never see a grave caved in when they were buried that way. The bodies were carried by mule, and wagon to the cemetery. On the 10th of November 1921 she married Dewey Fish. "At first we wondered if we'd get married," she said. "Dewey had taken time off from farming and hauled cross ties to make the money for the license and to pay the Notary Public to perform the service. We were to be married at my parent's home and my mama had a big dinner of pork and rice for everyone, but the man never showed up to marry us. Finally Dewey borrowed a car to go looking for him and found a note on his door saying something had come up and we'd have to get someone else. He had recommended another Notary Public, so Dewey rode over to his house and got him. After the ceremony we invited him to eat with us, and all through mama's meal of pork and rice he kept saying how good the chicken was. I think he was from the north." Dewey bought his family homeplace after the death of his father and the young couple started raising a family which eventually totaled eight children. "My first baby was a little girl, and she was only about three and a half pounds. I almost departed this ole world when she was born. Back then they didn't have anything to give you for pain. Nature just had to take its course, but then it only cost five dollars for a delivery. We had to hire someone to stay for four weeks each time I had a baby because you'd have to stay completely in bed nine days," she said. "it cost us two dollars and a half a week, plus we furnished their room and board, so if you had a baby on the way back then you had to prepare for the finance which was a total of fifteen dollars. I mean that was a lot of money back then. "Dewey was in the room with me and watched each one of our children come into the world. Babies slept in the bed with their mothers until another one came along. I still believe in that," she said, her maternal instincts showing. "There was lots of work for everyone on the farm and you did what you had to do. "Once I wanted to get our outdoor toilet nearer to the house and our backdoor, so I waited until Dewey left one morning and I hurried out and dug myself two holes, right by myself, deep enough to bury two 55 gallon gasoline drums." "Oh, you had help from the boys," Dewey broke into the conversation. "Oh no I didn't," she said emphatically. "I did it all right by myself." Continuing she said, "Then I took the old toilet building down by sections, it was connected by posts, and I moved it inside the chicken yard. I wanted it fixed as dainty as I could fix It." Changing the subject, she said, "it would take as much as three days to do the wash back then, and we home made most of what we wore. We used to have a joke going around 'cause so many of our clothes were made from flour sacks. Someone was always saying, 'Be careful if you stoop over' 'cause we might see 96 on one side or 100 on the other. That stuff was printed on there and it wouldn't come out." And we might say the same for these noble families who struggled against the hardships of the times, not considering them that so much because it was all they knew, but their lives are stamped and printed down in the pages of history now, and no matter what, it won't ever come out. [NOTE cwm: George Dewey Fish b. 15 Jun 1899, d. 5 Jan 1981 - Verdie b. 23 Jun 1902, d. 12 Jul 1989. Both are buried in North Prong cemetery] _____________________________________________________________________________ The talents of 'Abbie' Cook..... By LaViece Smallwood More than 130 years ago the President of the United States was signing land deeds on sheep skin documents, or so it was for Abigail "Abbie" Stephens Cook's grandfather. Obviously a time of growth in pioneer America settlers on the move from Virginia via Georgia and on to Alabama included her grandfather, William Carrot Stephens and his wife Abigail Jackson. All but two of their sons continued on to Texas and settled that new frontier land. The rich Talapoosa River muck lands located near Daviston, in Talapoosa County, Alabama still remains today the homeland of four generations of Stephens. Fate and circumstances led one descendant to Baker County Abbie, so named for her grandmother, remembers the intervening years before her migration with vivid accounts of pioneer life. The birth of automation brought with it fear and suspicion among the settlers along the Talapoosa. Speaking of the first cars to enter the domain, Abbie recalls. "We'd heard dad talk about these things that went without a horse. Our house was off the main road, but we could hear the car when it passed by. After it went by we would all run down the road to see what kind of tracks it made. We didn't want to go near it," she said with a shiver as If remembering the fright it caused. "The horses couldn't stand those things either," she continued, "and they'd run away. If you met one (car) on the road the horses would tear off in the fields. "The old country doctor got him one of the first out thinking he could get around so much faster but it would scare people and the horses so bad he said he'd kill more than cure, so he went back to the horse and buggy. It was years before he could use his car. Those things (cars) were as odd to horses as they were to people. "We kept hearing talk about something known as a train," she said with a chuckle. "Dad knew where we could go see one as it came around a curve, so we got loaded up in the horse and buggy to go look at it. Dad took the horses off to tie them up and let us in the wagon. We heard it before we saw it and it was blowing and blowing making a terrible noise. We got so scared we all jumped out of the wagon and climbed under it. We never could tell people who asked much about it, cause we didn't see much," she said. "My father, Thomas Aaron Stephens, and my mother, Frances Marion (so named for the great Revolutionary war hero) Gross, bought land adjoining my granddaddy. During the war the government commissioned him to care for his aged parents and other families left without husbands or fathers while the war was going on, it was my father's duty to supply them with corn, for animal feed and corn meal for bread. They had chickens for meat, cows for milk and a garden for vegetables, but dad watched out for their other needs. "The preachers of that time used to preach a lot about the devil," explained Abbie, so she developed a fear of running into him. "My job was to go to the spring for water when the well was low," she said. "If I went late, I could see devils everywhere. Once I stumbled over a drunk in our cane patch and I just knew for sure it was the devil himself." Progress on the frontier was advancing and Abbie was growing into a young lady. "My dad bought my sister and me our own horse named Gritty and the first rubber tire buggy in the county," she said. "We kept passing this nice looking young man on the road, but never had met him formally. I'd heard who he was because my dad and brothers had met him, but one night my sister and I had driven our horse and buggy to a neighborhood party and he was there. After we met formally he asked if he could drive me home in his horse and buggy. I said yes and he went off to borrow a lap robe," she said explaining that everyone used lap robes when they rode in a horse and buggy to keep warm. Meanwhile though, Abbie remembered her sister and knew she'd have to accompany her back home. "He was mad," said Abbie, "and stayed mad four months." Later however, he was tempted into stopping by her family's apple cider press to drink apple cider and a friendship developed. A turpentine man, William Fountain Cook found himself smitten by the Talapoosa River damsel and when he heard she was leaving town with her sister to visit some relatives, he emphatically told her she was going to stay there and marry him. "I told him I couldn't do that," said Abbie. "I explained I had to go on this trip with my sister, so he said he would come along too. "We drove by the pastor's house, got married and left by train on the trip to my relatives." That was in 1911. Ambitious "Fount" already had a furnished home and a horse and buggy as his assets, not too common for someone his age in those days. Working as operations manager for a large turpentine company, the next few years brought many changes as Fount and Abbie moved from place to place. From Alabama with a daughter Wilma, to Georgia, where a son Willard was born, and on into Florida where another son Weldon arrived. The year 1929 found them in Macclenny. "We lived in one of the Powers homes between the railroad tracks and Highway 90," said Abbie as she described the city as it was then. Eventually turpentine work became slow. Fount operated a fruit stand in Haines City for a short time, then decided upon retirement in Macclenny where all three of his children had found their mates and were making their homes. As a young housewife in 1920, Abbie completed a four year correspondence course from the Women's Institute of Domestic Arts and Science in Scranton, Pa. It included the skills of drafting your own patterns, tailoring, hand embroidery and applique. "I received instructions and had to select the suggested materials," she said. Upon completion I'd mail the article to them for correction. I had rules like a carpenter," she continued. "I had tools for each required skill and they could tell if I used the correct or incorrect ones." Abbie loves making lovely gifts for family and friends. Some of her items have found their way into gift shops labeled "Handmade by Grannie Cook." Another special talent discovered a few years ago is oil painting. Many of her paintings have been sold to admirers around the state. Her sea scapes, wooded and still life scenes are among those adding to the décor in her small cottage home. Working in her vegetable garden and with an assortment of outdoor plant life bring her many hours of enjoyment. Widowed in 1966, Abbie has kept occupied with her many talents and received a certificate of appreciation from the Agency on Aging for her outstanding contributions and talents. An excellent cook, I can testify to you she makes the best kumquat preserves and cooks the tastiest beef liver in town. Try her special recipes. Beef Liver 1 lb. beef liver (trim & cut into 1 inch squares) 1 cup flour salt and pepper to taste Dredge liver in flour. Brown oil Add 2 apples, peeled and sliced Add 2 med. onions (chopped fine) Add 1/2 cup apple juice Add 1/2 cup water Steam with top on pot 5 minutes. Cut heat off and let set and steam. Preserved Whole Kumquats 2 cups fresh kumquats 1 cup water 2 cups sugar 1 stick cinnamon (optional) 1 lemon sliced thinly (optional) Wash and drain fruit. Cut a small gash crosswise in each kumquat. Cover with water and bring to a boll. Cook 5 minutes. Drain. Make a syrup of sugar and water. Add cinnamon (or other spices of your choice) and lemon. Drop kumquats into syrup. Bring to a boll and cook 10 minutes. Cover and let stand overnight. Cook again uncovered for 10 minutes and let stand to "plump" at least overnight. Bring to a boll again and cook until fruit is clear and syrup thick. Pack in clean jars while hot. Cover with hot syrup and close jars with a self-sealing lid. To keep flavor and color it is best to cook in small amounts as in this recipe. Never try to do more than twice the recipe in the same cooking. [NOTE cwm: Abigale "Abbie" Camilla Stephens-Cook b. 26 Jan 1894, d. 24 Sep 1985; William Fountain Cook b. 9 Aug 1896, d. 10 Feb 1966. Both buried in Woodlawn cemetery.] _____________________________________________________________________________ Moniac native learned of Christmas a bit late.... By LaViece Smallwood Harley Burnsed was a grown man before he heard about Santa Claus. Even the real meaning and significance of Christmas eluded Burnsed until he had a family of his own. "Nope, I never heard tell of Santa Claus, or Christ's birth when I was a youngin'," the amicable eighty-seven year old Moniac native said. "When I did hear tell of it (Santa and Christmas) I thought it was a mighty nice thing for kids. I still do," he said, explaining there was no big meal prepared for the occasion in his childhood home either. "We did know to exchange gifts but I never knew why," he said. "If they (parents) knew they didn't tell me. We made our own gifts, too," he said, adding, "There sure wern't no place around to buy anything. Me being the oldest, I'd go into the swamp and cut down black gum trees to build wagons." Burnsed, born in 1892, was the first child born to J.L. (Jasper) Burnsed and Zelphia Thrift at a time when primitive pioneer conditions existed in the community, located on the Florida Georgia state line. "There wern't no bridges or graded roads," said Burnsed who still lives in the vicinity of his birthplace. "There wern't nothing but horse cart trails and horses or mules for transportation. A few people had carts. My daddy was the first in the community to have a wagon," he proudly exclaimed. "Boys wore dresses back then," he said. "I Was a great big boy when Mama made me a pair of knee pants. I looked down and saw 'em on me and started crying." "My daddy grew long cotton and when we'd go into Sanderson to sell it for five cents a pound in the seed, we'd leave 'bout 3 a.m., before daylight," he said. "The reason I remember that so good is because my mama would fix us a good breakfast and we'd stop over by Cedar Creek to eat it. There'd always be a great big slab of white bacon and oh, my Lord, was that good--too good to even talk about," he said with a shudder, obviously overcome by the memory. "My daddy was a great hunter," he said, "and he took me with him. None of the other kids cared to go too much. A coon hide brought fifty cents and a seven foot gator hide a dollar fifty." "By being a good hunter we got along good in them days 'cause there wern't no laws governing the Okeefeenokee swamp then. The bears and deer were fat on acorns and blueberries and the meat was so sweet," he said. "The first depression I ever heard tell of was once me and my daddy was over in Moniac and there was some talk 'bout it and ole man Riley Crews spoke up and said, 'They say there's a depression, but I can't tell no difference. And he couldn't cause all we ever had to buy back then was a barrel of flour and maybe some coffee ever so often. We raised or grew or hunted the other food we needed." Burnsed said as a lad he made his first trip by train to Jacksonville with a school teacher. He said he "really got an education." "I didn't even know horses wore shoes and I heard these horse and surrey buggies clomping down Bay Street which was brick then. Boy, that was amazing to me," he said. The first airplane and automobile didn't surprise Burnsed any. "I knew they were coming all along, cause I read about it in the Bible," he said." It (the Bible) says that men would go up in the air without wings and that carriages would be drawn without horses, so I was expecting it." On December 31, 1911, Burnsed married Lossie Rhoden, a neighbor's daughter. "We were going to school together .... and well you know what happens in school," he said, obviously meaning that was one of the rare opportunities young people had to meet and become acquainted at that time. Burnsed says he thinks he "got almost to the third grade" before marriage. The Burnsed's started their life together as tenant farmers. "I didn't like that too much," he said, "working for someone else. I wanted a place of my own but I only had about thirty dollars and a mule." "About that time the Bo-weavel came into these here parts and ate up all the cotton," he said. "Bootlegging come along so I went into the bootlegging business like a lot of other people and that's how I got the money to get me some property. I 'recon the Lord sent bootlegging for a purpose after the Bo-Weavel ate up the cotton," he said. "Ain't nary a still in these parts now adays. A lot of people abandoned their farms back then, he continued, "and moved away getting what they could for 'em. I know of one 350 acre farm that sold for $400.00 and the man moved to Macclenny and plowed other people's gardens with his mule up 'til he died. That's all he'd ever done and all he knew to do to make a living," he said. The Burnseds became the parents of seven children, five girls and two boys. Lossie lived to see her first grandchild. After Lossie's death, Harley married Margie Padget. That was twenty years ago. Harley Burnsed still lives a stone's throw away from all the places that have brought him countless memories and experiences, soon to be published in a book about his life. "I had a good time all my life," he said, "growing corn, peanuts, cane, raising hogs, cows, and now goats." Burnsed said he'd never joined a church although there are "all kinds of people coming 'round wantin' me to join up. I tell 'em I don't have time. I'm too busy taking sick people to the doctor and the Lord's taking care of me." Burnsed admits he is basically hardshell Baptist and says he's read the Bible through twice. Failing eyesight prevents Burnsed from doing many of the things he would like to do, but he still manages to laugh and tell about the good ole days. "What all are you telling her?" quizzed his wife Margie as she returned from a shopping trip to Macclenny. "Oh, I told her the facts," he jovially replied, "but I could tell her some stories," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "You see, once there was this big bear and me and my daddy ................................................ [NOTE cwm: James Harley Burnsed b. 12 Oct 1892, d. 25 Jul 1989; buried Oak Grove cemetery] _____________________________________________________________________________ Brothers keep time at a distance By LaViece Smallwood Times-Union Special Writer More than 70 years ago, when Daniel and McKinley Crews were born on a farm in Baxter, Fla., there were no automobiles, airplanes, telephones, blaring radios or television sets, no electricity, running water, indoor plumbing or microwave ovens. Time seems to have stood still all these years for the bachelor brothers. They have spent their entire lives rising daily from the same beds, in the same house, under the same roof, on the same farm "Just like our ma and pa used to do." The men rise with the sun to do separate chores. While McKinley, the younger of the two, prepares a hearty breakfast of grits, boiled potatoes and piping hot biscuits on an enamel woodburning stove. Daniel feeds the 70 or more cows that graze inside the split-rail fences around the farm. "It takes Dan'l a long time to feed all these cattle 'cause he feeds them one at a time out of a bucket," McKinley grumbles as he rambles around in the house's antiquated kitchen. Dense light filters through cracks in weathered wood window shutter and casts a glow on pots and pans of various sizes that dangle from nails on the rough pine walls. "This ole stove's about wore out as I am," McKinley said as he removed a pan containing eight king-sized golden brown biscuits from the oven. "Come over here and you can see how he makes biscuits." Daniel said, holding up a wooden spoon from a bowl containing a lumpy flour mixture. "The health woman told me not to use hog grease, so we just put in some of that there Crisco and them yonder powders," McKinley said, pointing to box of powdered milk on the table "Just put all you want in a dish and stir it up, that's the way you do It." "Now you can't put too much water. 'cause if you do you'll never make biscuits," Daniel cautioned. "They'1l be too soft " The brothers have favorite dishes they eat from. "That's the youngun' still in us, I guess." McKinley said. "Our ma got these dishes with coupons out of soap powders." They fill their bowls with a good size helping of grits adding boiled Irish potatoes with lots of liquid. Biscuits are then crumbled and added to the mixture. "Hasn't got a name. I just call it somethin' to eat," McKinley quipped. "We said the other day that if flour, bread and Irish potatoes gave out we'd be in for it , Daniel said. "But once in a while we eat a mess of black-eyed peas." The wood hinged door banged loudly as a cold wind blew a gust up through a 4-inch gap in the kitchen floorboards, where small chubby kittens were scurrying in and out. "That there hole's fine in the summer, but it ain't so good in the winter," McKinley said. "We try and keep feed sacks stuffed in it, but the kittens pull them slap out through the ground. The two men divide chores "I wash the dishes, and he lays them out here on the table and dries them," McKinley said as he poured a kettle of steaming hot water into a large metal dishpan sitting on the table. Bet you've never seen people wash dishes like I do," he said. I use a spoon and a rag like my ma did." "That's his water, and I got my water," Daniel said. "I keep a box over my pail to keep the cats out." he said, lifting the cover slightly to peer in. "I don't want him using my water. Let him go round yonder to the water pump." "I used it once and he blowed off about it," McKinley said. "So now I wash with my water and he rinses with his." "When Ma was living, we scrubbed the floor twice a year, on the Fourth of July, you know, and then before Christmas," Daniel noted. "And now we scrub when we can or will, mostly when we will," McKinley added. "I scrub my floor and he scrubs his," Daniel said. "I scrub awhile and then he does what you call rinsing." A small brick and clay fireplace supplies warmth for the brothers, and a smoky kerosene lamp provides light. Except for an occasional trip to town and infrequent visitors. the men say they have little contact with the modern world. "Someone gave me a little old thing in there that talks, but I don't know where it gets its news," Daniel said "My brother doesn't like any kind of music though. I got some education, but I don't take it to heart I don't use it." As for politics, the brothers say they are "stuck on Democrats." "I threw my pocketbook over the fence in Hoover's time," McKinley said. "Had to. Didn't have any money to go in it." _____________________________________________________________________________ The Baker County Press, Thursday June 21, 1979 By LaViece Smallwood A Taylor Legacy Lawton and Essie Conner Eighty year old Lawton Conner stood in the middle of his three acre garden, his face barely visible underneath the wide brim hat that offered protection from the bright noon day sun. Tender shoots of corn he neatly planted weeks before waved in the breeze and the sharp edge of his hoe sniped away at the unsolicited voluntary growth. "You Lawton Conner?" I asked as I started out across the rows of corn, my sandals sinking down in the hot soft soil. "Yes ma'am I am," he said, peering from under the obviously patched up wide-brim straw hat. A quick introduction and we started for the house where Essie, his companion of 63 years met us with hospitable greetings. "Our house burned completely up 11 years ago," he explained as I sat in their modern trailer home. "Saved this rocker," he said, "That's all." "We built our house out of good heart yellow pine lumber and when it went it went fast," he said further explaining a brick was apparently loose in the flue of the fire place on the cold wintery night in February when the disaster occurred. "We'd lived in that house about 48 years." Both Lawton and Essie Conner were born and, raised in the Taylor community. In the distance we could see two cribs and a barn built by Lawton's father Henry who farmed the rich fertile soil over a 100 years ago with his father Willis Conner, a settler who moved in from Charlton County, Georgia. Essie's parents Jamie Rhoden and Lettie Williams lived in the Kyler section, down the road a bit. "I was about 12 years old when I first saw him (Lawton)" said Essie. "He rode a big ole mule to our singing school. I bet it weighed 1,000 pounds. He tried to get me to go with him but I told him my daddy said I was too young, so he left me alone." "She. took my eye," Lawton quipped with a grin, explaining he respected her daddy's' judgement. "We weren't scared of him, but we knew to mind him" he added. Lawton was 15 at the time. "Two years later her father gave permission to her to have fellers so I asked her again," he said. In six months they were talking marriage. She was 14, he was 16. The tradition was to ask permission of the girl's father so Lawton and Essie did just that. "I said, Mr. Rhoden me and your daughter has decided we want to get married," he recalled, relating that Essie ran into the house to avoid the conversation. "I wasn't scared," spoke up Essie. "I just didn't want to hear the lecture I knew we'd get. However her father called her back outside and a lecture they did get, but also permission to marry. "That was on a Thursday," said Lawton. "On Saturday I got the license and on Sunday we were married at her parents home. About a 100 people in the community came." "My mamma made me the most beautiful wedding dress you've ever seen. Only cost a dollar to make," she said explaining the material cost 25 cents a yard. Lawton was the only child of Henry Conner and Etter Bennett. A sister had died at 11 months old. The young couple moved in with his parents. "After the wedding we drove the mule and wagon back to my house," said Lawton. "The next morning I got up and went to plowing. "Me and my mother in law went to the garden to get turnips for dinner," said Essie. "She put lots of hock bones and the turnips in a huge iron pot (still in the family today) and cooked them in the fire place. "I told 'em he married me just to have someone to play with," said Essie. "We weren't nothing but kids. I could hold him down real good," she said. "One day we were pickin' cotton near the road and got to playing. I was holding him down and he was just a laughing. We heard someone coming in their horse and wagon on their way to Macclenny and Lawton said, 'Get up, they'll think we're fightin'. But we always got along real good together. Never been separated but a very few times," she added. Life on the farm wasn't easy, explained the Conners, "but I believe people were lots happier back then," he said, adding there is too much to think about today. "Everybody had to pick cotton and hoe back then. We didn't have time to go to school even. We went just long enough to learn how to read and write,". he said. "I was just an old broke boy when we married," he said. "But his daddy went to sharing with us right away," said Essie. "We helped him farm. If he sold eggs, we'd get half the money. We weren't use to having much. Sometimes his daddy Would give him twenty five cents if they went to town and he'd buy me a pack of gum." "Daddy paid fifty cents a day for hired hands and they had to be good. for him to pay that, said Lawton. Two years after marriage they moved out on their own. "Sometimes I'd work on the county roads. We'd shovel dirt from sun up to sun down for a dollar, but back then a dollar would buy something." "Like what?" I quizzed. "Oh Lord Honey, you could get a, let me see, you could buy a 25 pound sack of flour for fifty cents," he said having to think hard as his mind flew back in time past today's inflation. "A good blue serge suit of clothes wouldn't cost but $15 then. Nowadays it's $200.00." Saving up $15 wasn't easy he said, but it could be done. "How?" I asked. "Well, I'd hitch up my mule and wagon and drive through the night to Jacksonville with sweet potatoes, chickens and eggs," he said explaining he could buy chickens for 25 cents and sell them in Jacksonville for 50 cents. "I'd be there by morning and drive around peddling all day. That night I'd head to the big warehouse and mule lot to rest up to drive back to Taylor. "There weren't no truck deliveries back then," he explained, just mule and wagons. "I'd take care of my mule and leave him in the mule lot to rest while I slept on the warehouse platform. Next day we'd go home." "That $15 would last us three or four months," spoke up Essie. "When we needed more he'd go back with another load. Thirteen children blessed their marriage, all born at home, the first ones delivered by midwives the last by doctors. "We've got 35 grandchildren and 15 great grandchildren with more on the way," beamed Essie. "Our children said they didn't want to stay in the country so they all moved away to the city. They didn't stay too long though cause all but three came back and settled down right here." she said. A total of 275 acres was divided among them. "Some of them drop by everyday," she said obviously very happy. "I enjoyed my home and children and I never left them one night in my life," continued Essie. "We knew where they were at all times," added Lawton. "There ain't no place like Baker County," he said. "I never had a mind to ramble off anyplace." "The kids try to get him to go to the mountains," said Essie, "but he says he knows how it looks and he ain't going." "If you ever find a big wide brim straw hat like this, get it for me," he said, adding, "I'll pay as much as $50 for it." Doctors have advised to avoid exposing his skin to the sun, thus he depends upon and treasures the irreplaceable patched up hat. With it placed squarely back on his head, a mess of sweet tender turnips pulled from the garden washed clean and placed in my car, I sped off down Conner Road past the century old barns and cribs, their function now seemingly only a picturesque view of yesterday. But to generations of Conners, decendants of their noble forebears, a constant reminder of a priceless legacy and heritage. [NOTE cwm: Lawton b. 5 Aug 1898, d. 24 Jun 1988 buried in Taylor cemetery] _____________________________________________________________________________ A long road of hard work By La Viece Smallwood Standard staff writer "I owe a lot to the people of Baker County. They supported me and gave me a chance in life. I believe if you do good to others, others will do good to you. --Sammy Walker Six days a week, 12 hours a day, Sammy Walker is on the job at the corner of Highway 90 and College Street in Macclenny. Customers at Mixon Chevron find him friendly and cordial, eager to please and always smiling. He has been there 28 years. Many of Sammy's friends and customers aren't aware that beneath the smiling surface are internal wounds that scar his heart. And Sammy likes it that way. Those scars have made him a better person, and appreciative for all he has. Born in Clinch County in the small community of Council, Ga., in 1946, he was one of 11 children born to 31-year-old Jannie Austin and 60-year-old Allen Walker. The fact that times were hard and his family poor has never bothered Sammy. That's nothing to be ashamed of, he says. Knowing that his mother was abused mentally and physically by his alcoholic father is only one of the darts that pierces his heart. That he is alive is a miracle. Three months after his birth, his mother cradled him in her arms, along with a 14-month-old brother, gathered some of her other children and headed down to the railroad tracks, where she waited at the trestle for the first passing train. Desperate to escape the cruelty of her abusive husband, she made an attempt to board the moving train with both babies and the older children. Sammy slipped from her arms and lay by the tracks unattended, before being found by a train engineer who had been alerted by train officials when the mother asked for their help in finding him. He isn't sure what condition he was found in, nor can he imagine how he lived through that ordeal, but he was eventually reunited with his mother in Sopchoppy, Fla. As long as he can remember, it was moving from one location to another, his mother always living in dread that she would be found by his father. "She was always on the run," he said. He was kept in the first grade for six years. At one time, when he was in the fourth grade, he remembers living on a dairy farm "way back in the woods" and having to walk about 12 miles to school. "There were not that many black schools," he said, "and we had to. walk a long way to get to one. I had to pass by a ravine that was filled with water and I'd get so wet that when I would get to school I'd be so embarrassed." Sammy's mother married five times. Sammy says he knows there were 22 children fathered by his father, but Sammy was the only one of his brothers and sisters who graduated from school. He was the only one who never smoked or drank. He's not sure where they all are now. "I was up in Georgia visiting my brother one time, and we saw this man sitting out front of a store with some other men drinking beer, " Sammy said. "My brother said, 'See that man over there,' and I said 'Yes,' and he said, 'Well that's one of your brothers.' I was amazed. No telling where they all are or what they're doing. "The ones I grew up with had to look around for food sometimes, and I can recall how happy we were when the ditches would fill with water and we could go catch the crawfish. We made our own traps out of styrofoam cups. We'd boil us up a pot full, pull their tails off to eat 'em. Oooeee, that was some kind of good eating! "As I was growing up, I knew I wanted an education. I never had any desire to steal, rob, drink, or smoke, or just do the things some of the others did. I just never wanted to. I really wanted to make something of my life." And Sammy said it was the people of Baker County who gave him the opportunity, and restored his faith in mankind. "People like Mr. Doc Finley, Red Mixon, Mr. L.V. Hiers, Billy Rowe and Willamina and Charles Lauramore," he said shaking his head as if in disbelief. "And I'll never forget all those sandwiches Mr. Marvin Lauramore bought me when I was hungry. All of them are some mighty fine people. They gave me food to eat for physical comfort and friendship for my happiness. And I could never forget that as long as I live. "Mr. Claudell Walker says I'm his stepson that got left out on the beach to tan," he remarked with a huge grin. Sammy came to Macclenny with his mother when he was in the seventh grade to be near his step-grandmother, Viola Austin, of Marietta. When he enrolled in Keller School they skipped him a grade or two before he had to return to Jacksonville to finish his last three grades. Then his mother became ill and was hospitalized for three months. He would either walk or hitchhike the 12 miles to University Medical Center at least four days a week to visit her. He was the only one of his brothers and sisters who did so. When she died in 1965, he returned to Macclenny to live with his brother. He needed work and often picked up bottles to sell for some crackers and a drink. Then one day Doc Finley asked him to work part time at the Chevron station, sweeping up and doing other odd jobs. That very day, Billy Rowe asked him to work for him as a dishwasher at NEFSH. He did both. "I had to be at the hospital at 6 a.m., so I'd walk, even if it rained, and it often did, " he said. "When I'd get off there, I'd head in to Mr. Doc's station. Mr. Doc had been so good to me I just had to stay on and I'm so glad I did. "I even worked for Mr. Paul Knabb in turpentine on my off hours and Saturday," he said. "I only had one outfit of clothes for a while, and I'd get so, dirty out in the woods. Every night I'd wash my clothes out, then dry them, put them back on for the next day. I got paid $4 for filling a vat and sometimes it would take me three days' work to do it. "This was a time when integration caused some problems for the black people, but you know, they never bothered me. I could even be out after dark, and they'd be harassing other blacks along the way, but they's say to me, 'Hey Sammy, how you doing?' "The people in Baker County have never mistreated me. They've never called me 'nigger' or any other bad remarks. They've fed me when I have been hungry. I've eaten at their tables -- they never made me feel any different because of my color." In 1968, Sammy had saved enough money to buy a $500 car. He loaned it to a friend and it "blew up." It was back to walking until his good friend Billy Rowe sold him a truck. And that wasn't all Billy did. He promoted Sammy from dishwasher to cook at NEFSH. "I did such a good job for Mr. Billy that he made me supervisor of the kitchen, and I stayed at NEFSH for 26 years, until I retired," he said. "And I finally got able to buy myself a brand new car , " he said proudly. "I applied for credit down at Sands Chevrolet and gave Mr. Doc and Mr. Billy as references. I'll never forget that happy day when the salesman, Tommy Johns, called me and said my credit was OK and I could come down and get the car. " Things looked up for Sammy. He married in 1969, but it turned out to be a bad decision. "She was a husband-abuser," he noted sadly. "I didn't know when I came in from work whether or not she had a gun or knife to point at me." The couple was divorced in 1980. In 1982,. he remarried -- to Luvisa Cummittee, a fellow employee at NEFSH. Sammy started going to the Church of God in Christ church with her in Lake City where she lived. Their only child is Devan, who is 8. "She's wonderful," he says with a big grin. "She's like a missionary, she gives talks and all. She's great." Luvisa retired from NEFSH after 18 years. The couple once lived in Macclenny, but he said the neighborhood became filled with crime so they moved to Lake City. But Sammy feels that Baker County is his real home. "I only live in Lake City at nights and on Sunday, he smiled. "The rest of the time I live in Baker County." The day Doc Finley died on Feb 7, 1989, Sammy was made manager of Mixon's Chevron. Sammy's been at the station so long that he now finds himself giving bubble gum to the children of people that he had given bubble gum when they were young. "I don't look back on my life with bitterness. A lot of people went through the things I did. So many of them made the wrong choices in their life -- drinking and doing drugs, stealing and robbing. I turned someone in for stealing not long ago. I don't believe in it. People work hard for what they have and it's wrong to take it from them. "I owe a lot to the people of Baker County. They supported me and gave me a chance in life. I believe if you do good to others, others will do good to you. You've just got to try and want it yourself, and you can have it all if you work for it." _____________________________________________________________________________ Old Macclenny was a 'moving' thing for Gilberts The Baker County Standard, October 22, 1992 Page 7 By La Viece Moore-Smallwood The Baker County Standard "Macclenny was very Primitive when we moved here. In the early days there were men all over town with big pistols hanging out of their pockets."--Will Gilbert William Clyburn Gilbert and Willie Mae Mathews have been sweethearts from the time she was 11 and he 13. Today they live in the house they moved into at Seventh and McIver Streets in 1937. It is filled with memories deeply rooted in their hearts. Memories they have built together for more than 66 years. In 1923, the Mathews family moved to Macclenny from Green Cove Springs. Willie Mae says 981 people then lived in the town. Her father, William Lion Mathews, owned a hardware business. Highway 90 was being paved, but all the other streets were unpaved and very sandy. Cows and hogs often lay in the path of the Maxwell and Nash cars that rumbled through town. "My daddy had to stop our car many times and get a stick and get them out of our way," Willie Mae said. Her family was among the first in the city to have indoor plumbing. She remembers her young friend Mae Henderson (later Mae Powers) visiting and exclaiming, "Now you want have to go to the river to take a bath. " "My family didn't go to the river anyway," said Willie Mae. "We had large wash tubs we used, but most people went down to the river when they needed a bath, taking their. soap and a towel with them. " The "wash hole" was the St. Marys River that divides Glen and Macclenny. Willie Mae had established a special relationship with William Gilbert years before when they both lived in Georgia, and even though their lives took different paths for awhile, they often saw each other when Willie Mae visited her grandmother in Helena, Ga. Will Gilbert joined the Merchant Marines and at age 19 began traveling all over the world. He took a year out to attend Georgia Tech, then rejoined the Marines. In 1926 he came home long enough to marry Willie Mae. After that, the two often met in ports when his ship would dock. Eventually, Will left the Merchant Marines and he and Willie Mae moved to Jacksonville where he worked in a Ford plant. In 1935, they moved to Macclenny. The country was in The Great Depression and Will took a job selling sewing machines. He held three licenses in engineering, and Willie Mae remembers once when he was called to help out in the Jacksonville Shipyard to work on some big ship engines. He arrived there on Sunday afternoon and because several of the men had the flu, he was asked to stay and work overtime. With only two hours sleep at night, he finally finished on Wednesday. When he arrived home Willie Mae met him at the door with a bar of soap and a towel. "He was so dirty, plain black, and I sent him to the wash hole down at the river to bathe," she said. He was so exhausted he slept 24 hours. Living in Macclenny had its problems. Very few people had indoor toilet facilities, and Will Gilbert got a government contract to build outdoor privies. "I dug the holes 6 feet deep and 30 inches in diameter," he said. "The hookworm problem was terrible," Willie Mae remembers. "It was a mess. The government was trying to eradicate the hookworm problem by building outdoor privies. Those little outhouses were a big modern convenience for many of the citizens at that time. " Will Gilbert opened up a hardware-general store in 1935 with $55.60 in supplies. "They said I wouldn't be there but two months, and I was there 38 years," he said. By chance he got into the house-moving business when a local merchant friend asked him for a favor. "I had a big 7X22 foot trailer, " he said. "and Leo Dykes asked me if I would go to Woodstock (near Lake City) and move a house that was only 14x 18 feet. "It was 1938 and a hurricane was sweeping through south Florida, the backlash hitting Baker County. I braced the walls of the little house and left it half-on and half-off the trailer until the winds subsided. When I returned the house had overturned, but the fireplace and everything else was still in place. Today the little house still stands in Macclenny. " That incident led to other requests to move houses and the beginning of a long and successful career. He had moved the first house for $35 but said he lost money, so when he was approached by Mr. Dykes the second time, the price had gone up. He charged $75 each for the next two he moved and bought two jacks to replace the 4x4s he was using. During the next 21 years he moved 4,300 houses and buildings. He takes understandable pride in telling about moving a hospital in Madison with the patients still in it. "One man died and one baby was born during the move 305feet away," he noted. "About 25 or 30 people from Baker County went just to see me do it. The building weighed 250,000 pounds." Once he moved a house in Baldwin. The owner had been gathering eggs. After the house was moved two miles away and crossed a ditch, an egg and glass of water were still on the table inside the dwelling," he said. His motto: "The impossible we do at once, but a miracle takes longer. " The Gilberts were active in the community. With the late Vera Holt and Mrs. Ida (Will) Knabb, Willie Mae, who was the PTA president, started a soup kitchen for the children. "We held interviews with the children and asked them about their lunch," Willie Mae said. "We found that most of them just had a cold biscuit and a piece of bacon, and some just had a sweet potato. It was obvious their diets were inadequate, so we were able to get the school board to build us a small room with a stove, sink, and counter. It became known as the soup kitchen because we served the children a free bowl of hot vegetable soup and a glass of milk daily. " She said Mrs. Ida Knabb owned many cows and furnished much of the milk. Eventually soup kitchens were built for the children in Olustee and Sanderson. The Sanderson soup kitchen was later moved by Will to Macclenny and today is occupied by their long-time family maid Mattie Josey. The Gilberts prospered. They bought a summer home in Fernandina and as their family grew to five (a sixth child died young) they spent many hours during the summer at the beach. Will often let his employee drive a truck full of town children to Macedonia to swim in the "wash hole". "I can't ever remember anyone of them thanking me, but not long ago Barry Rhoden told me how much he appreciated it and what it had meant to him and his family, and it made me feel good," Will said. Macclenny had a movie house owned by Earl Chessman but, according to Willie Mae, it was full of bed bugs." In those days a lot of people had bedbugs in their beds and they'd get on the children's clothes and spread wherever they went, she said. "The children would come home covered with them and I wouldn't let them come in until I sprayed them with a spray pump," she said. "I hated to deprive them of the joy of going to the movies, so I just sprayed them when they got home. The Gilberts said almost all the people who lived in Macclenny when they first arrived are now dead. "Macclenny was very primitive when we moved here," said Will. "In the early days there were men all over town with big pistols hanging out of their pockets." "Yes, and late at night you could hear them going off," said Willie Mae. "They'd get at one end of town and fire a shot signaling that the coast was clear and then you could hear cars going down the road with their loads of moonshine." Will Gilbert said he remembers when two of the 'shine cars had a wreck and turned over. At the funeral the minister looked down on the bodies and said, "All dressed up and nowhere to go." "I was told that 10,000 gallons of moonshine passed through Macclenny every week," he said. On one occasion, while passing through customs in New York, Willie Mae said a customs officer was inspecting a bottle of wine she was bringing to her husband. Noting she was from Baker County, Fla., he asked her, "Why do you need this wine with all the moonshine you've got in Baker County?" "I never realized until then we were famous, she said. The Gilberts remember the 1938 fire that destroyed a city block in Macclenny. "I'd just received a big shipment of galvanized tubs and buckets, " he ,said. "We took them all up on the roof, filled them with water from a hose and took wet brooms to put out the sparks that were hurled from across the street. Our efforts saved the fire from spreading," he said. Destroyed in the blaze was the whole city block where the current Standard building stands. Will's store was located where the office of Dr. Gary Dopson is presently located. Ice cream was delivered to Macclenny by train every weekend, said Willie Mae. There was a little ice-cream store down by the railroad station and everyone would rush down to buy some. "That was the only time we got any, and that was such a treat for us, " she recalled. During World War II, the Gilberts said, dances were held at the Women's Club, and servicemen from Cecil Field would come to Macclenny to dance with the girls. "The local boys didn't like that," she said. The Naval Air Station in Lake City would send a bus over every week to pick up the Baker County girls and their chaperons to attend dances, the Gilberts explained. "I wasn't afraid to let our oldest daughter go; things were not as dangerous back then, and I trusted the chaperons," said Willie Mae. She remembered two of the escorts were Doris Crocket and Eva Ward. The five Gilbert children all live in other areas, but come home often for visits. Anita (Mrs. George) Gerson and Rachel (Mrs. Herb) Nasrallah, live in Tampa. Charlotte Ramirez lives in Valdosta, Margaret (Mrs. William) Fusse lives in Hendersonville, Tenn., and son Peake and his wife Eleanor live in Fayetteville, Ga., where he works for Delta Airlines. They have 17 grandchildren and 14 great-grandchildren. When Willie Mae turns 90 on Nov. 14, they'll all be home to celebrate. Last September the Gilberts celebrated 66 years of marriage. "We don't have any boxing gloves so we don't fight," said the jovial Will. The Gilberts are Episcopalian. Will built the, quaint little brick church that stands at the comer of Fifth and Minnesota Streets in 1967, after a fire destroyed the original building. A Jacksonville firm wanted $650 to build and install the beams. Will took three hours to design the equipment to fashion the beams and three hours to install them. They acquired their beautiful century-old stained glass windows from St. Andrew's Church, which was being torn down in Jacksonville. "Those bricks were supposed to be my new brick home," said Willie Mae, "but I didn't mind him building the church with them." The Gilberts' are truly builders of varying degrees. The homes, churches and businesses will eventually crumble into the dust, but the Gilberts will be remembered always for the building of character, family, enduring friendships, and community bonding. That kind of "building" will live forever, and few of their kind will ever pass our way again.