"The Way It Was" Newspaper Column on Baker County, Florida History, 1979 part 2 File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by Gene Barber (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. *********************************************************************** THE WAY IT WAS ------------------------------------------------------------ William Eugene "Gene" Barber, Artist, Instructor, Historian & Genealogist authored a series of articles for the Baker County Press entitled "The Way It Was". His articles covered all aspects of Baker County pioneers lives in a colorful, entertaining, as well as, educational manner. At an early age, Gene possessed the desire and ability to interview the 'Old Folks'. He was as talented in the use of the pen, as he is with a brush, choosing his words and expressions in a way to paint an exciting and interesting story. The following are Gene's articles as published in 1979. Contents: * A Fresh Start (in part 1) * Some Historical Notes On The Rev. Marion DeGrate (in part 1) * 'Mystery hole' unearthered (in part 1) * 1924 Nursery Catalog - Two Parts (in part 1) * Some Notes On "Lightered" - Two Parts (in part 1) * Barber House Is Vandalized (in part 1) * The Saga Of George Reynolds (in part 1) * Samuel Spearing - Slave to Lawmaker (in part 1) * The Big Snow (in part 1) * Growth And Progress? - Four Parts (in part 1) * Immoral Behaviour On The Creek Bank (in part 1) * Black Pioneers - The Indian Fighter And The Wood Chopper (in part 1) * Some Tips On Genealogy (in part 1) * History Of County Newspapers (in part 1) * The Fraser Pioneers (in part 1) * The Great Horse Race (in part 1) * A Portrait Of The Dowlings (in part 1) * William Henry Stone 1843-1917 (in part 1) * You're Getting Old If...... (in part 1) * More.... You're Getting Old If...... (in part 1) * Frontier RecreationTwo Parts (in part 1) * Recognizing Pioneers In Preservation Of History Here * Gooder English & A Book Review * A Belated Fourth Of July Article * Arch Hogans * The Old Courthouse * The Telegraph Centennial * Mrs. Addie's Ancestors - Two Parts * The Sessions Family - Three Parts * Hurricanes, Guns And A Meeting * Dear Mrs. Fletcher..... * Historical Society Puts Battle Print On Sale * Buzzard Barbara - A book review * Yellow Fever Epidemic - An eyewitness account * A Witch Story * A Few Halloween Lessons * A Backwoods Frolic * An Expedition Along The Saint Mary's River * A Muster Roll From 1862 * Reflections On A Rainy Afternoon * James B. Matthews * Some Ideas On Generating Our Own Electricity Here * Some Of Your Reactions To Column Materials Past * Ain't No Problem So Bad We Can't Eventually Learn From It * Devil Enoch Roberts - Part One _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, June 28, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Recognizing Pioneers In Preservation Of History Here This week marks our column's fourth anniversary. That's 206 (we missed 2 weeks) offerings of your history plus a few timely remarks tossed in here and there. With a period of 27 years research represented in these articles, we shudder to think of the approximate cost (no wonder we don't own a nice brick split level and a sporty automobile). This writer strongly doubts if anybody else would be silly enough to engage himself in such a lifelong project as compiling an area's history. However, there are a few others who early saw the need of finding, recording, and presenting this county's heritage. The late Loyce Knabb Coleman was, to our knowledge, the county's first genealogist. She began with her own blood lines and soon became fascinated with other area clans. From her much family information came to this column. Mrs. Coleman researched the entire eastern seaboard, was a charter member and co-founder of genealogical societies, and collected an impressive library of historical and genealogical information. With her uncle, Paul Knabb, she wrote a history of the Knabb-Brown-Raulerson families. She did all this while becoming one of our first and foremost businesswomen. This writer is deeply indebted to Mrs. Coleman for her generous assistance in compiling these articles so that Baker County could know more about itself. Another who early saw the necessity of preserving heritage and labored unnoticed for years to do so is Mrs. Wilma Cook Morris. Rescuing priceless photographs from trash piles and pumping the memories of pioneers' aging offspring, she traversed Baker County collecting history. When in 1961 the committee chosen to compile a local history began to panic because there had never been more than a couple of paragraphs written on the county (and they were stereotypical), Wilma Morris came through. Mrs. Morris was actively interested in area history when nobody else cared. The writer of this column, as indeed the county, feels fortunate to count her a friend. A young man who combines diverse talents with an avid interest in history is Dicky Ferry. Many was the time this column would have floundered had it not been for Mr. Ferry's library and his knowledge of local Civil War activities. His research and digging at various sites around the county and environs verified and paralleled this column's findings. We feel that the history and heritage of Baker County would still be shrouded in mystery and buried away from our eyes had it not been for Ferry. And he keeps his finds here in the county for the eventual and ultimate use and enjoyment by the local population. In finding their heritage and presenting it to them, Baker Countians have no more loyal friend than Dicky Ferry. Born in rural Baker County, a sport and wit about the world, and having earned the title of Lieutenant-Colonel during World War II, Mace A. Harris has devoted much of his retired life to researching and collecting the genealogies of most of Baker County's oldest families. Without efforts such as his, much valuable information and anecdotes regarding the Florida Cracker might have been forever lost to posterity. We've seen Colonel Harris copy faded gravemarker information from entire cemeteries in the broiling sun, and we are aware that he spends as many hours over the recorded history to be found in court and state houses. The funds for his work come from his own pockets. He is willing to share his findings with anyone who asks. Colonel Harris once complimented this writer by referring to him as "a friend and a gentleman." Actually, the comment should have been spoken of Colonel Mace Harris by this column and declared to Baker County. As long as this writer can recall, whenever it was remarked that a certain person could do just about anything he wanted to do and do it well, a frequent response was, "He must have Fraser in him." A former schoolmate of this writer is such a person and she does have Fraser in her. She began her writing career early in life as a school news reporter for the Baker County Press and now is among the most widely and eagerly read of the Florida Times-Union feature writers. Many years ago Mrs. Smallwood became interested in researching her Baker County forebears, some of whom pioneered the present Sanderson section 150 years ago. Her enthusiasm produced a wealth of material on her ancestors and related families. Her interviews with the people who made and are a making history in Baker County capture an intangible, elusive part of our heritage. It is sure that the key to living now and in the future is a knowledge of the past, and LaViece Smallwood has handed us Baker Countians a master key. There are others equally sincere and active in searching out our past, but the aforementioned are the pioneers. Then, there are always the bandwagon-jumpers, the faddists, and the opportunists. Seems lots of folks are now digging up their great-grandpas, restoring 40 year old privies, and even quoting this writer without giving him credit for all the years and money he spent providing them with their historical information. We just want you to know who started it all (and did it well). Clip this out and re-read it every few years. THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday July 5, 1979 THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Gooder English & A Book Review In hopes of improving our little weekly presentations and of better reconstructing the upcoming county history book through more proper sentence building and accepled grammar, we recently acquired a ninth grade English text for study. We should have let well enough alone. We discovered we have been shamelessly dangling our participles, quite carelessly misplacing our modifiers, and surely driving our editor higher up his wall. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge of the mitigating circumstances of having graduated from McClenny-Glen High School. However we cannot lean on that excuse forever and must take a day and do something about it. You probably ain't goin' to see much improvement, but, maybe, we'll be using fewer superfluous commas and keeping our participles in place. What has all this to do with local history? Very little except that it is a fair lead into this week's subject. A former school teacher (and therefore rather nifty with the English language) in the Polk County, Florida, system had a book published in 1975 on the history of Haines City and its environs. The authoress, Bernice More Barber of Astor, Florida, now has two books to her credit and holds an active membership in the Association of American Penwomen (no mean feat for a Polk County girl). From Beginnings to Boom, is, as all local histories, somewhat short of Pulitzer Prize material but is some of the most enjoyable reading imaginable. We went through all 427 pages of text and photographs in a couple of hours without once putting down the book except to change clothes from the washer to the dryer. We immediately liked and appreciated Mrs. Barber's (yes, she is related...we think) approach to her subject. So many Florida local histories begin with, "In 1922 some enterprising, nice Northern folk pioneered this God-forsakened land, and it immediately prospered abundantly," that we welcomed the lack of Yankee chauvinism in From Beginnings to Boom. A New Yorker on her daddy's side and an Indiana, (as was many an old McClennian) by way of her mother, Mrs. Barber has proved her Florida birth and attitude with her capture in print of Cracker ways. She records Cracker and Yankee and native and immigrant with equal enthusiasm. Want to learn how to tan a deer hide and leave on the hair? From Beginnings to Boom will tell you how. In its pages you can also re-discover cane skimmings buck, bear grass meat hangings, Indian mustard, pokeberry poultice, cooling boards for the dead, and scores of other bits of Florida Cracker knowledge that have slowly and surely been lost amongst the superior technology and intellect of the twentieth century (frozen French toast tranquilizers, and of course, television). Considering the open-mindedness of the authoress, it is not surprising that one also finds several familiar surnames listed among the northeast Polk County pioneers. Crews, Raulerson, Norton, Cone and many other well known and represented in upper Cracker Country are reported almost as if Mrs. Barber had heard one old deceased Cracker's observation: "Without Baker County and Yankees they wouldn't be no south Florida." There are some references to, and a reproduction of a postcard from, the Glen Saint Mary Nurseries. This column particularly savored Mrs. Barber's tongue-in-cheek humor: "Don Flye tells of two men who were pitying him (the authoress' grandfather) for his coughing, but both of them died before he did, while he coughed on." On the negative side we noted too many typographical errors for a book otherwise so well presented. But, Lord knows, we dare not cast the first stone. Some readers might object to the interspersing of seemingly very distantly related topics (news- paper social notices, town meeting minutes, school histories) among family history sketches, but we liked the change of pace and occasional holidays from genealogies and reminiscences. For students of the Cracker culture, Florida and Georgia genealogists, and history buffs, we suggest reading From Beginnings to Boom by Bernica More Barber. Hopefully, we're seeing a trend in capturing the ways of the Florida Cracker in print. Mrs. Barber's, as well as other Florida writings, are available from Mickler's Floridiana, Chuleota, Florida. Now we'll return to our own history, taking great care where we dangle those old participles. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday July 5, 1979 THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Gooder English & A Book Review In hopes of improving our little weekly presentations and of better reconstructing the upcoming county history book through more proper sentence building and accepled grammar, we recently acquired a ninth grade English text for study. We should have let well enough alone. We discovered we have been shamelessly dangling our participles, quite carelessly misplacing our modifiers, and surely driving our editor higher up his wall. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge of the mitigating circumstances of having graduated from McClenny-Glen High School. However we cannot lean on that excuse forever and must take a day and do something about it. You probably ain't goin' to see much improvement, but, maybe, we'll be using fewer superfluous commas and keeping our participles in place. What has all this to do with local history? Very little except that it is a fair lead into this week's subject. A former school teacher (and therefore rather nifty with the English language) in the Polk County, Florida, system had a book published in 1975 on the history of Haines City and its environs. The authoress, Bernice More Barber of Astor, Florida, now has two books to her credit and holds an active membership in the Association of American Penwomen (no mean feat for a Polk County girl). From Beginnings to Boom, is, as all local histories, somewhat short of Pulitzer Prize material but is some of the most enjoyable reading imaginable. We went through all 427 pages of text and photographs in a couple of hours without once putting down the book except to change clothes from the washer to the dryer. We immediately liked and appreciated Mrs. Barber's (yes, she is related...we think) approach to her subject. So many Florida local histories begin with, "In 1922 some enterprising, nice Northern folk pioneered this God-forsakened land, and it immediately prospered abundantly," that we welcomed the lack of Yankee chauvinism in From Beginnings to Boom. A New Yorker on her daddy's side and an Indiana, (as was many an old McClennian) by way of her mother, Mrs. Barber has proved her Florida birth and attitude with her capture in print of Cracker ways. She records Cracker and Yankee and native and immigrant with equal enthusiasm. Want to learn how to tan a deer hide and leave on the hair? From Beginnings to Boom will tell you how. In its pages you can also re-discover cane skimmings buck, bear grass meat hangings, Indian mustard, pokeberry poultice, cooling boards for the dead, and scores of other bits of Florida Cracker knowledge that have slowly and surely been lost amongst the superior technology and intellect of the twentieth century (frozen French toast tranquilizers, and of course, television). Considering the open-mindedness of the authoress, it is not surprising that one also finds several familiar surnames listed among the northeast Polk County pioneers. Crews, Raulerson, Norton, Cone and many other well known and represented in upper Cracker Country are reported almost as if Mrs. Barber had heard one old deceased Cracker's observation: "Without Baker County and Yankees they wouldn't be no south Florida." There are some references to, and a reproduction of a postcard from, the Glen Saint Mary Nurseries. This column particularly savored Mrs. Barber's tongue-in-cheek humor: "Don Flye tells of two men who were pitying him (the authoress' grandfather) for his coughing, but both of them died before he did, while he coughed on." On the negative side we noted too many typographical errors for a book otherwise so well presented. But, Lord knows, we dare not cast the first stone. Some readers might object to the interspersing of seemingly very distantly related topics (news- paper social notices, town meeting minutes, school histories) among family history sketches, but we liked the change of pace and occasional holidays from genealogies and reminiscences. For students of the Cracker culture, Florida and Georgia genealogists, and history buffs, we suggest reading From Beginnings to Boom by Bernica More Barber. Hopefully, we're seeing a trend in capturing the ways of the Florida Cracker in print. Mrs. Barber's, as well as other Florida writings, are available from Mickler's Floridiana, Chuleota, Florida. Now we'll return to our own history, taking great care where we dangle those old participles. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday July 12, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber A Belated Fourth Of July Article Now and then, we receive a few comments about our column (more often not than do), and we are occasionally surprised by some; i.e. "I thought you'd have something more appropriate for the Fourth." Quite frankly, we didn't think folks would like having their Independence Day festivities marred by thought of patriotism and heritage and therefore opted for something else. This week, compliments of Mr. Thomas Reynolds and the late Mrs. Nona Curry Odom Lang, we bring some paragraphs on some Revolutionary War topics. At the headwaters of the Saint Mary's River is situated Baker County, Florida. Where that same river makes ready to broadly enter the Atlantic Ocean is ths community of Saint Marys, Georgia. The two locales are connected since so many Saint Marys citizens became Baker County pioneers. The Bessents who settled in south Baker County were descended from former Saint Marys tax assessor and collector, Abraham Bessent. Although there is still some controversy among the Brown family genealogists, much evidence points toward Hugh Brown of Saint Marys having been the grandsire of Baker County pioneer Hugh Brown. Mr. Bessent and Mr. Brown were, by-the-way, Loyalists during the Revolution. Some of their descendants, brain-washed by excessive patriotism, prefer to refute that fact, and some even deny their lineage. Serious students of history never read history books but go, rather, to the history sources. There, they find that the majority of Georgians and Carolinians, as were so many backwoods New Englanders, ultra-conservative (not to mention being ultra-close to the loyal British colonies of Florida and Canada) and cast their lots with the Mother Country. When one discovers that the vast majority of Deep South Rebels were an unsavory lot and were more interested in stealing and raping the countryside than in dedicating their lives to the Yankee and Virginia-dominated Rebellion, one is not so averse to having Tory ancestors. Both Bessent and Brown served in some capacity during the War of 1812 against the English. Bessent's son John was, in fact, stabbed and robbed of the entire treasury of Camden County by the British-supporting Spanish on his way from Traders Hill (near the present Folkston) to Saint Marys. Since then, no member of those families has ever been anything less than loyal to his nation, and the family's. Baker County descendants proved their latent rebelliousness by serving in the Confederate Army (now, to an Unreconstructed Southern Reb, Note cwm: Page two missing. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday July 19, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Arch Hogans This column has lately received a number of requests for the name of the first Baker County settler. Frankly, we would not touch that project with a ten foot pole. However, we used to hear kinfolks say that when our family's ancestors arrived in this area in a wagon train in 1829 there were but three families living here. Research has turned up three 1830 settlements along the Saint Mary's River, other than the 1829 wagon train people, on the soil of Baker County - William Barber, Archibald Hogans and John Hogans. The Honorable Folks Huxford, dean of Georgia genealogists, interviewed children and grandchildren of Archibald Hogans who crossed the Saint Mary's River into the future Baker County in 1828. This writer's efforts at research has substantiated, if differed in minor points, Judge Huxford's report. Born in 1800 in Macon County, North Carolina, Arch Hogans was a son of a Revolutionary War soldier (whose name we haven't learned), and his mother's name was Frances. His widowed mother moved her family into Wayne County, Georgia, in the early 1800's onto land allegedly received for her deceased husband's military service. There Arch married Zilpha, a daughter of Richard Roberts in 1824. Their first child, James, was born the following year in Wayne County, and the young family drifted south following the opening of virgin farmland in Ware and western Camden Counties. By 1828 they were established on Baker County land in the shadow of, so the descendants reported, Fort Moniac (although Fort Moniac would not be established for another 10 years). If the Arch Hogans family was the first to arrive in Baker County, then their next born, Archibald III, could well have claimed the distinction of being the first child born - 1828 - on Baker County soil. A succession of other kids swelled the family, viz.: John, born in 1831; Lewis, born in 1834; Wright, born in 1836; Arabella, born in 1838; Joseph S., born in 1840; Mary, born in 1841; Catharine, born in 1844; Zilpha, born in 1847; and Joshua "Josh", born in 1848 or '49. The Second Seminole War erupted in 1835, and Bolech (called "Billy Bowlegs") began raiding around the Okefenokee Swamp and along the Saint Mary's River. Arch joined his neighbors from both sides of the river and served in Captain Daniel Cone's Georgia Militia. His known service was in 1838 and his military activity was mostly around the Okefenokee. According to Colonel Thomas Hilliard's report in 1838, that year's military campaign seemed to have driven the Creeks and Seminoles from the Okefenokee and assured the Crackers of safety. The war moved south and the Bend and few new Florida residents resumed their toil and "youngnun gittin'." Sometime in 1840 a belligerent Creek from West Florida, Ecouchatti, arrived and joined his men to Bolech's forces. The war's recrudescence caught most settlers poorly prepared. In August of 1840, riders spread the alarm of an impending Indian attack. Several settler families, some new arrivals still living in pitched tents, fled to the Hogans stockade for protection. Several whites were killed and the Hogans house badly damaged by fire. Arch and Zilpha moved farther west into the present Columbia County. At that point the Hogans story becomes nebulous. One family report claims Arch died in their new home in 1848 and the widow returned with her family to their old Baker County settlement. Huxford's sources averred Arch died in Baker County in 1847 (we are inclined to believe so, basing our preference on information given us by Arch's descendent, the late Miss Sanada Thrift), and the widow then moved to Columbia County. Whichever the true tale, Zilpha was back in the Fort Moniac vicinity in 1850, in her old home we presume, and most of her children grew up in Baker County. Much of our wealth of Hogans data has been lost, but we have the following marriages in our records: Arch III married (1) Mary, a daughter of James Joyce and Mary Malphys Leigh and (2) Jane Rosier; Arabella married John, son of Moses Hatcher; Joseph married Patience, daughter of Hezikiah Johns; Zilpha married Leroy J. "Pomp", son of Carr Thift; and John married Rosetta " Rose", a daughter of Jeremiah and Sarah Johns. The Hogans homestead remained in the family until a descendent sold out to Riley Rhoden. The administrators of Mr. Rhoden's estate later sold the Hogans place to Harley Burnsed. Mr. Burnsed's son Nathan and his wife Dorothy now own and live on the picturesque farm, ever mindful and appreciative of their trust - perhaps the oldest settled site in Baker County. Anyone with any knowledge of the Hogans family is requested to share it with this column. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday July 26, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber The Old Courthouse It has been this writer's pleasure to work and correspond with Jim Macbeth of the Fiorida State Museum for the past several months in a joint attempt to include some Baker County history among that of her sister counties. Among other bits of knowledge gained, we learned that not one of Florida's sixty-seven counties has less recorded and presentable history than our own. One of Mr. Macbeth's projects has been to assemble an exhibit of Florida counties courthouses. It will travel about the state and should be available to us in 1980. Both old and new Baker County courthouses are included, the excellent photography of which are by Tommy Ingram of Schooley's Mountain, New Jersey. On the subject of courthouses, we would like to make some comments on some folks closely associated with ours - the Board of Baker County Commissioners. No other group of people has ever, at various times, toted such blanket cussings as has the local commissioners. The Board is one of those peculiar institutions which is continually being damned for doing and not doing. But this column wishes to haul a few county truck loads of roses and dump them onto the private drives of the gentlemen of the Board, present and recently retired, for displaying fortitude, economically good sense, and a regard for the heritage and aesthetic taste of the populace. They finally balked and no longer subscribed to the theory that progress is equated with bulldozing absolutely sound structures just because they are older than twenty-five years and replacing them with flimsy, windowless shoe boxes decorated with exposed ductwork and plumbing. In short, they saved our old courthouse (you date yourself according to what you call it - courthouse, old courthouse, Health Department, or Library). Not an old structure (built 1908), it is of sufficient local and architectural interest to warrant preservation and perpetual maintenance. The county was but forty-seven years old when it was erected. McClenny had been the county seat only a quarter of a century. Mule and wagon hauling brought in the sand to build up the marshy land for its foundation (no doubt a few made a side trip to a constituent's buggy drive to drop a little fill dirt). Gubernatorial candidate Fuller Warren told his notorious bedbug tale on its steps (the bedbugs were so thick at a place he once stayed that they lifted him off the bed). Governor Sidney Catts told the locals gathered in its yard that they had but three friends - Jesus Christ, Sears-Roebuck, and Sidney J. Catts. Governor Fred Cone suggested while gossiping in the hall that maybe giving the vote to women would not be such a bad idea if things could be balanced off by taking the vote away from black males. Sheriff Joe Jones sat on a bench in the hallway and sent word to those for whom he had an arrest warrant to drop by. They always did. Soft spoken Sheriff Jones never wore a gun. Sheriff Shannon Green was tragically gunned down at the old building's front door and tried to drag himself toward his wife and family as his last breaths faded. Uncle George Garrett's vintage Ford, passing by, carried a bullet hole in its door and we, as kids, were morbidly fascinated by the supposed gunshot holes just inside the courthouse entrance. Home Guard and Civil Defense meetings were held there to keep us safe from the perils of the Hun in World War I and "them people over yonder" during World War II. Murder trials and their sordid testimonies rung in the upstairs courtroom. Folks dropped off bunches of mustard greens for the officials' wives. Usually large or strangely shaped fruits and vegetables were often displayed in the voter registration office. Home Demonstration and Agricultural Agent's black and white movies were projected in the upstairs courtroom and were tiny little squares that precluded viewing by anyone in the rear. Votes were counted in the center of the hallway all night and far into the next day (no machines then). Observers stood around with pistols bulging under their belts while the counters droned, "Tally:" When this writer was three years old his grandmother fell down the front steps and landed on top of him. His grandmother could be described as hefty - rest her beautiful soul - and it took the efforts of Judge Hardware Brown and a half dozen other gentlemen to lift her from her sqooshed grandson as she laughed heartily all the while. And, the old courthouse clock chimes could be heard a couple of miles away. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, August 2, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber The Telegraph Centennial We were flattered this week when we received a complimentary Centennial issue of the Bradford County Telegraph. It was one of those written history experiences we couldn't put down until every word was read, including the advertising. Attractively presented, there are probably eighty, plus, pages bearing the unmistakable historical research of long-time editor Gene Matthews (those who do not know Mr. Matthews are missing a rare treat. He is one of an engendered species - a gentleman). Leading off with a history of the newspaper founded about twenty years after the beginnings of Starke, the reader is treated to stories of the lustier days of New River, Bradford, and Union Counties (Union was once part of Bradford and both comprised the now defunct "New River"). Assassinations, public hangings and the fulminant impact of Camp Blanding are chronicled very completely with a minimum of editorializing (boy, nobody can accuse this column of that). Guest and staff writers deal in, among other things, the Bradford County Centennial, geology of the region, and the DuPont mining operations. This area's famous photography team, the Hoovers, are within the pages (anybody who was, or aspired to be, somebody had to have his beauty struck at Hoover Brothers, Starke). One can learn the curative powers of Heilbron Springs. The world's largest and most productive orange tree was in Bradford County and is discussed in the Centennial Issue. The mysterious little city of Hampton is explained. Kingsley Lake, Baker County's favorite resort in the pre-WWII era, is there. Tate Powell, Sr., as a young brass band man is among the aged photographs. One small news item describes Avery Powell's first job in the Telegraph office (Avery and Tate Powell are responsible for much of Baker County's newspapering). Unlike most local history writers, Mr. Matthews moved out of his city of residence and wrote of the rural and small town people who were as instrumental in building Bradford County as were the politicians, city folk, and financiers. The families Andreu, Griffis, Pinholster, and Strickland (and, of course, many others) are pictured and talked about (we bet not as many Griffises threatened Mr. Matthews as they did us. But, then, he was smarter and said less about them). Lucious Knabb is mentioned in the Boom Times section. Mrs. Lyma Raulerson's face smilingly glows from a recent photograph. In fact, Mr. Matthews and the other writers have not, as is so often the case, seemed to carefully avoid any mention of Baker County when Baker County is pertinent to an article. Mr. Matthews mentioned us a few years back that he intended to compile a history of Bradford County. After reading the appetizing first hundred years of the Telegraph, we eagerly await the main'course. Congratulations to the Bradford County Telegraph on it centenary. Watch for our review of its Bicentennial Issue. There are two existing situations which are no longer news worthy, and you Kind Readers are perhaps aware of same. (1) we are in a state of inflation that is appalling and bewildering to almost anyone of less than a personal fortune of magnitude, and (2) the writer of this column is cheap. This past week we received no less than five letters soliciting historical and genealogical data couched in terms somewhere between requesting and demanding. They offered no material in return and, shake upturned envelope as we may...no self-addressed stamped envelope. One week in May brought us thirteen such requests (that's 13 times 15 cents plus several hours searching files and typing). Unless we have set up correspondance or you send along exchange data, Dear Readers, be advised this ain't no public service and you can hang it up unless you tuck in the necessary SASE and swear on your grandma's grave the cost of photocopying or typing will be in the return mail. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, August 9, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Miss Addie's Background - Part one - The Pringles One of the most pleasant afternoons we have ever spent was when, a couple of years ago, we visited with centenarian Mrs. Addie (nee Howard) Whitaker and talked about her kinfolk. When we learned that we were talking with a lady who had been bounced on the knees of Indian War veterans and had a grandpa born before Florida was bought from Spain, it got sort of spooky...back yonder isn't such a far away, nebulous time after all. Miss Addie laughed and talked about her granddaddy Pringle whose Nassau County farm on the Saint Mary's River was among her favorite memories. "Grandpa paid me a nickel every day to keep the flies off him when he took his noonday nap on the front porch. Addie Howard was an enterprising and independent young lady who also accepted a nickle a day from her uncle Chambers Pringle to ride the horse around the sweep during cane grinding. But she flatly refused to "break my back picking cotton for almost nothing", for an uncle-in-law Jim Davis "the meanest man what ever wore shoes." He lived up to Hililard. Was a wheelwright. And just told Daddy I wouldn't stay up there for the littte bit he paid." Addie's grandfather, Jack Pringle, was a steady, settled man who moved very little, if at all, after arriving in Florida from Camden County, Georgia. His farm was just above Mill Creek and was bordered by the deep Saint Mary's River. The Pringle log house was old when Jack and his wife Jane (daughter of James Rowell) moved in. Two rooms, front and back, were connected to the separate kitchen by the famous Cracker dogtrot, a broad covered open hallway. There were two beds in the front room and three or four in the back. In the summer everybody moved to the dogtrot and lived out the stifling heat catching every available breeze from the nearby river. In late summer, broad cypress boards,were scrubbed until they were fuzzy and white and everybody sliced and pitted fruits to be dried on them. Pears, peaches, figs, and apples. Beans and peas were, when the weather permitted, tied high and allowed to dry on the vines and then stored in their shells. Pumpkins were rolled under the house or stored in the smokehouse until hog killing time. No canning of any kind was done. Meat, beef, and pork was salted and often smoked. "Sometimes", mused Miss Addie, "you couldn't soak it long enough to make it cut. I've ruined many a good knife trying to slice it and still had to throw the meat away." She shook her head as if wondering why her folks went to all the trouble for a product one often could not use. "It'd wear a dog's teeth out", she added. Somewhat of a genealogy buff (that can be read as "nosey"), we asked about the Pringle aunts and uncles and what became of them. Miss Addie thought hard and answered, "that won't be easy. Nobody's ever asked about them, and I've never had to think about it." Dave was the oldest (born about 1840) and married a Fourakers. Chambers died a young single man three weeks after his father's death. Jim's wife was Betsy. Britt married a Lang. John married a member of the Bryce family for whom Nassau's Bryceville is named. Martha was born in 1853 in Nassau County and married a Carroll. William H. "Bill", born 1855, married Carrie M. a member of the Bryce clan. May married Willis Norton and lived near Glen Saint Mary. Matilda married Jim Davis. Mary Margaret "Molly", born in 1858 in Nassau County, married Simon Peter Howard, "the movingest white man in the world." The Pringle Cemetery located on the farmstead, received Jack and Jane, their son Chambers, and son-in-law Willis Norton. Martha, Bill and Molly were buried at Verdie in Nassau County, and John was buried at Bryceville. Dave was the rebel in the family and stayed away from civilization and progress. His home was between Verdie and Jacksonville in an area described by Miss Addie as a "wilderness." "Dave lives way out in Low-Diver with his cows", said the old timers. We don't know where Low-Diver is, and we don't know exactly where the old Jack Pringle place is either, but we know where Miss Addie is...she's in Heaven brushing pesky flies away from her sleeping grandpa on the golden mansion's front porch, and she rides the horse around the celestial sweep, laughing at the world and jingling her nickles. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday August 16, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Mrs. Addie's Ancestors - Part Two - The Howards Continuing our conversation with Mrs. Floranna Adeline "Addie" (nee Howard) Nettles Whitaker, we were so lulled into sentimental thoughts of the idyllic Cracker life of the Pringles, we were not quite ready for her frank comments regarding her other line - the Howards. To use a cliche of old-time genealogists, they were a noble family. Miss Addie's great uncle Captain Simon Howard was a valuable officer in the Ware County Militia's struggles against the Indians. But, to use her words, "some of them were so mean their hides wouldn't hold them." Miss Addie could go back no further than her grandfather; she had never heard talk of her great-grandfather. Our research showed us that her grandsire's name was Henry, born about 1797, perhaps in Mcintosh or Pierce County, Georgia. His father, name unknown to this column, was supposed to be English born, and he settled in North Carolina before the Revolution. Henry's offspring were Matthew " Mack" A.B., born about 1824 in Camden County, Georgia; Joe; Ben; Moses; Chris; a daughter who married a Rowan; a daughter who, married a Drawdy; and a daughter who married a Brown. Henry moved to old Appling County (that section now Pierce), and around 1825 or before he and his brother Simon moved south, Simon to Ware County and Henry to the Burnt Fort area of Camden County. Simon was elected captain of a company of Ware County mounted volunteers in the Second Seminole War. He and Major Thomas Hilliard (his brother Cuyler lent his surname to the Nassau County town of Hilliard and his given name to the Baker County section called Cuyler, and now incorrectly spelled "Kyler") helped clear the Ware side and the Florida southwest side of the Okefenokee of Creeks. Henry might have died just before the Seminole War since no further records of him have been found (at least by this column). However, he left a worthy scion in Mack A. B. to carry on the good name. Mack first married Sarah Ann Crawford. There seems to be some disagreement among descendants on her parents, Reubin and Ann Crawford or Thomas and Mary Crawford. Whichever pair were the parents Note cwm: Page two missing. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday August 23, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber The Sessions Family - Part one - Circuit Rider There once existed along much of the American frontier a unique institution called "the circuit rider." Under the aegis of the Methodist Episcopal Church, those hickory-hard men braved Indians, the elements, renegades of all colors, and Baptists to take their brand of gospel to the settlers (one eloquent Primitive Baptist elder was overheard in Clay County in his prayer for rain: "... and, Lord, send your blessed showers, starting in Hamilton County and bring them through even Columbia where they have weakened and taken up with the Methodists ..." Among those intrepid Bible-toters was the Reverend Jacob Edward Sessions of Lake Butler and Lawtey. He was the son of a Methodist circuit rider who had brought his family down from South Carolina in about 1835 or '40. They were descended from a family that originated in Alsace Lorraine and seemed to be a sturdy mixture of French and German. Reverend Jake Sessions' first wife's name has been lost to present family members but they recall the names of that union's progeny, viz: Lawtin, Walton, Cora, and Louise, all born from about 1847 to about 1856. Hampton and Mary moved to Providence Village on Olustee Creek in the present Union County. Jake's brother Jeremiah moved to the present Baker County, making a sizable community of the Sessions Clan in New River County created in 1858. Reverend Jake's wife died and he commenced courting his young and pretty relative, Miss Ceeb. He was transferred to a charge in Alabama but continued to correspond with his inamorata (their love letters were preserved in the family for generations). When he returned to Florida he asked for her hand and the widower and the fifteen year old Ceeb were married at Providence on the eleventh of July, 1861. There is some question about where the couple made their first home, Lake Butler or Lawtey, but it is known they were in Lawtey soon after it was founded in 1877. Mrs. Ceeb Sessions later recalled that as a young bride scarcely older than her stepchildren, she was more interested in playing games with them than in keeping house. But there was time for housework between her youthfulness and her husband's traveling appointments at area churches because additions were soon made to the family. Elizabeth was born in 1862. Fond of flowers, she expressed a desire as a small child to be named for her favorite - Lilly. In time the euphonious nickname became legal. She married Walter M., a son of Charles and Martha Fraker Turner of New York (and immigrants to Baker County). Wiletta E. "Wit" was born in 1866. She married Willis Crawford Barclay and lived in Maxville. Jacob Edward "Jake" was born in 1867 and married (1) Elizabeth "Lizzie", a daughter of Henry L. and Mary J. Reed of Alabama (and immigrants to Baker County) and (2) Phoebe Arnellar Perryman of Chiefland. He purchased the old Shuey house south of McClenny, was severely crippled in a mule and wagon accident, and lived his older years a lonely old gentleman. Eva Mary "Mae", born in 1872, married the Reverend M.F. Duke of South Carolina. She died in Waggoner, South Carolina, leaving a son who became the registrar of Duke University. Iuna Marr "Ina" was born in 1874 and married (1) Thomas William, a son of Samuel Nell and Victoria Thompson Williams and (2) Reverend Merritt Wellington Smith of Maine. Reverend Jake Sessions completed his charge here on earth on the seventeenth day of March, 1875, in Lawtey; and the widow moved up the old Alachua Trail Road to the little boomtown of Darbyville. For those who care to relate the Sessions columns with the history of Baker County, we refer them to our columns in the Baker County Press issues of 30 October, 1975; 1 January, 1976; 3, 10, and 17 June, 1976; 12 August, 1976; and 2 August, 1979. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, August 30, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber The Sessions Family - Part II - The Widow Although already well known for goofs, we believe we capped the climax last week. First we listed four names as Mr. Sessions' children by his first marriage. Not so, they were the children of his son Jeremiah (born 1840 in Hamilton County, Florida, and married Rowena - ). Secondly, we omitted not only the just-mentioned Jeremiah, but also a daughter Susan Valeria. She was born in 1843 in Hamilton or Columbia County, Florida, and married Richard Wheeler "Dick" Griffith, a son of Richard Wheeler and Elizabeth Griffith of Hamilton County and immigrants to Baker County. But the best of the batch of mistakes was when we stated that the Reverend Jacob Sessions lived in Lawtey in 1877 and further in the column announced the poor gentleman's death in 1875. He suffered enough hardships without our putting him into the inexplicable situation of having died two years before he set up housekeeping in a town that was not yet founded. We suggest crossing out the last clause of the first sentence in paragraph six and substituting-- "the writer is in sad need of a vacation." Reconstruction days were lean for the great majority of north Florida citizens, and Mrs. Florida Celebes "Ceeb" Sessions' spare times were compounded by her widowhood at age twenty-nine and having five young children to rear. No doubt she could have remarried, but for reasons known only to her, she chose to remain in widowhood for her remaining sixty-five years. One can only surmise why she left the area that would become Lawtey in two more years for Darbyville. After learning how Mrs. Sessions made a living for her family, this writer believes he has at least one reason figured out. She simply opted for the more lucrative railroad in the neighborhood. The track running through Lawtey was an industrial, working man's railroad, but that through Darbyville (the east coast to the capital) was a railway of moneyed gentlemen. With no day-care centers and other social service hand-outs, one might wonder how the Widow Sessions survived. She seemed possessed of a few attributes one is hard put to find a hundred years later - energy, independence, pride, and guts. She sent Ina and Jake down to the Darbyville station to collect the traveling gentlemen's soiled clothes. They all pitched in to boil, battle, scrub, and iron, and the kids delivered the freshly cleaned laundry when the train returned. Ina and Jake were embarrassed at such a demeaning chore (kids would, of course, be more tolerant of earning an honest, albeit humble, living today). An accomplished seamstress, Mrs. Sessions also began to meet the trains herself and advertised her suit-making abilities. She took measurements during the gentlemen's stop in one direction and delivered the finished suits when they stopped from the opposite direction. Ceeb Sessions held her family together, tended to their physical and spiritual needs, and provided them with as much education as Darbyville (gradually becoming McClenny) offered (which, by the way, was an enviable amount among north Florida's communities, large and small). Ina and her husband Willie Williams taught school in and around McClenny and Baldwin and May taught high school in Jacksonville. Mrs. Sessions assisted in the founding of McClenny's First Methodist Church, taught Sunday School, and was a "perfect pitch" songleader, keeping all the tunes in her head. Her well worn hymnal was pocket size and is among the family's treasured heirlooms. One of last winter's hottest disco numbers has absolutely nothing to do with Aunt Ceeb Sessions, but whenever we study somebody like her its title always comes to mind - "I Will Survive." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- BAKER COUNTY PRESS Thursday, September 6, 1979 THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber The Sessions Family - The Conclusion After the great Jacksonville fire of 1901, a boom created by rebuilding the city attracted a large force of workers. Willie and Ina Sessions Williams loaded tools, household furnishings, and family (including Aunt Ceeb Sessions) onto a twenty mule team wagon in McClenny and drove to Jacksonville. Mr. Williams worked in reconstructing and re-landscaping streets and sidewalks. Ina kept house in a cottage they had built at 520 Spearing Street and operated a grocery store they constructed next door. Mr. Williams died and his widow remarried to a Maine-born Methodist circuit rider whose appointments were in Mandarin, Spring Glen, and the present Southside. Reverend Merritt Wellington Smith and his wife erected a commodious two story house at 524 Spearing which, in time, was home to four generations - Aunt Ceeb Sessions, the Smiths, Mrs. Smith's daughter and son-in-law Hazel and Tom Sebastian, and the Sebastian's daughter Constance. Also among the residents were Aunt Ceeb's oldest grandchild, Doctor Ulphian Turner, and her youngest grandchild, Juanita Sessions. Aunt Ceeb Sessions fell three days before Christmas and soon after she had turned ninety-three years of age and did not recover from her injuries. She died in early 1940, a member of the Jacksonville First Methodist Church. Lilly Sessions Turner and her husband Walter remained in McClenny. The old Turner house on South Fifth Street was torn down years ago, but the lilacs she planted in the front yard still bloom each spring. More on the Turners may be found in the Baker County Press issues of 23 October, and 3, 10, and 17 June, 1975. Jeremiah Sessions and his wife Rowena have eluded tracing by this column, but we learned that of their four children - Lawton, Walton, Cora, and Louise Lawton died in a Jacksonville nursing home on Spearing Street and Cora was last known to be in California. Susan Valeria Sessions and her husband Dick Griffith remained in Baker County (we are working on a future article on the Griffith family). Jake Sessions, Jr., (see the Baker County Press, 30 October, 1975), was this area's first game warden. When asked by the " Revenoos" if he had seen any stills on his rounds through the woods, he answered, "I'm not looking for stills, I'm looking for poachers." Soon after his second wife died, leaving him with two small children, he suffered still another of many misfortunes. As he was driving a mule and hay-filled wagon down the present Hodges Road, a snake slithered across his path startling the mule. The frightened animal jumped, throwing Mr. Sessions onto the hard packed clay road. The wagon fell on him and pinned him under for a long while. A local doctor improperly set Mr. Sessions' broken leg, and it had to be re-broken. The new break was also incorrectly performed and it left the poor man badly crippled. Jake Sessions lived a lonely life in his older years. There are none of the Sessions family in Baker County now. It is another of those clans that came in, helped make our heritage, and went away. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, September 13, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Hurricanes, Guns And A Meeting The parties planned for our latest big blow, David, reminds this writer of the fun time had by his three-times great uncle Arch Barber whose family clung to palmetto clumps for safety through several hours of the September, 1896 hurricane. When they were able to let go their tenacious holds, they discovered their digging in and wind-slapped bodies had burrowed out goodly sized craters in the hard packed Florida sand. A wide path of destruction was cut from Cedar Key to Fernandina, prompting the Florida Legislature to declare tax relief for most of the counties hit (excluding, of course, Baker County). Rail fences were lifted by the numerous tornadoes the storm spawned over land and piled-up miles away likes "crows' nestes" according to some old-timers. A few sections of rail fence were reported to have been relocated in their entirety several hundred feet away. The accompanying rains flooded out all the roads and washed away almost all the few bridges in the county. Some families in the south end and extreme north end of the county were several weeks away from making contact with their neighbors. Older heads claim the Saint Mary's River overflowed her banks and met the swollen Satilla River in Camden County. Although the winds had lost some of their force by the time the hurricane reached Baker County, they girded themselves for one last blow and took the bell tower from McClenny's Baptist Church on a trip toward Nassau County. That edifice remained without a steeple until the current building was erected more than sixty years later. All the older folks we've interviewed in the past dated everything from or before the big storm or "the storm that blew the steeple off the Baptist Church." By the time of the 1926 and 28 hurricanes, locals were beginning to be familiar with the term "hurricane" (although it's still not tripping easily off their tongues). Baker County was spared the direct fury of the "harrik'n", but her citizens suffered the agony of days of ignorance of their relatives and friends in south Florida. Scores from this section had gone south to seek their fortunes in the boom lands around Miami and the 'Glades, and all communication from there had been lost. In Baker County prayer meetings were held, and Jacksonville fortune tellers (now known as mediums, readers, and advisors) did a landslide business as many Baker Countians felt the more orthodox line of communication with the Almighty was not working fast enough. In those grand hurricane parties of '26 and '28, well over two thousand people were killed. In 1947 another of the big blows dumped enough water on Baker County to wash out most of the graded roads. Damage to live-stock and fall gardens was serious. It could not have hit at a more inopportune time since U.S. 90 was closed between here and Jacksonville for repaving and our main detour - the old Maxville Road - was gullied out for miles. The writer vividly recalls that he and his mother were marooned for a short period while his father and a friend slowly made their ways across the speedy torrents of Turkey Creek to establish a rope-pulled boat transportation system. He remembers the thousands of pounds of beef lost in the Barber Abbatoir while blocks of ice were ferried across in an attempt to save it. When one of those blocks of ice accidently fell overboard, it was weird to see how rapidly once friendly little Turkey Creek greedily ate away 200 pound chunks with her rushing current. He remembers how the old wooden Brickyard Branch bridge floated away with his great uncle on it, about Mr. Hassie Hurst dying in a storm related accident and the drives to gather clothes for the kids who lost the few they had. Yes, hurricanes are a fun thing, a time for parties. However, the writer regrets to announce he must decline your invitation to the next one. .............. The writer and a couple hundred other viewers enjoyed the weekend relics show in the Ag Building sponsored by the North Florida Historic Research Association. Several tables displayed a wide array of fascinating objects of warfare from the latter years of the eighteenth century through the Civil War. Of particular interest was the surprising number of exhibits of local finds that represented Spanish Colonial Days, First and Second Seminole Wars, and the Battle of Ocean Pond. Most of the displays were very informative, aesthetically attractive, and, we hope, indicative of an even greater show In February. The writer was heartened by the number who displayed and by the attendance of viewers who are wanting to learn their heritage. ............. The Baker County Historical Society will meet Tuesday, September 18, at 7:30 p.m. in the Auto Mechanics Building at BCHS. Attendance and membership is solicited from all residents of the county and from non-county residents. Projects will be presented and plans formulated for the coming year. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, September 23, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Dear Mrs. Fletcher.... Referring to your letter to the editor published in The Baker County Press September 13, please permit this column to partially answer your question. Although your criticism of The Baker County Press was appreciated and well accepted by the editor, this column knows that of all the institutions and communication forms ever having existed in our county, the present newspaper in recent years has been the most impartial of all and does actively seek out coverage where coverage is needed. The problem, we fear, is much broader and more basic than our local newspaper's failure to note Bonnie Gringo's new-found, and well-deserved, plaudits. Historically, our attitude of ignoring genuine ability, fame, and dedication was prefigured when Baker County was created 118 years ago. Following agitation by timber and railroad interests (money) and local civil office-holders (politics), the state formed our county and named it in honor of a nice but not especially illustrious statesman-politician (politics again) who had financial interests in the county. The new county's population was largely illiterate, unbelievably destitute, and composed of many refugees from either justice or starvation. Had they been more of the solid and concerned citizen types they would have had little reason for uprooting and moving to an area of poor physical environment so far removed from civilization. Frankly, such a people have proved throughout history that they could not care less about such profound matters as county formations and most other matters beyond staying alive. The Civil War plucked away most of the flower of young manhood; not by mortal wounds but by their choices of not returning to wives and children. Reconstruction was bitter to the few who had lost all, but hardly noticed by most of the citizenry who never had anything to lose. Large companies practiced Peonage, and the ignorant were kept in abject poverty from the 1870's well into the mid twentieth century. Social services and education were anathema to the "big Boss" whether he was the local politician or the man who handed out the weekly pay (and, incidently, who also owned the commissary). Hookworms and tuberculosis ate away at bodies and minds. Our ancestors wanted to believe the stentorian promises of the politician. If nothing else, he called them "uncle" and "aunt," black and white, and paid attention to them every two and four years. They admired the man with money (he played Jesus and kept them from starving). They called him "Mister." More and more, Baker Countians were beginning to accept that no good could ever come from their Nazareth and that the brightest stars of all usually rose from beyond our borders (ever notice who gets the really big job plums opened in our county?). Out of economic necessity and legitimate ignorance our Baker County ancestors could not afford the luxuries of the arts and reason, and they passed on to us their sour grapes attitude of distrusting or ignoring those who were involved in such fields. We refer you to our local high school's Hall of Fame for one of our main items of evidence. Of the ten so honored, and they are all deserving, valuable, and pleasant people, six are or were successful business people or possessed of lucrative jobs (money), three are or were politicians, one made it because he was engaged in football, and three (thank God!) educators were chosen. We strongly suspect the low profile national statesman was included simply because his absence would prove embarrassing. You will note that not one member of any of the arts hangs there, and we strongly doubt any have ever been considered. To this column's knowledge, no member of the arts has ever been invited to the school's career day activities, although the arts are now not only among the biggies in number employed but are, for the first time in history, richly rewarding in dollars. You might be happily amazed, Mrs. Fletcher, at the number of Baker Countians who have received many state and national honors in the past and are quietly continuing to do so today. Their names are well known outside Baker County, and one day when they become rich and are often seen on television (such a cultural God-send) and featured in the National Enquirer (a sheet of unquestionable taste), perhaps Baker County will know them too. But until then, Mrs. Fletcher, a Bonnie Gringo is without honor in his own country. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday September 27, 1979 THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Historical Society puts battle print on sale This pen and Ink drawing of Florida's only major battle of the War Between the States is an excellent example of the artwork of Herbert Lee Evans of Olustee. Gene Barber, who has judged much inmate art from throughout the state, remarked, "This is by far the best of its type I've seen." The famous historical scene has been made more authentic by Evans and is now available in fine reproduction form from the Baker County Historical Society. All proceeds from the sales will aid the Society in its projects of salvaging and preserving historical sites. They may be ordered from the Society in care of the Treasurer, Mrs. Wilma Morris, P.O. Box 26, Macclenny, at $6 for a single and $5 each for two or more. Make checks payable to the BAKER COUNTY HISTORICAL SOCIETY. Note cwm: copy omitted here. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, October 4, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber 'Buzzard Barbara' Buzzard Barbara is a paperback tale of Florida Cracker life set in the lower peninsula and is fashioned around a pretty and pert girl emerging into womanhood. Within the first few pages, young Barbara Barber successfully fights to become a tomboy, and throughout the remainder of the book her struggle to be "one of the boys" takes a strange twist and transforms her into a very feminine heroine. Barbara, or "Buzzie," may be a bit too innocent for most contemporary literary tastes, but we can appreciate and welcome the ability of the author Bernice More Barber to sell a book premised on something other than base appetites. In passing the story on to knowledgeable friends we were usually handed back the easy-to-read-in-an-evening book with the comment, "I especially enjoyed the development of the Buzzard Barbara character." Mrs. Barber researched well, for her descriptions of Cracker daily life and utensils are acceptable and true. We don't recall some of the lingo matching that in our own earlier days of cattle-driving, but we bear in mind that the folks' ways of down south differed from ours even though they were former north Florida Crackers. We don't wish to offend the author, but we flinched at each mention of levis that fit like second skin. Levis have been around a long time but are a relatively late importation among Florida cowpokes. And the only photographs we've seen of gentlemen from the era of which she writes showed britches so baggy that if they fit like a second skin, the wearer should make a mad dash to his dermatologist for emergency treatment of loose-skinitis. Yet, without "levis" and "stetsons" cropping up now and then, we realize the majority of Buzzard Barbara readers would doubt they were perusing a cowboy story. From Polk County to Punta Rassa on Florida's lower Gulf coast, Buzzie helps her family make a long cattle drive to a waiting Cuban ship and dirty-minded buyer. Attempted rustlings, lynchings, hungry gators, Seminoles, and bellicose boar hogs prevent the trip from being monotonous to Buzzie. Although the reader is not told that Buzzie is particularly cognizant of such things, he is very aware that the author takes great delight in observing nature's mobile exhibits that range from the resplendent glories of sunsets to subtle quiet sermons taught by the tiny creatures. Sufficient hints at sex are included to appeal to those with prurient interests. A lot of people get killed, and although explicit details are omitted, this should satisfy our 1970's bloodthirstiness. But in the end the author proves she has been in the Barber clan a long time; for she echoes one of their ages-old beliefs - there is some good in everybody and in every event. As the author titivates and closes out the final chapter, she ... but, then if we tell you everything, you might not want to read the book. Buzzard Barbara, a paperback fiction built on Florida history, is one of the new books to be found at your Baker County Free Public Library. If you are in possession of a publication pertaining to the history of this area, state, or region; genealogical records; or source publications in those studies; your local library would welcome your donation of them or of their dupilcates. The library staff, Clerk of Courts, Board of County Commissioners, and the Baker County Historical Society are cooperating in establishing a historical and genealogical section, and the shelves need stocking. Thoughtful and timeless memorials may be made in the form of donations of books on a local history and genealogy in the names of relatives and friends who have died and in honor of those yet living. This writer trusts that the perhaps three who might be concerned over their eventual passing keep this in mind. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, October 11, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Yellow Fever Epidemic A few years back, September 11, 1975, to be exact, this column carried a story of the tragic malarial scourge in Baker County. As a rule rather than an exception, we made a statement open to contradiction. We reported, after carefully researching the disease and listening to old-timers talk about those calamitous days, that the black vomit stage of the fever was a certain signal of death. Not long before she passed away, Miss Mae Wolfe was kind enough to send us a letter advising us that we were incorrect in that report. Here is Miss Wolfe's letter. "Some time ago you wrote through the Press that no one lived during the yellow fever that had black vomit. I did not write you, but I was a victim of that almost fatal malady at the age of four years. "A government doctor came to the town the very night I was stricken. My mother sent for him by one of the Negro men that was helping at our home. "This Doctor Tynor was stopping at the home of Dr. Frank Williams, and he was told that we lived three miles in the country, which was not so. The Negro man went back the second time, so Dr. Tynor decided to go with him. "He found four victims of the fever - my father, brother Louie, sister Lillian, and I. Father and Lillian had genuine cases, but Louie and I had what was termed as fatal cases. "When Louie had an attack, it would take several to hold that ten and a half year old boy on the bed, and I had the black vomit. "Forty had died in the town before the coming of the government doctor, and only two after his coming. Trains would put their cargo out at a safe distance from the town and then speed ahead. "Rev. Snowden at the head of the Episcopal school went over the town begging the people not to move to the country as they would find no help there. He contracted the disease and died, and his resting place is marked with a stone cross in Woodlawn Cemetery." Miss Mae Wolfe, the last known soul to have been born in old Darbyville, did indeed have the dreaded black vomit. But Miss Mae lived for ninety more years, fairly good evidence that the black vomit stage did not necessarily kill. (Note: the last sentence in last week's column should have read: "This writer - trusts that the perhaps three who might be concerned over his eventual passing keep this in mind.") _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, October 18, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber A Witch Story This writer was privileged to have an elderly relative who once predicted to him, several years in advance, of the year of her life she would die. She proved to be eventually correct, and from the time of her prediction she related some strange and startling stories of family, friends, and other, county residents with emphasis on that shadowy part of life often called supernatural or psychical. This cousin was not unorthodox but was quite acceptable in her manner of living, was a pillar of the church, and was a bit intolerant of those living outside the so-called normal way of things. She editorialized very little on her narratives but repeated them as they were told to her by those who had heard them from ancestors who were old during the American Revolution. She quoted whatever four letter Anglo-Saxon words were needed to keep the stortes authentic. When she had drained her memory of all her mystic tales, she seemed much relieved and exhausted. Now, your writer has them all in his head and has often wondered why until he remembered it is the Halloween season.. perfect for recalling tales from our dim past. Elisha Wilerson and Hog Cholera In the impoverished days following the War Between the States, a young widowed member of the writer's clan had a huge farm to operate but no money for hired help. Three of her four children were inclined to play and work mischief rather than assist her, and the fourth was so young that she was more often the cause of work than a help. While the widow busied herself in the fields alone a peddler stopped by the house, and the children set their bulldogs on him (the second oldest snorted, "I didn't like his damned Yankee talk."). The poor fellow spent all afternoon clinging to a rope the kids continually threatened to cut. When freed by the widow after she returned home late in the day, the rapidly departing peddler hesitated just long enough to lay a cursing and a curse on the entire family. Although his curse apparently had no effect on the children and bulldogs, he had conjured up enough evil to cause the widow's swine to begin dying. "Now, in those days," related the elderly relative, "there were witches. There's no use for them now, but, then, people needed them to remove spells." The widow drove her wagon east along the Saint Mary's River to the farm of the lower county's resident witch, Elisha Wilerson. Mr. Wilerson had been born in upper Georgia before the break with England ninety years before; and the venerable gentleman created ointments and charms learned from his mother who, in turn, had learned from her father, and on back until the beginnings of the "gift" were lost to the memory of mankind. Mr. Wilerson advised the widow to return home at once to make large log piles at scattered sites on her farm. Onto these she was to throw the dead carcasses and burn them: "Let no swine be dead any longer than it takes to drag him to the fire," instructed the ancient witch. "Now, there will come a woman a borrowing. Whatever else you do, don't you lend to her." The widow did as she was told and had hardly settled in for the night when the predicted female borrower came asking for a flat iron. The borrower was refused. She pled, but the widow remained strong. Pitiously crying, the borrower went to her knees. The widow held. Begging turned to screaming, and the borrower fell to the porch floor, urinating and vomiting. She called down fire from Heaven, then from Hell, but the widow was inexorable in her refusal. The strange woman ceased her writhings, got up, dusted herself off, and went away as quietly and quickly as she had come. Within two days the hogs had ceased dying, and the surviving herd appeared healthy. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, October 25, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber A Few Halloween Lessons Although time never halts and things do change, the inherent naughtiness of mankind seems to remain. The early church fathers recognized this (mercy, an enlightened pope before John Paul II?), and set up a day when, with the church's blessings, the common and gentle folk could let it all hang out. Borrowed from our pagan ancestors shadowy past and cleaned up by next day's holy happening, All Saints' Day - Halloween (All Hallows' Evening, Hallows' E'nen, Halloween) has continued throughout the ages relatively unchanged. To wicked Cracker kids it meant a visit from ol' Rawhead, and Bloody Bones, a gruesome contrivance found even in Norse times and in early England. Good children were usually spared the unnerving experience, but they still hoped for a glimpse in order to achieve that delicious masochistic high of being "a'scared." Blacks had a few haints of their own, some directly descended from the dark woods of the old continent. Their one supernatural belief shared with the white Crackers was each community's resident witch, the makers of Jomo (please save your letters and calls, dear Well-Informed-and-Literate-Readers, old local Blacks said "Jomo" instead' of "Mojo" There were no color barriers in regard to witches. Blacks visited and consulted (and paid well) white witches, and Crackers visited and consulted (and paid well) Black witches. From what we have been able to deduce from our research most of the clients' requests were of the strike-down-an-enemy, and I-want-to-get-ahead types. The first puts us in mind of some brave and threatening (and anonymous), calls and letters this column has occasionally received when we stepped out of line by misspelling a grandmother's name or mentioned the destruction of expensive road signs by our macho 4-wheelers. Rather than stand before their adversaries the insecure old-timers preferred the anonymity of using witches in the manner that poison-phone callers prefer remaining nameless. The second, of course, is echoed today by the gullible pubilc still trying to get rich, conquer a lover, or gain fame by such sure-fire schemes as spending a fortune in stamps entering improbable sweepstakes contests rather than going to work and spending less than is taken in, wearing faddish clothes and expensive 'tinky-poo perfume to be "in" instead of improving the ol' bod and personality, and misusing clubs and churches in a petty politics climb but refusing to labor for genuine service to mankind. Much of the demons' and witches' beliefs eventually settled into nothing more than costuming and pranks, the favorite being stealing privies (those of you over forty, and who will admit to knowing, might define the word to our younger readers). Another goody was the ubiquitous window soaper. He struck everywhere at the same time, making the McClenny night marshal a nervous wreck (except Earn Barton...nothing unnerved or swayed him, and he was usually faster than the phantom soaper). There were also a lot of squeaky-clean store windows on November first. Today, the stealing is of automobiles, and store windows are broken rather, than soaped, clearly a result of deprived backgrounds and unjust wars. In our ignorance, this column cannot get it all together in our minds why in the old days when we were really deprived (we remember when kids were hookwormy and hungry and a kid with a bicycle was a privileged hero to us) and saddled with the biggest and most unjust war in history - WW II - the pranks were innocuous, but now that every youngster from nine years up has his personal set of wheels with an engine attached and all the pot money his pockets can possibly hold, property destruction and death seem the ultimate highs. We must not live in the past; we'll get nothing done. But this writer can't prevent the nostalgia that eases over him when he recalls the pasteboard box, pine slab, and palmetto fan carnival booths holding such exciting experiences as the lemon lady, fish pond, and country store. He remembers the highs that came from hayrides, cider, and spooky tales at weiner roasts...and the highs lasted (this writer knows they last about 35-40 years). Maybe if parents would sober up and take the kids to the Halloween carnival, they might rediscover laughter, the infectious laughter of good times that come from the old times. For those who won't, maybe it's time we resurrect ol! Rawhead and Bloody Bones. Correction to last week's column: The gentleman written of as a witch last week, was Elisha Wilkerson, not Wilerson. We don't understand it...we bought a new typewriter with a guaranteed spellerator, but it still doesn't always work right. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday November 1, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber A Backwoods Frolic Captain J.C. Powell was in charge of several prison lease system camps throughout Florida. In 1891 he wrote his recollections as The American Siberia. Although much is gruesome, some of his little book is "enlivened by several incidents of a different character." "One of our guards was a raw native who had been raised in the piney forests, and who was as complete a specimen of the backwoods as I ever laid eyes upon. This guard invited me to a country entertainment known among the natives as a "frolic," and we started after dark for the scene of the festivities. A frolic is about the only relaxation these people have and bears the same relation to them that a fashionable ball does to the denizens of cities. I may add that the affair is generally all that the name implies. "We plunged into the wilderness and made our way through miles of dense woods underbrush and palmetto thickets until at last the merry strains of a fiddle broke upon our ears and we emerged in sight of a log-house, overflowing with people. An uproarious welcome awaited us, and we were soon in the thick of the fun. It was a curious sight to unfamiliar eyes. The walls of the house were lined with guests, who crowded back to clear a space for the dancers, and blazing torches of "fat" pine cast a grotesque and flickering light upon the assemblage. No waltz, schottische, or polka found place among the dancers. Such things were as unknown to the simple dwellers of the forest as Greek to a South Sea Islander. The partners merely faced each other and executed a sort of double shuffle, more or less garnished with pigeon-wings and such fantastic figures as the inspiration of the moment suggested. "The fiddlers were home artists. It has 'come to them natural,' as the backwoodsmen say, and they sawed away at such good old southern country tunes as "Miss Cindy," "Run, Nigger, Run," (please skip the letters on this one; we copied it as we found it) and "Liza Gincy." There were plenty of pretty 'cracker' girls, blushing and giggling in the corners, and big, raw-boned, young woodsmen, looking a little sheepish and embarrassed before so many people, but bound to have a good time, all the same. By and by things warmed up, the rustic belles conquered their diffidence, their beaux came gallantly to the front, and merriment went on apace. "I found that my guard was a popular character, and the fact that I was a captain at the camp secured me more attention than I knew what to do with. The party grew more and more hilarious as the night wore on, the dancers capered their level best, the fiddlers sawed away for dear life, the pine knots flared and flickered, and now and then somebody would emit a whoop, and the echo would be taken up by the deer-hounds outside until they filled the forest with reverberations. At intervals one of the men would inform his friends, in a husky whisper, that he had a quart hid out in the woods. This meant moonshine whisky, pure from the secret stills of the wilderness, and an immediate adjournment would be made to sample it. At midnight the festivities were at their height, and I managed to escape, against the hospitable protests of all the frolickers. But before I was allowed to depart I was obliged to accept at least a dozen invitations to attend similar entertainments that were being planned in the neighborhood, and as I afterwards concluded that one frolic was enough for a year or so, I have no doubt that I missed a good deal of fun." Within a couple of generations this type of improvisation dancing had died out in northeast rural FIorida. This thousands of years old form of merry-making and self-expression was replaced by practiced, almost mathematical steps making mints for the chain of dance instruction studios that promised that anyone could learn the newest dance craze. Then, in the early '70's your crack investigative reporter and didactic history columnist was guided through the fearsome backstreets of metropolis into a dance hall illuminated by gas torches and where we could not tell whether the males and females were separated or faced each other because we could not tell the males from the females. They double-shuffled, writhed, and often just stood there cutting such fantastic figures as the inspiration of the moment suggested. In fact, had it not been for the fact that the music seemed to emanate from a fellow wearing earphones and who was safely locked away in a glass case up above we might have believed we were back, with Captain J.C. Powell at a Cracker dance in the 1880's. Several dancers even adjourned at the invitation of those who huskily whispered, "Got a quart hid out behind the joint." Or did they say, "Got a joint hid in the car"? Whichever, we wonder if times and people really do change. They're even beginning to hold each other on the dance floor again...and do steps. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, November 8, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber An Expedition Along The Saint Mary's River Captain J.C. Powell, who also provided the narrative of the Cracker frolic in last week's column, left an account of the Saint Mary's River country as it and its inhabitants appeared in the early 1880's. He was chasing a pair of escaped convicts from the area of Camp Hilliard (the present Hilliard in Nassau County). "I rode through the fringes of the morass right behind the dogs, and presently the track began to lead toward a wild region known as 'Trail Ridge.' This is a chain of little eminences lying along the St. Mary's River in the midst of a country, almost unknown to the outside world although it has been penetrated and occupied to some extend by adventurous settlers and outlaws hiding from arrest. (The man was writing of your ancestors). But what made the chase assume a very serious aspect when it entered the domain was that nearly all of the settlers subsisted from the proceeds of illicit whisky (still talking, about your ancestors). Hidden in secret spots all through the swamp and forest were their rude stills; and although the profits were beggarly, these moonshiners, like all others of their class, believed that they had a perfect right to manufacture all the whisky they wanted and were prepared to assert it to the bitter end. Consequently they regarded all officers in general and United States marshals in particular as their natural enemies. They bitterly hated anybody and everybody connected with the law, and would not hesitate for a moment to bring down such game with their long-barreled rifles, and I fully realized that I had entered hostile territory. "It was impossible for a stranger to penetrate the bewildering maze of tropical wood and undergrowth, that masked the approaches to Trail Ridge, so I was forced to hire a guide. I did not have unlimited confidence in him. He had a shifty, evasive manner, common enough among the country people (that's still your noble lineage the man's talking about), but under the circumstances it seemed to me highly suspicious, and I made up my mind that the chances were about even that he would lead me into a trap. "I kept my eyes on him, determined to put a hole through him at the very first sign of treachery, but he made no move to confirm my suspicions and led the way steadily toward the St. Mary's. The river is a deep but narrow stream that has driven its channel through the midst of a pestilential swamp, abounding in quagmires and pretty nearly overgrown with lush, heavy vegetation. Its approaches are thick with palmetto trees, growing on little hummocks that rise above the stagnant water and are festooned with slender parasitical creepers, which keep up a constant, fantastic motion, no matter how still the day, and have an uncanny air of reaching out and grasping at the passer-by (Capt. Powell must have had his first happy encounter with 'cats claw' smilax which seeks out its hapless victim); The huge, tan-like palmetto leaves, interlacing overhead, darken the scene even at midday, and millions of southern water weeds tangle in inextricable confusion in the gloomy reaches underneath. Rotten tree-trunks barricade passage everywhere; fat, bloated water moccasins, indescribably loathsome in appearance, wriggle through the ooze; the stench is fearful; poisonous little winged insects cloud about one's head like smoke; now and then the checkered snout of an alligator slides through the slime; big spiders, spotted red and black, and venomous as serpents, scramble up their airy ropes, and as night advances, the croaking of marsh frogs and hooting of owls combine in an infernal chorus that smites the ear like thunder. "We entered this foul morass, sometimes walking, but more often crawling and floundering. Occasionally we came upon a little tongue of land intersecting the quagmire and found these bits of solid terra-firma almost invariably occupied by squatters. There would be a small clearing, perhaps a little garden cultivated by the 'wimmen folks,' and the rudest imaginable cabin, surrounded by a 'snake' rail fence. Here the possessors of the place lived in perfect security and almost perfect solitude. It was getting dark when I knocked at the door of the first house for the purpose of making some inquiries, and the greeting I received was characteristic. "Who's thar?" called out somebody, without opening to me. I briefly explained. "We ain't seen no convict," replied the voice, "and we lookin' fur none fur you." "How far is it to the river?" I asked. "Look-a-here," said the voice again, and this time it was menacing; "if you all have business anywhar's else, you'd better go right off an' tend to it!" It would have been folly, suicide perhaps, to linger, and I followed the advice." _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, November 15, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber A Muster Roll From 1862 The fulminant interest in genealogy within the past few years prompts this column, from time to time, to publish little bits of source material to whet ancestor-searching appetites and commence the tombstone jitters. This week we pass on to you a muster roll of Confederates courtesy of John J. DuFour of Jacksonville. Copied as it was written about eighty years ago "Muster Roll of Captain John Readdick Company The Camden County Chasseur 3rd Battallon, Geo Cavalry ACO Lieut Col D L Clinch Nov to December 1862. "John Reddick Captain A J Dunham 1 Lieut B. Jones 2nd Lieut. D J Rudulph 2d Lieut Lang F 1st Sergeant Downie 2nd Sergeant Holzondorff 3rd Sergeant Crail Geo 4th Holzendorff R 5th Hallowes E 1 Corp Rudulph 2 Hatcher E 3 Rudulph A 4 Bachlott R Bugler Allen Private Allen (all, remainder are privates) Allen Bailey W F Bunkley W Brown W D Beasley N Batton F Baker R H Bessent R S Brown A B Bean O S Bean G Brook I B Crawford R M Crawford Tom Crawford I Crawford E M Clark E D Casey W N Casey J Cooner J A Church R Dufour I Dufour E A Durden J J Garey S W Green W Green I J Gowen G H Howard I Horne I Helveston Hilliard J J Jones Jethro Jones J W Knowles J J Long D J Littlefield A Loper I Taylor A S Leigh J W Lane P Alexander W Harrison J D Harvay, I Paxun C Proctor J C Proctor D R Pennman W F Peaples G H Readdick A I Rawle I Smith J V Hokes Josiah Hokes L N Southwell N Hokes H Scott W Scott T Lanckford W T Lamphouss L Templeton W Thompson E Thomas I M Williams J E Williams S Wilson I Wilkinson C The above names composed the Company Dec 31st 1862 "The names below came in afterwards I do not know All of the List Frank Scott Frank Braddock C W Harrell W Palmer, Aef (?) Guerard Phillips Robert Tompkins Henry Lang C H Frohack (substitute) Abe Peeples Louis Church John Wilson Simpson killed at Jonesvill, Gus Perriman" As you sit and complain of the difficulty in understanding the list as it was written, please take a second to remember that although our Cracker ancestors were not as completely illiterate as we have been led to believe they still did not have the advantages of long term schooling. Most, in fact, learned to do very well with about three months formal education; three years at the very most. We learned long ago to not translate old time records as we thought they should be or what we believed the original recorder meant. This has been done all too often and caused much erroneous information to begin in family histories. The Genealogical and Historical Library housed in Baker Free Public Library and under the sponsorship of the Baker County Historical Society is now receiving material such as this muster roll. By the beginning of 1980 the Library should be open for your use. LaViece Moore Smallwood asks that the public please send or bring in any items and materials which might be pertinent to the history of the area and beneficial in a genealogical sense. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, November 22, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Reflections On A Rainy Afternoon Actually, it's difficult to reflect on a rainy afternoon. The rain-drops' mesmerizing tattoo is more conducive to soundly sleeping rather than engaging in any activity even remotely related to thinking. On Sunday before last your writer needed the consoling retreat of his old family home, and, by happy coincidence, the drops on the porch's tin roof promised a gentle sweep back into the past and into euphoria that must be shared. The world assumes a pale grey florescence, no traffic sounds can invade, and each lull in torrential drone is filled by a refrain from a pileated woodpecker. A veritable sheet of water rushes from the corrugated eaves into the ligustrums below; and when the draining clouds permit, the curtain of water slows and parts, giving the eyes the treat of a freshly laundered world. Dust and man's trash and tracks have been washed to the creek where nature hastens their decay. Hardly a hint remains by her erasure. Resurrection fern on century old pecan limbs green and unfurl before incredulous eyes. Tiny white buttons of snuff toadstools peep out of their wet beds of humus and carpet grass. Spanish moss presents a color transformation from lavender-gray to jade green. Newly washed cedars lend themselves as an unselfish complement to a few tenacious scarlet crepe myrtle leaves. The thunder is low like a kitten's purr in the ear, a grandma's heartbeat buried in a snuggly bosom, kindly but firm remonstrances from an ancient grandpa. Returned again to fall times old, we remember being buried under piles of quilts on the sleeping porch, candy-making in the steamy kitchen, holding the houseplants under the eaves to slake their thirst from dry autumn days. We recall the warnings of ground itch when the rain-changed yard invited our closer barefoot inspection. We wondered how the big yellow butterflies flitted so effortlessly through the pummeling of the giant rain drops. We hear with our memory's ear the rush of swollen little Turkey Creek after the showers had slackened. Stories of rain ease back into the mind: Don't go in swimming immediately after a rain or you'll get poisoned. Get out into the first rain of May to prevent colds all year. Rain plants minnows in isolated ponds of water. There's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. When the sun shines during a rain the devil is beating his wife, and it will surely rain next day. Thunder is God reminding us He is still with us. The rains lift and the clouds part. The world turns first green and then pink. A sudden chill reminds us it would be prudent to hurry home and get in a turn of wood before dark. Indian summer is over and fall begins in earnest. Dear Father, for these and all other blessings, we offer thanks. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, November 29, 1979 THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber James B. Matthews Around the turn of the century folks were getting tired of the two major political parties, and many of the thinking minds were leaning toward the Populist Party, the party of the people. In Baker County there was a scattering of Republicans, but most voters were Democrat because of that very logical reason, "Daddy was a Democrat. Among the State's Populist leaders was Mr. James B. Matthews of McClenny. Through the courtesy of Mr. Matthews' great granddaughter, Mrs. Mary Estelle Padgett Ferry, we offer the following obituary (Mrs. Ferry's grandfather, Frank Harlan Matthews, was unfortunately omitted from the article): ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Death of Mr. J.B. Matthews Mr. James B. Matthews departed this life Sept. 15, 1902, at his home in Macclenny, Fla., aged 76 years, 11 months and 3 days. The subject of this sketch was born in Rockport, N.Y. He came to Florida nineteen years ago and was associated with the newspaper fraternity. He first edited a paper at Green Cove Springs, then at Hawthorne, then at Palatka. He came to Macclenny twelve years ago, published and edited the Macclenny Sentinel, and after having bought the Baker County Press, the two papers merged into the Macclenny Standard, which he edited up to within a few months of his death. He was said to be the oldest editor in this state, and no man worked harder and attempted to do more for the upbuilding of this county than did Jas. B. Matthews. His opponents felt the power of his pen, and occasionally fiery editorials made their appearance. He was plain and outspoken and no one ever doubted the intensity of his convictions; he stood for principle, and yet he was a man of the most kind and forgiving temper. His son, Arthur, now of Blaine, Washington, was well known in this state. His daughter, Mrs Walter Brown, of Chicago, whose husband was foreman of the composing room of the Times-Union of Jacksonville at the time of his death, is known in Jacksonville, where she worked on the Times-Union several years after her husband's death. He also leaves a widow, Mrs. E. L. Matthews, and five grandchildren. Two of the latter live in Macclenny and the other three live in Blaine, Washington. The funeral services were held Tuesday afternoon in the Methodist church, of which the deceased was a member. The pastor, Rev. O. Faus, preached an appropriate sermon from the text: "If a man die shall he live again?" Job 14:14. The business places of the town were closed in respect to the dead, and the services were largely attended. The remains were taken to Woodlawn cemetery, followed by a large company of sympathizing friends, and laid away to rest where immortelles and sweet forget-me-nots will bloom over his grave. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday December 6, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Some Idas On Generating Our Own Electricity Here This writer was recently a guest in the gracious home of Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Mace Harris of Orange City. After supper we engaged in reminiscing, and among Colonel Harris' anecdotes and tales was a particularly interesting narrative about old-time homemade electricity and X-rays. "In 1928 I was lucky enough to be employed by a surgical supply house in Jacksonville and had recently been promoted to be road salesman for them. My several years in such work comprised a most thorough education and many odd experiences. I assisted in emergency surgery in Monticello, was taught surgical mode on cadaver material by a nun, and was taken down to headquarters by federal men for narcotics possession suspicion. "It was not until twenty years later that I realized what I had seen in a small sanitarium in Madison - an X-ray machine operated by electricity from a static wheel. "Dr. Yates (can't recall his initials) housed his sanitarium in an antebellum home of two stories. He was a man of between fifty and sixty years of age, and his medical mode was of older days. My Job was to sell him whatever I could, but he bought very little other than bandaging material, antiseptics, gloves, and such. "On the second floor was a piece of equipment that I had not, or ever since, seen. It was an X-ray machine that was ten or more years old then. Dr. Wilhelm C. Roentgen had discovered X-rays in 1895, and it appears its practical use in medicine did not come about until Coolidge invented his tube about 1913. So It seems that Dr. Yates' equipment must have been one of the earliest produced, and I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how the doctor even knew of this equipment, much less own one. "The machine was mounted on a table in an upstairs room. All the wiring was uninsulated, and a careless patient could touch any part of it. The current was generated by the turning of a static wheel. A small boy, usually a Negro lad, was seated at the side of the wheel and turned it by hand. "The wheel, which was of glass, was about eight feet in diameter and its turning handle was centered at the wheel's axle. Along the wheel's outer edges were a number of copper wire brushes that picked up the generated current, and that in turn was stored in nearby Leyden Jars. "When the current built up to the required amperes and all other preparations completed, Dr. Yates took the picture. I am sure that the developing of the film was a lulu of a task but I was never privy to how it was done. "I have never met another person who ever saw one of these machines, and of all places, in a small Florida town." Driving home from the Harrises that night, your writer figured out how we can easily solve the energy problem here in Baker County. Each Four-wheeler and TransAm Sport can contribute half his cargo or trunk space to Leyden Jars, all their wheels can be attached to static wheels, and after every six runs of McClenny's Main Street they can unload their charged Leyden jars at a county storage station. They pick up jars and begin again. Mini static wheels and pint Leyden Jars can be issued to everybody else for idle turning while watching memorable episodes of WKRP and Shirley. In no time at all Baker County's electric bills will be cut in half. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, December 13, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Some Of Your Reactions To Column Materials Past Once in a while your writer gets, in the words of Grandma Mag Chesser, "a gorging mess and a snack over" of history, and he feels constrained to freak out into something more current. After all, that which is timely today is history tomorrow. And so, to prove to our patient and long-suffering editor and typographer that we have at least a half dozen readers (hoping that justifies our existence and bond paper expense) we present our readers favorite columns of 1979 and a sampling of comments by mail, telephone, and conversation from the past few years. We were, first of all, again incorrect in what the public would like and not like among our subjects (we are very consistent in that). We offer the following titles in case any of our readers missed these gems and wish to read what the majority of our public seemed to like best. Although we got a bit confused with our paragraph sequence, the Lighterd Wood articles of January 25 and February, 1 received favorable response from most older readers. Our tests on getting old (May 24 and June 7), the Samuel Spearing article (February 15), Frontier Recreation (June 14 and 21), and the stories from J.C. Powell's memoirs regarding Baker County country in the late 1800's (November 1 and 8) were, according to mail received, among the favorites of the year. Two columns - the July 26 comments on the old courthouse and the Reflections on a Rainy Afternoon from the November 22 Press - were left at the Press office with misgivings but proved to be the best received of them all. Our answer to Mrs. Fletcher (September 20) combined with the courthouse basement story in the Florida Times-Union brought us a steady telephoning campaign advising us, among other things, that perhaps a good houseburning or stomping would help us keep our nose out of things that did not concern us (you have noted a definite slacking up in our smart-alecky remarks and crusades). Comments: "How much do you pay Jim to allow you to put that --- in his paper?" was asked in the course of a street conversation. One nice description did not come directly to us but via the Smallwood T-U "Out on a Limb" feature. A nice Northern lady (when the comment is flattering, it's from Northern folk; derogatory statements come from Yankees) mentioned that our articles were ". . . witty and informative." On the other hand, a Redneck lady (had her approach been different she would have been a nice Southern lady) exploded all over the page, and among her kindest remarks was, ". . .you are profane and God will sure (sic) punish you as described in . . .(my dog has since chewed the scriptural reference off her very Christianlike letter)." "You are doing God's work," declares another. Your writer fears God is surely going to be confused on Judgment Day regarding what to do with your writer if He takes those folks' comments seriously (and we never realized the immensity and importance of our efforts in digging up grandpas, listing "begets," and recording the anecdotes that make history come alive). Our favorite remains the lady (the telephone company had to replace our receiver because it was seared from her language) who stated, "it's people like you moving in here who cause us so much trouble (she didn't list the crimes). Somewhere amidst the expletives from her end of the line, we gathered that she preferred we return to from whence we came - about a couple hundred yards from where your writer stood listening to her. On the good side: "I look forward to reading your column each week," said long-time editor of the Bradford County Telegraph Gene Matthews. "I want you to know how much I enjoy your articles, and I appreciate the work you must do to get them together," offered one of the writer's favorite people, Mrs. Lena Minger. "I cut out every column and keep them in a book," Mrs. Bea Crawford Giles informed us. "Keep telling it the way it was, and keep it clean," encouraged Mr. L.C. Cobb. A few random samplings: "I read an interesting article on the Raulersons in the Press. Who writes that column?" "I read it (The Way it Was) sometimes, if I think about it." "Where do you get all that stuff?" "I like your mistakes best of all." "We trust our dear readers and editor are cognizant of the hazardous and tortuous trail we travel in order to get these little weekly offerings to this printed page. To illustrate, we shall close with this gentle remonstrance from a member of a local clan, "I bet If I softened up your head with a lighterd knot you'd start getting your facts straight." Or, better yet, we think we'll close with some words penned by our long-time pal and hero and sent to us by a reader in Pennsylvania: ". . .It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, December 20, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Ain't No Problem So Bad We Can't Eventually Learn From It If awards were given to bummer years, 1979 would be, in the opinion of your writer, among the nominees. If there isn't general agreement with our ideas on the past annual term, we think most will at least concede that it has been an exasperating year. Rather than diverge into egoismn we shall only mention that we started off the year with a most thorough vandalism of our studio-office and ended it with termite damage necessitating the removal of the bath and west wall of our dwelling, meeting with divers disappointments and bouts of hypochondria in between. The most common plaint of friends and acquaintances of this column seems to be how ill the Arabs are treating them with outrageous oil prices and the inability to buy their kids a pile of Christmas junk this year. Before we get into the meat of this week's offering, let us toss out this point for pondering. If all you had to sell were dates and oil and folks only needed dates once a year for fruitcakes (and if you wanted a Cadillac like the other sheiks or wanted to visit Disneyworld or buy a grocery in Georgia), wouldn't you also heist the price of oil? Back when gasoline was less than twenty cents per gallon there was plenty more of it than money to buy it with. Therefore, folks shopped at home. They spent their Christmas money with the Hodges, Walkers, Crews, Holts, and others so that it stayed in the community (remember, they even gift-wrapped it for free?). Now that there seems to be both little gas and money, we dash into Jacksonville several times a week clutching our stack of credit cards in order to support chains owned by conglomerates controlled by Arabs and a few other people who couldn't care less about our redneck welfare at this jolly season. In the old days, we not only spent at home, we didn't begin our seasonal shopping until the last Saturday before Christmas. In fact, most of it was saved up until Christmas Eve night. Lists didn't contain many names, and we bought only for the people we liked (that might cut our lists considerably today). If we didn't already have a tom fattening at home in a makeshift pen, we could buy a live one at one of the little grocery stores, each with its single string of colored lights in one window only (sometimes a particularly creative shopkeeper would do a little fancy work with tempera paint on his front glass). Hard candy, dried fruits, and hampers of almonds and other exotic nuts added a once-a-year different scent to the tiny markets. No one seemed to mind the jostle in the crowded dime stores, and we never heard a clerk threaten to file grievances against the employer for having to remain on the job until ten p.m. Christmas Eve. Red-faced farmers got Miss Loyce at the Cash Store to help them pick out something frilly and slightly naughty for their wives in return for a year of patience, tolerance of poverty, and love. Baker County was a beautiful place at Christmas. The lights were dim, but the decorations were the most brilliant - smiles. It's still here. We just have to stay home and uncover it. So, this column has expounded on how others can learn lessons... what has this writer learned? (1) By being unable to work at home after his classrooms were destroyed, he had to seek his living elsewhere and found a new world and rewards he never dreamed possible; (2) by losing so much and finally realizing none of it will ever come back, he is learning to lose; (3) by having to clear out wreckage, physical and mental, he has learned to throw away that which is unnecessary; (4) by receiving so much help after his loss, he's learning to freely share what little he has left; and (5) by not having a west wall in his house, he's learning to wrap up a little tighter and burn no fuel at all. Ain't no problem so bad we can't eventually learn from it. Merry Christmas, Baker County, and may you never forget 1979...with a little thought and work you might turn it into the most valuable year of your life. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday December 27, 1979 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Devil Enoch Roberts - Part One In your writer's many years of interest in the history of this area, he has become fascinated, even obsessed, by a certain character from our past. The toughest and meanest of his contemporaries spoke his name quietly. His latter-day narrators mention him and hesitate (for effect or subconscious supernatural fear?). A perverse wicked streak in us prompts us to kick off 1980 by telling the tale of Devil Enoch Roberts. As long as we can remember, we were told, "Ol' Devil Enoch killed his mama 'cause she made him mad." Now, if you don't think that statement would whet the appetite of a nosey historian, you need a refresher course in human nature. After all the years of searching for and gathering rumors, on Devil Enoch, we made the acquaintance via post, of his grandson Lowell Addison of Lake Park, Georgia. That beneficent gentleman hand wrote fourteen well-filled pages on his notorious grandsire and historic clan and put us in business with the Roberts family (not to mention the wealth of material donated by Roberts descendent LaViece Moore Smallwood - bless her). After the death of Nathaniel "Nat" Roberts in 1869, the widow Parthena (nee Morgan) and her children settled in to operate the extensive Roberts plantation (pronounced "plant'-ation" by Crackers...never, never "plan-ta'tion"). Their 160 acres lay about six miles west of Lake Butler, and is now split by Highway 100. There were nine children including our subject Nathaniel Enoch, Junior, who was born in 1857. On a crisp fall morning Parthena and the kids were grinding cane for syrup (in spite of all the nostalgic drivel about it, a derned hard task). One of the dogs nosed about underfoot, an irritating and unsanitary situation in Mrs. Roberts' way of thinking. She threw hot syrup on the animal (Cracker wives, in general, did not like dogs). Her teenaged son Enoch angrily grabbed a stalk of cane and struck his mother. A blood vessel was broken and Parthena died. Like most tales regarding social and moral taboos (hitting one's mother even in the loose and liberated 1970's is considered not nice), the story grew with each telling by the morbidity-relishing neighbors until the lad became "Devil Enoch" who had beaten his mother to death with a stick simply because she had displeased him. The remainder of the tragic event was unfortunately dropped from the tale's relating. The young fellow went into shock for three days, and the family feared he would soon join his mother in death. Only with gentle handling by his family did young Enoch re-enter living. He was never free of the trauma, and it haunted him until he was gunned down in Lake Butler several years later.