"The Way It Was" Newspaper Column on Baker County, Florida History, 1983 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 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 his articles written in 1983. Contents: * The Colorful Colonel Cone (in part 1) * The Colorful Colonel Cone - Part Two (in part 1) * Darbyville, a parent community of McClenny (in part 1) * Getting the Cracker treatment in Keystone (in part 1) * The Georgia-Florida boundary - Part One (in part 1) * The Georgia-Florida boundary - Part Two (in part 1) * The Georgia-Florida boundary - Part Three (in part 1) * Boundary wrap-up and notes on the Dawkins Lodge (in part 1) * McClenny Potpourri (in part 1) * some old and interesting McClenny structures (in part 1) * some old and interesting McClenny structures - Part Two (in part 1) * some old and interesting McClenny structures - CONCLUSION (in part 1) * some old and interesting McClenny structures - Sites without (in part 1) structures or newer buildings * A recap of the 1st Centennial (in part 1) * Rain soaks sale; but not the dance (in part 1) * Well, it's our final weekend to celebrate! (in part 1) * The Centennial - A wrap-up * The month of May has arrived... * Historical potpourri from a desk drawer * Historical potpourri from a desk drawer - Part Two * Historical potpourri from a desk drawer - THIRD AND FINAL PART * A Plea For Presidential Pardon * A look at commercial McClenny of 1887 * McClenny social notes from the year 1887 * Fred 'Bubba' Bullard; a genuine McClenny product * It's been eight years..... * Historical potpourri * Ms. Liberty and Daisies * "Summer sort of slow-walks you down" * More Nostalgic Reminiscenses * What are is not..... * Now, what art is..... * Composition in art * Creativity in art * Different types of art (in part 3) * Autumn brings out poet (in part 3) * Hoppin' John discourse (in part 3) * 1921 catalogue goodies (in part 3) * The Household Guest, 1921 (in part 3) * Historical potpourri (in part 3) * More.....potpourri (in part 3) * 'Ain't no boogers tonight (in part 3) * Crackers & nature's signs - Part One (in part 3) * Crackers & nature's signs - Part Two (in part 3) * Boost Christmas downtown (in part 3) * The'Tarnished Tinsel Trophies' (in part 3) * Edging into Christmas (in part 3) * The Yule tree ordeal (in part 3) * The 'magic' of Christmas (in part 3) * Thoughts on the new year (in part 3) _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, April 28, 1983 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber The Centennial A wrap-up The celebration is now history; (and great history it is). All those involved claim that it was worth the few pains and headaches, and most have now forgotten about the pains and headaches. Some (bless their hearts) say such never existed. About the worst your writer experienced was a long series of sleepless nights that came, not from worry about problems, but from a conspicuous lack of same. We don't have to brag on the job we all did. You, delightful public, have been doing that for us. However, we shall edge toward boasting by giving you a general idea of how your Centennial committee pulled it off. We began by sitting down and, in a creative manner, deciding just what it was we intended to do about the project and exactly what the project was. We came up with a purpose and concept, and we stuck to it. Among other things, it gave seven reasons for having celebrations: (1) celebrating the first 100 years of the city bearing the name McClenny (or Macclenny or MacClenny or MacCleriney, etc..); (2) showcasing our city's assets, personality, and talents to both our own residents and to a wider audience of out-of-towners; (3) presenting the authentic history of the city to our own residents and to our neghbors and visitors; (4) re-creating civic pride by recalling the city's rich heritage and by involving our citizens in a large-scale cooperative effort, (5) giving reason to resurrect the failing downtown; (6) giving a positive surge to the local economy; and (7) providing an opportunity for festive times. The purpose and concept further analyzed our city and planned the type of occasion accordingly. We wished to combine history with contemporary tastes and avoid television-inspired themes and terms, and we carefully tried to not alienate any segment of our society. We decided to use color, sound, and movement and to make events and activities non-stop and at more than one location throughout the big day. We determined to remain democratic in all stages and aspects of planning, operation, and participation. If anyone was left out of anything, it was by his own choice...the opportunity and invitation were there. We searched out untapped human resources. We used someone other than the same overworked people and the same perennial committee-fillers. One did not have to be rich, a degree-holder, club affiliate, swinger, or pubilc figure to work on or, chair a committe. We planned to keep our entertainment suitable for a family affair. We directed much toward the kids, and the schools' involvement was at the core of events and activities. One of the smartest things we did (and it would behoove more of us in our county to think along these lines) in our purpose and concept was to provide guide-lines and a few regulations from which committee chairs could not stray or fool around with and then let them all alone until they had done their jobs. They did not have to return to the director or to the general meeting to seek permission for anything else, and that saved scads of time and confusion. The basic rules did insist that all committee chairs bring in regular reports for the purpose of incorporating all into the over-all event and to avoid conflicts. The director did become a bit arbitrary and dictatorial by including a final sentence in the purpose and concept that his was the final say. That final rule was clearly stated, not harped on, and was used very infrequently. We insisted that problems and conflicts be resolved quickly, not discussed among workers, and kept from the public. All this was put on paper and placed in the hands of the committee chairs. It worked. Onto and within that framework went many hours by many people, and most of both went unseen and will probably remain unsung. Adhering to our unwritten rule of not permitting anyone to misuse the celebration for vainglorious purposes, we pushed no particular names. We would like to publish a list of thank you's, but that can be dangerous when a few names are inadvertently omitted. It was a community effort, and we believe the best way to express gratitude is for you to turn to your neighbor and thank him or her and then give yourself a pat on the back. It was the general workers and you who did the deed. Please read this writer's message on the back page of our little souvenir centennial newspaper tabloid for his sentiments about you. Please don't let the spirit die. Plan ahead for Shine Day and lots of other cerebrations. It's good for you; and if you do them regularly, they get much easier. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, May 5, 1983 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber The month of May has arrived in all her pagean glory May has always been one of your columnist's favorite months. It is a month of the senses, an earthy month. Gone are the cerebral and spiritual pleasures of awakening April. May has arrived in all her pagan glory. We are reminded of two special bits of May folklore. (1) Get out into the first rain of May and you're certain to not catch a cold for the remainder of the year, and (2) Should you be foolish enough to go in swimming before that first magic rain, you will suffer dire results (something we kids figured must have been a cross between drowning and pneumonia). An even more widespread May-magic event is the Maypole festivities. Your columnist now often, wonders what would have been the reaction of the sweet little ol' ladies who organized the annual Maypole Day in Baker County schools if they had known that it was a thousand years old descendant of a fertility rite (a euphemism for "doing ugly"). It's been several years since the county celebrated the advent of May with a streamer-bedecked pole and flower-toting kids. We think it's high time the event was re-estabilshed. May is also the season when so many of the creatures begin introducing their young to the world. If one is patient and cautious, he can still see the beast mamas coax their little ones out of the brush. However, with bloodthirstiness on a steady and alarming increase, the creatures are becoming scarcer. For the few who are aware of their nesting places, the bluebirds are beginning to make a handsome display as they fight over territorial rights around hollow fence posts and stumps. We shan't reveal any of those places, because we know that within a few days they would all be slaughtered by would-be Nimrods. An occasional eagle can still be seen and heard wheeling about in certain skies, but we shall not divulge their whereabouts either; they would go even faster. When Anglo-American settlers began arriving in the 1820's in the area that was to become Baker County, they found an abundant and varied wildlife. Except for the now ubiquitous armadillo and the semi-annual plague of lovebugs (they might not be classified as wildlife, but their behavior is a bit wild), what we see in the woods now is pretty much what our ancestors saw, plus a few. Of course, everywhere a four-wheel drive can get to now is also the habitat of Homo sapiens varmessinaroundous. As everybody even remotely familiar with the Audubon Society knows, the old-timers also saw veritable clouds of passenger pigeons and North America's only representative of the parrot family - the Carolina parakeet. The first Crackers knew the panther or painter (hold your ground; do not be coerced and cajoled into using the western appellations "cougar" and "puma"), the red wolf, and possibly the remnants of Florida's buffalo herds. Buffalo? Yes, dear readers, Bartram and others of late eighteenth century Florida travels describe buffalo and the Seminoles hunting them from horseback along the western banks of the Saint Johns River and through the Alachua plains. Some of the older heads used to tell this writer of "taggers," those long-tailed, ring-tailed, spotted great cats that were bigger than whumpus-cats. Sound suspiciously like Jaguars? These descriptions came from folks who never had the opportunity to flip through an animal book or maybe never even heard a word about spotted cats. Jaguars were in Arkansas within historical times. Maybe they were also in Florida. Why not? It has long been the vogue for ecology-minded writers and street-marchers to claim that there were careless, wanton, and even systematic destruction of many species by the frontiers-man. We cannot speak for the other frontier's, but our knowledge of the Southern pioneer prompts us to believe that our Cracker ancestors are guilty of (and by our standards, not theirs, and the whole thing, therefore, is totally invalid) isolated hunts for certain animals in retribution for stock-killing. In that, they were very successful, but it took a later generation, much less appreciative of the finely inter-related scheme of nature, to hunt birds and cats and wolves to their final...very final...breaths. They'll never come back. Once killed, always dead. This morning, your writer saw several raccoons and possums, a few bluebirds, a couple of snakes and cooters, and a variety of even tinier creatures. Not one of them did him any harm. The death of none would have made him a bigger or more potent man. None have anything to fear from him unless he is quite hungry or if they attack and corner him. Your writer has decided they should live and that he and his fellows have no right to destroy them. Let May work its magic on you, dear readers, and unless it is necessary for your own existence and sustenance, how about letting your fellow creatures alone? _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, May 12, 1983 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Historical potpourri from a desk drawer Not long ago, your columnist received a drawer full of aged papers. Although some had faded and were badly deteriorated, the remainder proved to be a mine of pleasure and local historical information. Here is a sampling: An invoice from the Farmer's Alliance Exchange on January 8th, 1890, listed a number seven Black Oak stove for $11.00, a number 8 hollow ware set for $15.60, a set of 52 knives and forks for $1.50, a meat cutter for $1.15, a meat stuffer for 85 cents, and six lengths of gas light pipe for $3.00. In, addition to the very low prices, did you note that there was none of that silly "$1.98 and $10.99" stuff? From 1892 came a letter from a major insurance company informing a would-be Baker County customer that the company was disgusted with his behavior and attitude and would not grant him a policy under any terms. The general agent for Florida also stated that the would-be policy-holder had also "hummed and raised objections which have never amounted to anything." Imagine that kind of frankness today. There was a time when the customer was not always right, according to some companies (your writer knew that long ago.) In 1907, a Baker County resident purchased from a Nassau County resident 146 head of cattle marked crop and under half crop in one ear and crop split in the other and branded with "C reverse C" for $1029.30. The increase from this herd later was the object of a bitter court battle between heirs of the buyer. Testimony from the trial was also included in the drawer of papers, and we offer a few choice pieces (the names of the plaintiff and defendants will be omitted). Q. Mr. Rowe, when your sister married Mr. --, was he a young man? A. Yes, sir. Q. With a limited means? A. Well, I don't know. I never inquired. That wasn't none of my business. The witness, Mr. Ben Rowe, was a terse gentleman; and his answers proved he had little use for the shenanigans of smart young city lawyers. The following is an example of his contempt for silly and ambiguous questioning: Q. Did your father and your sister's father die about the time of her marriage to Mr. -? A. I reckon they died at the same time. My father was her father. In typical storybook fashion, the country lawyer Branch Cone outsmarted the young city lawyer and we're happy to report that this incident was eventually amiably resolved. James P. Tallaferro was a United States senator from Florida for a number of terms, and although he was responsible for much progress in this state, he was sometimes accused of lining his pockets just inside the law (that's different from now; politicians are today accused of lining their pockets from outside the law. But we digress). In 1905, on his very official letterhead, he wrote from the Royal Mustcoka Hotel in Canada to a Florida state senator asking him to tend to some slightly unethical appearing matters in his (Taliaferio's) interests. The local senator did not lend his aid. There were several promissory notes to the Baker County State Bank from the years just prior to World War I. Some had the name J.H. Firestone written on them, and your columnist cannot figure just who Mr. Firestone was or what was his position with the bank, if any. A subscription to the Baptist Witness was $2.00 per year in 1914, according to a receipt found in the papers. Florida celebrated the Governor William Bloxham birth centenary in 1935. Among the papers was a letter from a local retired politician supporting the Bloxham Committee efforts. The gentleman wrote, "I began studying this great statesman, when as a young man I began taking an interest in politics; and especially so in freeing Florida from Republican and carpet bag rules." There were ladies' calling cards (Miss Lou Rhoden and the Misses Georgia and Mattie Rowe, for instance), hand-painted Christmas cards from 1904, stocks for far west and local companies, and some mighty interesting IOU's from folks representing some of the county's finest surnames today. There were other treasures, but your columnist's favorite was the lady's refusal card: "Dear Sir -Your earnest and gracious appeal affected me even to tears, as I am very impressible; and I do not hesitate to accept you joyfully for my lover on the strength of your assurances. But to talk of closer ties at present seems premature. Indeed I fear I am acting imprudently even now. But I am so sorry for you that I cannot forego the pleasure of offering words of comfort. If I appear too bold and impulsive in this, forgive me; and be assured that, whatever my faults, I have a faithful and loving heart, which, once fixed, will cling forever to the object of its affection." _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, May 19, 1983 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS - Gene Barber Historical potpourri from a desk drawer Continuing from last week's comments on treasures found in a drawer, we add the following items: Julius Slager and Company of 32 West Bay Street, Jacksonville, sold a Baker County resident a gold watch in 1890 with a case warranted for 10 years and a matching chain for $16.50. The same buyer purchased in 1891 from W.S. Gasque of Post Office Box 15, McClenny, 2 pounds of coffee for 50 cents, one pair shoes at $2.25, 55 pounds of bacon for 55 cents, 50 pounds of sugar for 50 cents, 50 pounds of rice for 50 cents, and several other items at unbelievable prices. C.B. McClenny received from C.F. Barber on 28 March, 1891, $6.50 donation for one set of stairs for the new McClenny school (thus giving us some idea when the school was built, which used to sit where Bernice and David Yarbrough now live) There were several records of bonds and attorneys' fees paid for the men accused of the death and complicity in the death of Deputy Sheriff Rufus T. Thrift in September of 1904. This was in connection with the locally infamous Baxter Rebellion. It was interesting to this columnist that the only one, of the several who received money thusly, who paid money back to the lender was Mr. Berry Crews of the Baxter section. From John H. Rollins, receiver of the United States Land Office in Gainesville, Florida, came a note on November 30, 1880, to a Darbyville kinsman of this writer informing him that a certain piece of land was vacant and subject to be claimed by anyone making application to the Clerk of his countty. In 1880, D.J. Watkins, Supervisor of Registration of Baker County, had already ceased using the appellation Darbyville for the new district in the eastern part of the county; he wrote in the name "Maccleny" (sic). There were those who feared that your columnist had greatly erred by settling in on the date of 1883 as the city's Centennial date, and more and more your columnist is beginning to think they are right, but in the wrong direction; We have found so many earlier than 1883 dates for the use of the name "McClenny" that we think we should have begun to build up interest in the centennial years earlier. (Yes, McClenny might be, in fact, is older than Glen St. Mary.) Mr. C.B. McClenny, the man both responsible for naming the city and for changing the spelling -Macclenny- under duress by the United States Post Office, compromised on his own letterheads and inventory blanks by using "MacClenny." He said he was a dealer in general merchandise, proprietor of the McClenny Saw Mills, paid the highest price for cotton, had the finest selection of town and country property for sale in middle Florida, and solicited correspondence. Jones Brothers, dealers in general merchandise and drugs, was comprised of F.A.P., E.H., J.G., and J.H. Jones. They also dealt in land and timber. Soon after 1893, they sold their drug store to Dr. Brown of Lake City. Jones Brothers advertised opium and other pain killers, and they also stocked the new stimulant Coca-Cola (some of the old-timers still called the beverage "dope" when this columnist was a kid). _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday May 26, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS Gene Barber Historic potpourri from a desk drawer THIRD AND FINAL PART We trust our readers will indulge us this one more (and final) installment of Baker County Historical Potpourri found in a steamer trunk drawer, property of the writer's great grandfather, C.F. Barber. Although we place ourselves in danger of being accused of pushing our family a bit strongly in this series, Senator Barber and his interests belong to the entire county. He was, shall we say, on top of everything that happened locally and in the state, and his papers represent a lot of history. It is sorely tempting to list the names of the folks, good and not so good, who departed this world owing money to the kindly old gentleman, but we shall forego that delicious pleasure and just say that, in addition to those notes of his own, he bought those of his uncle James Monroe Thompson (most of those were never redeemed either). The earliest of those debtor notes is dated May 29, 1874, and was signed at "Darby's." Several were dated in the 1880's and were signed at Sanderson, Olustee, and McClenny. From Mr. C.C. Corbett the Woodlawn Cemetery Association purchased $15.00 worth of wire fence in 1891. Mr. Corbett was a Connecticut Yankee and one of McClenny's liveliest entrepreneurs. Tax Collector James Combs collected, in 1890, from Senator Barber the sum of one dollar in payment of a capitation of poll tax. This was a handy little instrument to keep paupers and blacks away from the polls in the latter days of the nineteenth century. If you couldn't pay the tax, you didn't vote. Of course, if you swore to vote the "right way", there was always some politician who would volunteer to pay the capitation tax for you. It was surprising to discover that Senator Barber, once an avid fan and supporter of Captain McClenny's efforts to found a town (in fact, Barber was one of the original petitioners for incorporation of McClenny and was one of the little city's first aldermen) had become disenchanted with the land dealer and brought legal actions against him in 1889. Barber's attorney, W.P. Ward, charged $10.00 retainer fee and spelled the defendant's name"Maccelly." In the drawer were several receipts for payments of dues to Schuyler Rebekah Lodge Number 22 from 1912 through 1921 plus an assortment of notes pertaining to Dawkins Lodge F&AM and the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. Of interest were several stocks of now defunct corporations. The Heard National Bank of Jacksonville, 1911; Great Western Oil and Gas Company of Indian Territory, 1907; Producers Packing Company of Delaware, 1920, and the Florida Cattle and Grazing Company of Jacksonville, 1917 (Barber was the president) are among them. From the early years of this century are Southern Express Company receipts for merchandise. Sent away were fresh cut flowers, shrubbery, and cotton, and received were jewelry, furniture, and oysters. The company's logo mentioned that it had lines in all 46 states and territories. It was learned from a sales ticket from Williamson and Dennis Stockyard Auction in 1923 that 74 head of cattle brought $1092.71. The prices per pound on the hoof ranged from two and a quarter to three cents. There were signatures of C.B. McClenny, John Darby, Judge John R. Herndon, and several other notables in Baker County history - a true heritage lesson and experience - but we shall replace the papers and move on to other subjects next week. And on the subject of heritage, please keep the television documentary on McClenny in mind. Tune in to Channel 12 at 6:30 p.m. Sunday, June 5. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, June 2, 1983 Page Two THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber A plea for presidential pardon Recently, your columnist received another welcome communication from his cousin Ward P. Barnes who signed off "Still lost after four years in downtown D.C." In his travels through the National Archives, Ward discovered a document concerning a long-ago Columbia (that part now Baker) County resident. That old-time resident Moses E. Barber was an ancestor of this writer, and the petition he tendered President Johnson confirmed family and area legends that he, as well as most of the other citizens of this county, were opposed, If not openly at all times, to the idea of secession from the Union. These were mostly poor and conservative people who stood little to gain, and were in danger of losing what little they had, if the union of states was dissolved. Below is the peti- tlon exactly as written. "To his Excellency Andrew Johnson President of the United States Washington, DC, The petition of Moses E. Barber a citizen of Columbia County In the State of Florida, respectfully showeth that believing that he may constructively be deemed within the thirteenth exception of your excellency's amnesty proclamation of 29th May 1865. He makes this appilcation for special pardon, so as to place himself in his rightful position, and obtain the rights of citizenship again, and for cause, of extenuation begs leave to state that at the time of the commencement of the rebellion he was a farmer and large stock keeper, or cattle man, that he was always a union man, and bitterly opposed to multificatlon or secession, and in his quiet way used every effort in his power to influence his friends and neighbors to vote against secession; and has never during the rebellion voluntarily participated in said rebellion, but having a large stock of beef cattle, and the protecting shield of the United States Government being removed from him or the whole country where his stock ranged was within the bounds and under the military control of the so called Confederate States, and he without the means of resistance to them, his cattle were impressed and he was forced to deliver them up for the use of its army, much against his will. His whole stock of cattle were seized by them, and he was not permitted to sell to any one else, or even to select the cattle he could spare or was willing to dispose of, by which a loss was entailed upon him of over one hundred thousand dollars at the lowest gold valuation. He further says that in consequences of the occupation by the so called Confederate Army of the Country in the vicinity of his house, and the operation of the two armies consequent thereon, amounting to at least forty thousand dollars. He is now and always has been loyal in his principles and attached to the Govemment and principles of the Constitution of the United States, and promises if pardon is awarded him to hereafter always conduct himself as a good and loyal citizen in every respect. And therefore humbly prays that executive clemency may be extended to him, and that he may be permitted to take the oath prescribed by your excellency's proclamation, and resume his rights and duties as a citizen of the United States, and your petitioner will ever pray (last word illegible)." It was signed by the petitioner and dated September 15th, 1865 at Lake City, Florida. The United States officer who received Mr. Barber's sworn statement was Lieutenant A.A. Knight. Two citizens of Columbia County, Messrs. Smith and Ives, appeared as character witnesses for Barber on the same day before the same officer. Barber signed the amnesty oath form on the same day, but whether he received the presidential pardon is still unknown. Moses Barber, like so many of his neighbors, remained a Unionist for only as long as was practical; almost all the county became ardent Confederates when the United States troops began moving in as invaders. Of the two armies, the locals suffered more from those clad in Union blue, and they resisted. After the war, so many like Barber found themselves lumped together with the radical secessionists, and they, who had so little to lose, lost everything. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, June 9, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber A look at commercial McClenny of l887 When we set out to celebrate McClenny's centenary, we listed several goals besides the obvious one of a birthday fest. We hoped, as one of those goals to initiate sufficient interest in our heritage to bring in more historical data on the city. It worked. By circuitous routes we received the following items. The Florida Times Union in an issue of August, 1885, said, "Macclenny, formerly Darbyville, wants to incorporate..." An edition of March, 1887, said: "Four years ago there was barely two scores of souls in the place; today we number one thousand...We have a roomy and comfortable hotel very near the depot...Our tobacco factory, an enterprise giving employment to several hands, turns out cigars of a fine quality. We have daily four passenger and two freight trains that pass, and our new depot will soon be completed." Young McClenny was a lusty infant, certain of her future, and her growth presented its evidence in her commercial ventures. Frank O. Miller, later of piano purveying fame in Jacksonville, established a cigar factory that was to last for several years after his move to Jacksonville. Miller's cigars won first prize at a Joint Baker-Columbia Counties fair in Lake City in 1886. Lake City's leaders offered him attractive inducements to relocate in their city, but he chose to remain in McClenny. His two-story factory, thought to have been in southwest McClenny, caught fire in the early summer of 1887. Heroic efforts by his hands and the city's volunteer fire department saved the structure and most of its contents. In early 1887 there were nine grocery and dry goods stores, two millinery shops (Mrs. T.A. McClenny's and Mrs. J.O. Thompson's), two drug stores, and one tin shop (can anybody enlighten us as to what a tin shop is or was?) John O. Thompson, a native of South Carolina who had moved to the McClenny area as a child, was busying himself in setting up a hardware mercantile business. His store, by the way, is still in existence under the style of Thrift Ace Hardware in West McClenny. The stores' known succession of owners has been the mentioned Mr. Thompson, his son-in-law, Frank W. Wells, Judge W.M. "Hardware" Brown, Richard Blair, Lonnie Thrift (late mayor of McClenny), and Felton Thrift (present proprietor. Dr. Shuey's new. drug store on College Street (site of the present "Pastries and Parties") gave "a city-like appearance with glass front." The Darby family still held turpentine distillery interest in town in 1887. Captain C.B. McClenny was the major lumber miller and a Mr. Van Seay (we're unsure of the name) sold brick at $6.00 per thousand from his brick manufactory on Willingham Branch. The Times Union writer "Broughton" lauded Captain McClenny for creating and developing the city and said: "With a lumber mill, a brick yard, with able carpenters and brick masons, with horses and mules to do the hauling and with new people coming in constantly, there is no reason we will not go on with the good work, that is, the building up of a large town in few years." _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, June 16, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber McClenny social notes from the year 1887 When we mentioned in last week's effusion that our new clippings had come to us via a circuitous route, we were remiss in that we did not give proper credit to those who relayed the material to us. The original researcher was Barbara Foster of, we believe, The Gainesville Sun. Pat Smith Barber of the Ag Center gave them to Ruth Carter of the same offices and Ms. Carter dropped them in the mail for your columnist. Thanks to all. According to The Daily News Herald (Jacksonville) of July, 1887, summer was a busy season for McClenny. Saint James Academy's commencement ceremony was just over, and the article listed the following as participants: Ina Sessens (Sessions), Sallie Miller, Florence Lang, Patty Watkins, Florence Jones, Helen James, Rose Porter, Mettie Hendricks, Cynthia Roberts, Misses Sallie and Claud Miller, Lula James, Orlando Jones, Clara Macclenny (McClenny), Helen James, Dana Swayne (Swain), Ella Powell, Lizzie Powell, Ada Macclenny (McClenny, James Melivaine, and Orie Chalker. Although Saint James was established as a school for women, it seems that a few of the names indicate an integration of the sexes. Some of the spellings were incorrect (how unusual for a newspaper), but we think that the spellings of Orlando Jones, Dan Swayne, James Melivaine and Orie Chalker represent masculine appellations. The McClenny Public School, recently completed in 1887, and Saint James Academy employed between them both, the following teachers: the Reverend Charles S. Snowden, Professor E.T. Woods, Mrs. D.W. Rogers, Mrs. Charles S. (Susie) Snowden, and George Abbott. Prefiguring today's' Shine Day festivities, McClenny pitched a giant July 4th celebration in 1887. The city's two ball clubs, rivals for the past few years, staged game, but it was called due to rain. Judge M.F. Shuey was chief orator during the speech making. Little could Judge (and Dr.) Shuey suspect that within a year, he would be a central figure in the worst disaster ever to hit the little town-the yellow fever epidemic-and that his home would be hospital, graveyard, an host to spirits left to wander. After that terrible summer of 1888. The McClenny Light Infantry Company, which had been shaken to its collective feet a year before by the Charleston Earthquake, sponsored a festival at Pearce's Hall (wherever that was). There was supper followed by a dance, and the funds collected went into the company treasury. Not all residents remained in town for the spirited good times. J.D Merrit and his daughter left for the Catskill Mountains for relief from Baker County's heat and humidity. Mr. Merritt was one of the town's primary promoters. He built several houses, induced his kinspeople to move down, and his wife served in the office of post master in McClenny. R.E. Merrit took his family to central New York. J.F. (we think that might be a mistaken set of initials) McClenny and family went to Franklin, Virginia (near the old McClenny homestead) Charles F. Shuey was in Atlanta on business. J.S. Gray was in Uptonville, Georgia, for similar purposes, and Sydney Pons vacated the town that summer for an unannounced location (the Pons folks were usually tight lipped about their business). Evidently the Baptist Church building was not ready for services in the summer of 1887 since Brother Bob Rogers (of Baptist preaching fame, not of rough-and-ready, tipping-the-bottle, taxi-driving fame) preached at the Methodist Church and baptized several people in Turkey Creek during the afternoon after services. Sorry, dyed-in-the-wood Methodists, but in those days Southern rural Methodists often preferred immersion and almost always were given a choice. Also, dyed-in-the-wool Episcopalians, your spiritual and denominational forebears of a century ago in McClenny were as likely seen worshipping in the Methodist and Baptist Churches as their own. The newspapers of those days were abundant with news items of ecumenical services. Now that we've picked on the Methodists and Episcopalians, we shall inform our fellow Baptists that in those days and in this little city, you were not so close-communion-ed either. Folks tended to be Christian first an denominational second. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, June 23,1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber Fred 'Bubba' Bullard; a genuine McClenny product "That was some adventure we had." Thus spoke a young fellow back in '42 or '43 by the name of Fred "Bubba" Bullard. Unless you have been locked away incommunicado for the past few weeks, you surely must be aware of the name Fred "Bubba" Bullard. Local television, radio, and newssheets have made this name almost a household word in northeast Florida...and not without good reason; Mr. Bullard is stepping, nay, boldly tromping, into territory that can be described as perilous...professional sports in Jacksonville. There has been much speculation and doubt regarding the wisdom of bringing the USFL to our neighboring city. After all, sports have never brought out the attendance in Jacksonville that arts presentations and entertainment cumulatively and consistently have. The Sharks and Express didn't make it, and the hollow touting of the here-and-gone-and-here-again Tea Men has long been wearisome. But, this column goes on record as stating it believes the jinx has met its match and then some. McClenny products have an enviable, if not widely advertised record of succeeding against great odds. Fred "Bubba" Bullard is a McClenny product. Fred is from good established local stock. This writer should know; Bullard and he share the same great-grandparents (ever notice how your columnist is quick to fasten onto the coat tails of relatives and acquaintances for what he hopes will be an easy ride to whatever and wherever it is one rides coat tails for and toward?). Bullard's great-great grandfather Obediah Garrett of Camden and Charlton counties, Georgia, was a gutsy fighter and survivor. When his first family was killed by belligerent Creeks in the First Seminole War, he remarried and began again, never shying away, because of the possibility of it happening again. During the Second Seminole War, after another family was well started, it happened again. Only he and two sons were saved. One of the sons, George, was badly shaken and physically damaged, but he survived to produce Fred Bullard's maternal grandmother Gertrude. George moved to McClenny in the 1880's where he accumulated a fortune in real estate and gold eagles and where Gertrude met and married one of the little city's most eligible bachelors, Earnest Vasco "Earnie" Turner. Earnie Turner's father Walter was a strong-willed, principled and disciplined gentleman. It was said of him that folks along his walking route to his job as McClenny's post master set their clocks by him. Walter Turner's father Charles was a native of Oneida, New York, a United States Army veteran of the Mexican War, a soldier of fortune in the service of Mexico, a pioneering insurance agent for Aetna in the great West, and an experimental farmer the Southwest, and a Republican whose humanitarianism and influence in Washington helped ease the after-the-war pains for many a Confederate veteran, widow, and orphan. The Frakers, a maternal ancestral family from the Netherlands, were well known for conservative politics and manners and for the individual members' ability to acquire economic substantiality. Fred's paternal ancestors were old settlers in the Columbia, Hamilton, and Suwannee Counties area and those Georgia counties contiguous to Columbia and Hamilton. Fred's father, known to locals as "Bascomb", always had a gentlemanly dash and flair, and he was a good businessman and provider even in the rough times of the thirties. One still hears ladies remark on the man's good looks. Fred's mother, Lillian Turner Bullard, is a very attractive, unpretentious, and personable lady who doubtless added her level headedness to Bubba's character as well as her strong Turner comely appearance. It takes, of course, more than having been born in McClenny of Baker County ancestry and having lived in McClenny (and Baldwin), to make a millionaire and successful Jacksonville professional ball team owner. It takes something special found in the person that is his or her own. Your writer recalls seeing that something special in Fred Bullard about forty years ago when Fred and he marched into the hammock behind the old Barber House for high adventure (the visits between the boys were very infrequent; we don't wish to give the impression of having been inseparable boyhood chums. In fact, the older folks had to give your writer a refresher on just how he and Cousin Fred were related each time he visited). That special qualify comes to mind when we remember that Fred was the first person your columnist had heard, other than a teacher use the word quot;adventure." In Cracker country, that takes guts. Bubba was not fearful of taking chances. He challenged your writer to climb a tree known to house flying squirrels and capture a few. Your cowardly columnist would not take up the gauntlet. Bubba did. He also caught a young squirrel as it landed and received a nipped finger. Your columnist, even as a child, admitted to a perverse joy at hearing the hero make a grammatical error in, describing his traumatic state- "it blooded". Also, as a child, your columnist realized that Cousin (we will insist on calling him that) Fred "Bubba" (he once expressed a dislike for his buddies, knowing and using the nickname) Bullard was not of an ordinary cut, because he seemed to not allow his opinion of your writer to drop due to a lack of your writer's bravado. Jacksonville's economy could use a professional sports team, and Cousin (there we go again) Fred will be the one to make it go. He will now bring the need and the ripe time together. This column wishes you well, Fred, and we have confidence in your great "adventure." _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, June 30, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber It's been eight years.... This effusion wraps, up, the eighth year of our column-writing efforts. As is our wont with these anniversaries, we shall review our readers' receptions and reactions and wander through divers topics. Responses: On the whole, readers' responses have been of a positive nature this past year. Maybe it's because our subjects and treatments of them have been comparatively innocuous. Maybe it's because your columnist is mellowing. We received a few "Sometime, why don't you write about..." questions. We would like to treat many more sundry subjects than we do, but with a weekly schedule of 30 hours of classes instruction, 12 hours private lessons, 12 hours driving time, and 9 hours research and preparation for classes, we are happy to get one column out a week. Artists, unlike normal people, don't survive (or thrive) on a 40 hour work week. Even the most uninteresting of these weekly writings demands a minimum of four hours compilation from notes, editing, and (ugh) typing. Original research and interviews can, at the least, triple the time (Your columnist makes no pretenses of being bright or rapid). And, yes, it does occasionally get old (your columnist also makes little pretense of being a stick-to-it type), but we shall hang in there a while yet. We must admit that the kind notes dropped into our mailbox make it easier. Be assured; if the subjects and your columnist last long enough, all those requests will be tended to...maybe. We still receive the queries about our use of the old fashioned editorial "we" and our spelling of the proper name "McClenny." The first, and most basic answer to those questions is that we want to. Regarding the editorial "we", surely those people are not serious. They have, no doubt noticed that our weekly feature is primarily an historical one. Why should we not borrow the editorial "we" from the charming, if not always easily read, journalism of the past? Also, we bring to mind a quote from one of our favorite, newspaper writers, Tate Powell, Sr.: "We don't want our readers to know how many of us there are. We want them to think maybe they're outnumbered." Now, on the spelling McClenny. Even if captain C.B. McClenny, the founder of the town, is responsible for altering the spelling to the personally odious Macclenny-as a result of the United States Post Office requirements of that day to eliminate capital letters and such within a post office name-this column shall continue to wage its lonely and low key war for correction. The documentary: The television special on Channel 12 "McClenny-A Place in History" was well received by the Florida Publishing Company's, reviewer; by a wide audience in Jacksonville, northeast Florida, southeast Georgia and by the perhaps 7 people in Baker County who watched. The only way we can figure for the evidently low, embarrassingly low, viewing number locally is that there was either a football game or a cable TV dirty movie at the same time. Where were all those folks whose habitual plaint is that the newspapers and TV stations never show anything about us but bad stuff? Hey, you seven folks who watched....did you notice that there wasn't one negative comment in the entire 30 minutes?. Close to ten weeks writing and videotaping; nights upon nights of editing; miles of traveling and route re-tracing; telephone calls galore; cajoling; politicking; diplomacy; and, worst of all, very early rising...and the result: "Well, I really meant to watch, but I rode over to Maxville to pick up a six pack and plumb forgot." You just can't do nothing for Jerusalem. Shine Day: We trust the civic pride and festive atmosphere engendered by McClenny's Centenary Celebration will be repeated and enhanced by Saturday's Shine Day. Here is the first opportunity to keep the spirit of the centennial alive. The Centennial, through the full-scale efforts of people like Gerald Roberts, Warren Williams, Gary Milton, Scott McPherson plus Dotsie and Shirley and a dozen others brought you Dabyville Mall. Judy Fraser Long inspired you to create your biggest and best parade floats. Doris Long and her group encouraged you to authentically costume up. Now, Baker County, take those efforts and have a Shine Day that outshines every other festival in north Florida. We extend appreciation and admiration to those who made the brave and necessary decision to give celebrants the option to "shine out" rather than use moonshining as a theme. We feel this will bring in many more participants. We cannot expect churches and those who suffer bitter and sad memories of a time not at all like a fun filled Burt Reynolds movie to condone or make light of the era. We cannot deny that it is a part of our history. Let us keep the dual theme and keep all Baker Countians celebrating rather than one segment only. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, July 7, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber Historical potpourri In preparing for our annual hiatus from our usual line of work and endeavor, we had written up several columns for the next several weeks. However, a weekly column prepared several weeks in advance is not- unlike bread baked several weeks ahead; both get mighty stale. Here, at the last moment, is a substitute for one of those stale effusions. The secret is now out...when you dear readers see one of these several subject, seemingly tossed together columns, you will know that it is also one of these last minute efforts. Letter from Darbyville: This column recently received a welcomed and informative letter from Miss Elise C. Jones, a great grandmother of Colonel John Darby (for whom Darbyville was named). Although we have been remiss in answering Miss Jones' letter, we shall take advantage of it and present a letter dated July 27, 1881, and postmarked Darbyville, Florida which Miss Jones' grandfather sent to Miss Ida Wolfe (later his bride) and which was included in Miss Jones' letter. "Dear Miss Wolfe, your most welcome epistle received yesterday and was indeed very glad to hear from you. I now hasten to answer it. There is no amusements (sic) of any kind in Darbyville for anyone. Am sorry you are not coming down to Darbyville in so long a time. Was in hopes you were comeing (sic) before the summer was out. Would try and make it very pleasant for you if you were to come. Hope your attending school will not interfere with our correspondence. With kind regards to your family, I am very respectfully, Arthur M.D." Miss Wolfe answered Mr. Darby and accepted an invitation to a meeting of the Darbyville Literary Society. And folks talk about how we're bringing culture to McClenny! It's been here all along; we're just rediscovering it. Independence Day: Although some of your columnist's Civil War era ancestors were definitely not pro-secession, there was sufficient anti-government attitude created in his family toward the end of the war and during reconstruction that he grew up celebrating the "Fourth" rather than "Independence Day." The commanding officer in Lake City in 1866 complained that the local residents showed little enthusiasm for the Independence Day celebration the army and Reconstruction government sponsored. That lack of enthusiasm naturally sifted down through the generations to our own day. But those were the old days, and the country, in case you haven't heard, has been securely (we hope) and happily (we thought) re-united. It's high time we resumed the habit of being thankful for the original foundation and, even though we Southerners got our britches whipped (but it wasn't easily done), we need to start showing gratitude that we re-established the union after the War Between: the States. We think we can begin by nipping in the bud a direction we see ourselves sliding into: re-fighting the Civil War. Hold on! We're not getting ready to whip a dead horse, i.e. railing against our Southern white brothers and daughters of the Confederacy only. We are, rather, giving gentle remonstrance to so many of our northern-born brothers who have joined the big re-locating to the sun belt as well as to our own former Confederate states native-born. First, it has become a cliché to argue that the re-enactments to honor the dead, etc., but we will say that the re-enactments are among the best "live" history lessons one will ever see. Although unpleasant, the Civil War is part of our heritage, and it did mold us; such actual activities must never happen again, and the re-enactments make that lesson more graphic; and since mankind will always follow his animal nature and: scrap and kill, it is best for him to do it on the re-enactments fields and in the more vigorous sports arenas (we'd rather not hear about how animals don't behave in this manner...they actually do...it's only man who seems to enjoy it). Now, you good ol' boys; isn't it about time you stopped making such a big thing of Dixie and the Stars and Bars when you can't even know what they're all about? Frankly, this columnist is getting extremely tired of having the labels redneck, cracker, and rebel interchanged so freely. We can understand why, and how blacks cannot and will not get positive goose pimples when the strains of Dixie stir the air. We can understand intolerance toward rebellion now that we've settled down into one country. We can understand having a jolly good time re-fighting a history-changing battle now that all its widows and orphans are gone. We can understand resentment against invaders until the last victim of invasion has passed away. What we cannot understand is the continuing venom being passed between regions and races. We've never had it so good or so free. The trip to ultimate good and freedom is not over and will never be over. Blacks are not the only heirs of slavery, and peonage; many local Crackers share a similar background. We're trying to say with all this circumlocution that Baker County is one of the few rural Southern counties with good relations between regional backgrounds and races. We could be the model for many others, North and South. Let's begin planning now for a fantastic Fourth for '84. And let's begin right now to dwelling on our positive gains for awhile. Baker County, you've never had it so good whether you are white, black, pink, poor deprived, rich, educated, or ignorant. Don't be satisfied, but try being happy. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, July 14, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber Ms. Liberty and Daisies Our readers will undoubtedly notice a marked improvement in our spelling this week. We Just received our typewriter back from the typewriter hospital where we are certain the nice folks there rebuilt our spellerator. This will be another of those salad-like effusions (tossed together). Or, perhaps, it can be more likened to soup...composed of clearing out the storage of the columnist's mind. One subject we would like to comment on is the Statue of Liberty, an old likeable girl in need of repairs (puts this columnist in mind of some of his former girl friends). We have been reading about how $30 million is necessary for the overhaul (this writer has known women for whom this amount wouldn't even get it started), and maybe our readers want to know more about this seemingly expensive lady. For one thing, she has cost us very little. The French citizenry (not the government) donated the funds for her design and construction and gave her to the people of the United States (that's us). Some of your great-grandparents right here in Baker County gave money to erect the pedestal, on which she stands (we think that's a redundancy, but we only had the spellerator fixed on this typewriter, not the unredundantator). In those days, the twenty eighth of October, 1886, to be specific, when President Grover Cleveland dedicated her, people liked us; the French people's gift of her stands as proof of that. For those who are interested, Ms. Liberty was designed by Frederic Auguste Bartholdi. Gustave Eiffel of "the" tower fame planned her elaborate and effective framework. She weighs a total of 225 tons (bet even Weight Watchers couldn't handle that job), and she is covered with copper plates. She stands 151 feet high on a pedestal of 89 feet, and her base is an additional 65 feet. If our arithmetic is correct, she raises her torch, symbolically lighting the way to freedom, 305 feet above the water line before the New York City skyline. Besides being the first visible bit of America for millions of immigrants in the almost past century, she has represented America to all of us on T-shirts, paperweights, and historical pageants. She has been America's most noticeable symbol in movies that ranged from patriotic documentaries to the Planet of the Apes. Now, she's in trouble. She is sick. Her copper is corroding, and her framework is rusting. No matter that she stands in New York harbor, she stands for us here in Baker County, and it is our obligation to go to her rescue. This column suggests that our county and city governments kick off the focal campaign with a donation, no matter if it is small. We suggest a schools drive much like our old World War Il paper and metal collecting. Patriotic service, fraternal, and heritage Organizations cannot help but to send in something if they continue to tout the style and purpose under which they now operate. And individuals may send in anything from a dollar up (please' don't expect a receipt for tax purposes unless you're going to toss in something in the three figure range; such bookkeeping expense defeats the whole purpose of collecting the restoration funds). Send her some aid in care of Statue of Liberty/Ellis Island Foundation, P. O. Box 1986, New York, N.Y. 10018. In past columns we have proferred daisies to certain homeowners for preserving and restoring some of our county's old houses. This week, and irregularly in weeks to come, we wish to give Daisies to Down Town Doers. One of the first to restore and renovate a downtown structure was Paul Rhoden. He turned the former Edray Theatre and Crockett's Drugstore into a first class professional building. Its interior is still convenient after several years of use, and the timeless combination of natural wood and brick will keep the exterior attractive for generations to come. In the past, this structure has housed, besides the movie house and drugstore, Jewelry, shoe, and camera stores. Uncle Ira Walker began the city's first and only tropical fruit Juice stand around on the side in about 1950. Across the way, McClenny's most famous enterprise, the Hotel Annie, existed on the main drag from the mid-1930's until the mid-1950's. It was an economic and cultural descendent of the old Hotel McClenny of 1881. During this contennial year (we think this is a redundancy too, but we couldn't get an opinion on it), Gerald Roberts has encouraged new and re-newed business in the old Powers building with a fresh paint job and a bit of novel dolling up out back. Of special interest on that historic corner is the new restaurant, charming in location and attitude. It's been a long time since folks could sit and sip while rocking on the upper porch overlooking McClenny Avenue. Not enough praise can be heaped upon the team of Dr. Gary Dopson and attorney Hugh Fish and their lovely wives for renovating the Gilbert Building on the corner of Fifth Street and Railroad Avenue. The tasteful interior is a proper extension of the handsome exterior. The building is not old. Your columnist (who, also, is not old) remembers that before it was erected tents were pitched on the site for traveling movies, medicine shows, and all-black musical revues. There was once an open-air bowling alley (during WW II we think, presumably to lure the servicemen away from the den of iniquity that was the foot-stomping, lively Legion Hall). The empty lot was a dandy place for Bud Burnett, DeWitt Chessman, and others of us to tunnel through the dog fennels to hideaways. Julia Mae Dyal would often find us and demand that we allow her to play with us or she would squeal on the location. Will Gilbert's store on that site was a fascinating ommium gatherum. It was a place of Pappy A.B. Hart, mayor of Trail Ridge; inventive Sal Colson; friendly and kind Calvin Josie; and the columnist's witty and wonderful Uncle Massey Hurst. More Daisies later. Correction: Miss Jones, mentioned in last week's column, was the great-granddaughter, not the great-grandmother, of Colonel John Darby. That came under the heading "dumb mistakes." _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, July 21, 1983. THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber "Summer sort of slow-walks you down" A few evenings ago, your columnist walked out onto his front porch and was transported back in time. It was still eighty-seven degrees at 9:30, muggy, and heavily, laden with half-hearted cricket lullabies. A quarter moon was trying to ease its light down into the magnolia-canopied yard. The single stingy-watted light bulb was no competition to the little bit of moonlight that came through. Easing down onto the steps, your columnist heard the floorboards creak with rockers. The gentle snapping of pea shells, an occasional soft slap of a screen door, sounds of a distant past rushed up to usher him to that almost forgotten time of his youth. The crisp picking at ice in the icebox, a metallic non-rhythm played by steam against a pot lid, kids playing at a sweaty game in the sandy lane...summer. Winter is an intimidator, but summer sort of slow-walks you down. It's heat and wetness is a narcotic, not always pleasant, that cannot be escaped. When we were little, there were the daily summer afternoon trips to either friendly cool Turkey Creek or sharing the back of the truck with some hefty Charleston Greys, out to Big River (The Saint Mary's to you Baker County neophytes). Sometimes, when our favorite holes were already filled with squealing milk-white kids (everybody was white in those days...everybody, that is, who was supposed to be white), we'd wind up at Macedonie (that's not a misspelling. Most of us were grown before we realized that Macedonie and Macedonia were not two-different places. Macedonie was as chilly as a glass of lemonade, and as fascinating a place as one could ever hope to. visit. Overhanging trees, tiny islands, sugary white sand, and stories of petrified wood lying at its very distant bottom (remember when we were told about certain holes in the river that "had no bottom?") made it a wondrous world indeed. On the way back, there would be tales of Indian attacks and the poor pioneers who were buried in a wagon body in the heat of the fighting. There were stories of runaway slaves (your columnist used to wonder why that was so bad if he had been a slave he would have run away) and how dogs were used to fetch them back...and right along the same route we were traveling. Then we'd hear about how some folks called the road we were on the "Pelham Road" and others knew it from "Indian Days" as the "Yelvington Road." As we passed the Rube Crawford place, there would always be the well-rehearsed and known-word-for-word narratives about Grandma Thompson making peach brandy there back before the War (the War Between the States, naturally) and how a red-headed Yankee sergeant had shot poor Great-Grandma Chesser. when she was but seven years of age and had left her lying wounded in the field all day and how her mother was forcibly restrained from going to her (we had a hard time for a long time liking Yankees and only recently believed that all red-headed folks didn't shoot little girls). Although we would already be suffering from watermelon bellyaches, there still might be a churn or two of ice cream. We were almost always certain to have at least two churns on account of very few of us could agree on what flavor there should be (other than vanilla, of course). Daddy Rowe Barber, who was never known to turn down any kind of ice cream, used to say, "any kind, as long as it's vanilla." There was always some smart-hole who challenged the rest of us kids to run around the house three times tightly holding a piece of salted ice. And there was always someone (usually your columnist) idiotic enough to try it, knowing that we had never succeeded before. There might be a few games of blind man's bluff. (we called it "bluff" here rather than "buff"), a couple hampers of peas or butter beans to be shelled, some idle gossip, family history tales about who was really whose father, maybe a couple of radio comedy programs (Fibber McGee and Molly was one of the favorites), and then time for bed. The kids playing in the sandy lane could never understand why after spending the afternoon partially and totally immersed in water (we ducked each other and played gator and baptizing) had to wash our feet before retiring. Dumb, we thought. But we still took down the enameled pan, and, sitting on the back porch, washed off our feet and carefully dodged any sandy spots on our way to bed. We counted it a real treat to spend the night on the sleeping porch, and even the chorus of mosquitoes on the other side of the screen didn't bother us. There would be more wonderful stories, fairy tales, and always something from old Aesop. Your columnist had the good, very good fortune to be blessed with witty grand parents on both sides, and those last minutes before sleep were the funniest of all day. Your columnist sitting alone on the porch that night, caught himself giggling at Grandmother "Big Pearl" Barber's joke about the...but we'd better leave that one alone here. Actually, he was laughing more at the monstrous shaking manner of her laugh, vibrating the entire room as she told and re-told her jokes. The dogs thought their old master had gone quite batty (and a bat did just flutter by) as he wondered aloud, Reckon it's too late to go play a little solitary 'Bum, Bum, Bum, Here We Come out in the lane." Summer ain't so bad. It's great for dreaming. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, July 28, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber More Nostalgic Reminiscenses Your columnist never ceases to be amazed at how his tossed together effusions bring more comments than his well planned ones. Last week's offering was no exception. I evoked such questions and greetings as, "How about a game of Bum, Bum, Bum?" and, "Shelled any peas on the front porch lately?", and, "Your last column set me to reminiscing." There were several nice cards and letters filled with memories of summers long ago, and one particularly attractive one came from of our regular readers in Jacksonville, Judy Carlisle. We want to share, Mrs. Carlisle's thoughts with our readers. She is from the hill country of North Carolina, so some of the subjects might be unfamiliar to you Cracker types. "Your latest (and most enjoyable) column plunged me into an entire afternoon of nostalgia...I guess kids of our generation did about the same things regardless of where they were located. "Did you catch a jar of lightning bugs and sit around listening to ghost stories until you were afraid to go upstairs to the bathroom alone?...Did you play Mother, May I', 'Red Rover', 'Steal the Bacon', and my old favorite, 'Hopscotch?' "The salted ice bit was new to me, but I remember being idiotic enough to let a sister convince me that I could see the stars much better if I'd look at them up through a raincoat sleeve and getting a dipper of cold water poured down the sleeve into my face for my trouble. "Did you ever mix cocoa and sugar and go far away from the house so your mama couldn't see you so you could put it inside your lower lip and talk and spit like some of the older country women did? "Did you have a pretty little graveyard in woods where you buried your little dead critters? We used to cover our graves with green moss and red mountain teaberries and little rocks, and the services we held at graveside would put Graham and Falwell to shame. "Did you watch the sky each night for the first star so you could say: 'Starlight, Star bright, First star I've seen tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight (and wish your mama would make French fries for supper)? "Did you ever see a spring house where the butter, eggs and milk were kept in crocks deep in a cold spring and brought up by ropes? Did you ever get to watch (or maybe help) churn butter in a wooden churn and see it packed into a wooden mold where it came out with an acorn imprinted on top? "Did you ever play in a corn crib and find nests with little pink mice in them? "Did you ever see a storage room for apples built inside a hill where all the apples are separated in bins according to type and it's cool and smells so good? Did you ever see apple slices being dried on a big screen up on a roof? "Did you sit and rock and make up songs to go with pictures on the wallpaper while watching your mama (or grandmother) make cottage cheese in the kitchen? "Did you ever try walking the rails across a railroad trestle and wind up crawling the rest of the way on your hands and knees-just knowing a train would come before you got across?" To al1 those rhetorical questions, Mrs. Carlisle, I and lots of other folks too if they would admit it, can answer "Yes". Thanks for sharing them with us. Now your ol' columnist begins his summer's hiatus. He's laying in a stack of advance columns at The Press, turning the fan to "high", putting the dogs on automatic "sic", and waiting for Labor Day. Happy "the-rest-of-summer", folks. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, August 4, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber What art is not....... Each year during August (second only to February in lackluster) your columnist takes a break from his classes and lecture circuit and concentrates on what he does best-nothing. August is too hot for the beach, too muggy for the daily constitutional, too still for painting, and too set-fired uninspiring for writing columns. We went to the attic to search our files for suitable subjects, but one does not remain in an attic very long in August. We tossed on a few platters of Bach and Brahms and laid on the floor before the fan and waited in vain for our Muse to call. We were tempted to pull out a few old pre-published effusions and try to slip them by our editor, but we think he is too sharp for that. Then, whilst patting the final touches onto a commissioned painting, we figured "Why the heck not finally spend some paragraphs on a subject we have never touched but are supposed to know something about?" Namely...art. When your columnist was young and brash, if called on to define art, he would have tossed out a pat, cut-and-dried definition faster than a monkey shinnying up a pawpaw tree. However, as years and experience have gathered and modified his thinking and eroded his granite-like convictions, he is now sometimes hard put to even attempt to wander vagariously through the most nebulous meaning of the subject. As you have probably already gathered, armed with the knowledge of his past columns, he is going to try (one might well question, "is there anything at all the man won't try to talk about?" To which, we might well answer, "No." We shall begin by first informing our dear readers what art ain't ("ain't used for effect, dear teachers. Your columnist will stoop to almost anything to get attention). It isn't purchased from vans parked at a Chevron service station corner. It isn't Elvis, a tiger, or a black Jesus garishly represented on black velvet or machine-woven or printed onto tapestries. It isn't imported from Taiwan or Mexico in great amounts of assembly line, wino-produced, house paint-painted rolls of landscapes and seascapes afflicted with terminal same-osis which are then cut, stretched, and signed with affected French and Italian fake names and finally sold by cutesy name outfits, i.e. "Famishing Artists", at flashy motor inns and civic auditoriums under the description of "sofa size" (your columnist remembers, and not fondly, how he, when on the verge of hunger, back in '74, took a job of cutting and stretching those monstrosities from Taiwan, and then assumed the final humiliation on himself by forging European signatures in the corner. His boss said, "Let's go mostly Italian this week, a few French, and maybe a scattering of English-sounding signatures. No Oriental looking names.") Art is not purchased in a kit all printed) up with numbers corresponding to little plastic pots of pre-mixed paint. Art never uses anyone else's printed or cast designs or objects. Art is not produced according to directions. That is art instruction, and monkey art, not art. Art is not one of several hundred or thousand printing shop reproduced pieces of someone's work regardless of signatures and numbers of slants penciled onto the bottom border and touted in a highly commercial manner as "limited edition." Those items are simply reproductions whereas art prints are created from the artist's on hand-produced printing plates, he/she pulls and inspects each printed step of each-picture (we shall elucidate in another installment). Art is not the result your kid brings home from the fair where he shot paint at a spinning board for fifty cents. Art is nothing painted by crawling earthworms that have been dipped in colors and placed on canvas. This item does fall, however, under the heading "Needless Cruelty To a Creature Better Suited For Helping One Catch Red bellies On a Summer Afternoon." Neither is art anything painted by the swishing of a donkey's tail dipped in paint, nor the result of chunking paint and spilt pea soup over one's head and behind one toward a waiting canvas, nor wrapping perfectly good Islands (and their accompanying ecology) in tasteless pink plastic, nor dribbling paint from a sports car onto a parking lot-sized canvas and then cutting it (either the canvas or the sports car or the parking lot) into frame-able sections for display in the Guggenheim. The first three of the afore-mentioned depend on chance and she, not the picture perpetrator, should be awarded any prizes given. The last two are no more than shoddy showmanship and all who stand in awe before them deserve all the ridicule your columnist can heap upon their silly, ignorant, and effete heads. _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday August 11, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber Now what art is......... Since your columnist was so negative in his last effusion, he feels an incumbency this week to approach his subject from the other pole. He still is hard to put to define art, but he can list some of its principle characteristics. They can be mostly assimilated into the principles of (1) drawing, (2) composition, (3) color knowledge and use, (4) handling of the medium, and (5) creativity. They are often referred to as "the big five" in art. Gear up. You are about to receive a whole semester of art appreciation in a dozen or so measly paragraphs. And, remember, you read it right here in the pages of the good ol' BCP. Before we jump onto that, let us clear up some rather dumb misconceptions preached by many so-called practicing artists. Among the legitimately uninformed, they shall be simply referred to as "misconceptions" (we like legitimately uninformed folks). A. Art is not magic. Anyone can learn it and learn about it. A certain art instructor of our acquaintance boast, "I can teach a rock to paint." And the only time we saw him fail was when the rock just absolutely expressed no interest in the subject. B. Art does not come solely from so-called natural-born talent. We will concede, after thirty years in the field (and most of it teaching) that some folks tend to possess more of an ease in learning the subject, but we maintain (and who can effectively argue with thirty years of experience?) that talent is acquired, not gratuitously received (a self-professed lack of a natural-born talent is about the easiest way out we know of in attempting to try one's hand at a subject); that talent's main ingredient is 'desire'; and that most of us were born with all sorts of talent potential but had them put in a state of arrest by good-intentioned parents and teachers. C. Art is not a mystery. It is, as listed above, composed of five main principles, and the first four can be taught and all five can be learned. Confused? We shall elucidate later. Drawing can be taught and learned. It is little more than the animal-like curiosity of looking and imitating in order to learn more about whatever we encounter in our lives. It is also closely kin to having fun. The simple and innocent act of a kid picking up a crooked stick and going "bang" at an imaginary badman is a form of drawing without use of pencil and paper. It is observing (seeing that a pistol has a crooked aspect and can be held in the hand), comparing (noting that among all the objects in the yard, a crooked stick has the closest appearance to a pistol), and putting into practice (picking up the stick, pointing the longer part toward a play-like desperado and making a loud and sharp noise). In drawing, one does about the same thing as the kid with the stick. One sees a cow as a large mass with four skinny supports underneath and a mooing end with floppy ears and sometimes curving horns (the other end swishes a lot and does other things which are not really pertinent to our example). One then experiments with a pencil and notes that a fat cucumber shape with four skinny funnels underneath, etc. loosely resembles the animal under observation. One then sets about to carefully look at basic shapes, proportions, relationships of parts to the whole and to each other, and then to relay those observations to paper or whatever, one at a time. From there on, practice, like every other pursuit, is the order of the day (every day if one wishes to improve). When we art judges are analyzing an artist's work, we do not compare him/her to another artist, but we compare his/her drawing ability to a norm which is something roughly' like "Is he/she making that item out in the field an animal or a haystack? If an animal, is it a mule or a cow? If a cow, shall we classify it as dairy or beef? If dairy, did the artist tell us it is a Jersey rather than a Holstein? The closer the artist has convinced us that the little blob out in the field is a particular cow of a particular breed of a certain age, etc., the more we can judge his/her drawing ability as top rate. (To be continued...in simpler language). _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, August 18, 1963 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber Composition in art Continuing last week's discourse on art, we offer the remaining four of the big five principles of art. If you get tired of this before we're through, just give us one of those ugly phone calls. We shall begin with composition, that old bugbear of all amateur picture perpetrators and the absolute delight of all accomplished artists. Position: to pose, place, set and, Com: with, together. Composition simply means placing items with each other and on the surface being used. In art, those items being placed with each other may be colors, forms, directions, edges...you name it. Are there rules for this positioning together? Well, we in the arts prefer not to use the mathematical term "rules." We say instead "guidelines." And yes, there are guidelines for good-art composition. They are not complicated in their basic forms, but when they are utilized or broken in a creative way, they can be extremely complex and hairy. Anyone can learn the overly simplified guidelines of composition. Some of them are as follows: the fewer items of any kind in an art piece, the safer and more successful it is. Two of every three items should overlap; a dominant mass is beneficial in adding security; all viewing of art is made happier and easier with the inclusion of a focal point; don't lead the eye out of the picture at a corner; don't make the picture heavy on any side; don't bullseye the focal point, and so on. Color is among the main determining factors of whether or not the picture producer achieves mastery in her or his work This is true in traditional, abstract or non-objective art. (Don't let the terms throw you; we'll make short shrift of them next week.) To conquer color, one must do the unimaginable, i.e. forget everything one's sweet mother or kindergarten teacher said about the subject. A bit of observing and unbiased analyzing will soon convince one that nature does not insult and assault the eye and brain with garish colors. She leaves that to mankind. One will eventually realize that clear skies are not blue, grass is not green, tree trunks are not brown, the sun is not yellow at high noon, and little boys are not orange. We shan't give you the true answers to these posers, but we shall direct you to find out for yourselves. Compare the blue of the American flag to the next clear sky you see. smear a piece of white-paper with the greenest crayon you can find. Then lay it on some grass, any grass, and be prepared for a shock. The mature and creative person at some point in life discovers that the world is nothing like he or she once thought it to be. And discovering color is the first hint that he or she has tasted the fruit from the forbidden tree of knowledge. Once one has seen that sycamore trunks are pastels of yellow-green, pink and beige, the age of innocence (and ignorance) has been left behind. Or that the beaches in north Florida are almost pristine white; or that rust is not red. Once color in nature has been learned, the artist can then discover that it is much more important to use the colors seen by the brain of the viewer rather than mechanically fill in outlines with proper colors dictated by nature. (Look, we're just promising simpler language, not guarantees of lucidity.) One can, for instance, lower the apparent temperature by scores of degrees in a depiction of an arid desert simply by using what are known as the "cool colors" of blue, green, violet, grey or black. The same, scene can be redone in warm colors: yellow, orange, red, earthy tones, and white (our hottest color) to create an extremely hot attitude within the picture. Handling the medium (what the art piece is done on) has also been dubbed "methods and materials, application technique, craftsmanship" and a dozen other terms. The gist of this principle is (1) put the stuff you're using on the surface in such a manner that it looks like you care; (2) inject a bit of your personality into the manner you apply your medium; (3) strive for some originality in your application methods. From some (dumb) where some of us got the idea that we must completely obliterate brushstrokes in art. Thank God that didn't catch on years ago, or we'd never have had Cezanne and Monet with us today. Neither would we be privileged to view Goya nor even Rembrandt, or Michaelangelo or many others whose names should elicit a genuflection. Much of their success came from their brushmarks, sometimes as much or more so than their drawing ability, colors, subject or composition. To be continued.....have you ever felt more cultured in your life? _____________________________________________________________________________ THE BAKER COUNTY PRESS, Thursday, August 25, 1983 THE WAY IT WAS-Gene Barber Creativity in art Before we treat the final one of the big five principles of art, we think we should inform our readers that these principles and guidelines of art were not arbitrarily and prissily conceived and framed by a group of art cognoscenti in a musty backroom in Milan or Florence back in a distant century. They have evolved, with little or no manipulation, from the natural experiences and logical conclusions of innumerable practitioners of art from prehistory through approximately the 1920's. Beginning back in the early part of the last century, art academies began to gel the previously somewhat loose guidelines, and, sadly, the guidelines turned into rules. As is the wont of the western world mind, we swung too far in the other direction, beginning strongly in the thirties, and burned the rules and spurned the guidelines. We threw out the baby with the wash water, so to speak. This brought us, or made the world receptive toward, such inanities as many of the paintings of Kandinsky, Motherwell, Johns, and Pollock. If you've never heard of them, don't fret; you haven't missed much. The twentieth century also gave us the super-intelligent (sarcasm intended) phrase that became the sneering battlecry of the so-called modern artists who substituted weirdism for talent: "If we have to explain it to you, you wouldn't understand it anyway." We believe however, that a great many of the artists of the twentieth century including the afore-mentioned, were sincere in their search for originality and individuality, the two main elements of creativity. And when it comes to creativity, many are called, but few chosen. It is the opinion of this writer that creativity can be learned, but it cannot be taught (but he sure the heck will continue to try). It is the most elusive of the big five principles of art. Creativity is characterized by individuality (we all scream today that we are individuals, but we demand to be allowed to be individuals exactly like everybody else in our particular economic and cultural strata). Individuality is that trait which prevents our art works from looking just like everybody else's. Individuality is evident in artist's brush strokes (or pencil lines, thumbprints in clay, etc.) palette (his/her favorite colors not what his/her paint is mixed upon) peculiarities of drawing for instance, does he/she consistently elongate the-human figure as did the marvelous and sainted Greco?), and favorite compositional devices (perhaps a sparse picture, or a crowded picture) Individuality also means that the appearance of the artist's work is perceptably modified with his/her constantly evolving personality, and all creative people experience evolutions in their personalities either from outward influences or from workings deep in their minds. The picture-producer who has hit upon a financially successful image in his/her art work and then, in spite of his/her evolution and growth, sits on that image for the sake of sales, or fame is not responding to his/her own urge of individuality. By-the-way, successful selling is just that - successful selling - not successful art. If the two ever happen to meet within the same artist, so much the better. Originality, the second element of creativity, is not so easy to define. In fact, the closer one thinks he/she has come to the meaning of originality, the further he/she has traveled from it. The difficulty of defining originality is perhaps its best definition (think about it). Perhaps we could say that originality is looking at the same old world from a brand new vantage point. If individuality is the natural response to one's personality, then originality might be our deliberate attempt to discover something outside our personality and inject it into our art work. This writer is not certain, and he is sure that you nice readers are just about ready to say, "who cares?" One example of creativity (individuality and originality) and then we quit for the week: if the artist is a solitary, private person, he/she might choose as a subject, a tree standing starkly against an almost empty background. If an element of mysticism and romance is wished, the tree might be turned into either an ancient gnarled oak or a soaring leafless cypress. Including a fence, that protects his private nature. The escape from reality (or perhaps the route to excitement) symbol, of a roadway or body of water could be added. Sensuousness could be reflected by visible, unctious brushwork. Romanticism would be enhanced by warm earthy colors. To prevent an attitude of dread or sadness, the bare landscape can be relieved with a few cool colors and the two - warm and cool - can play against each other to create a subtle liveliness. The sun, or some other source of light, can be made to peek through with sparkle and its ages old message of hope. Some of the guidelines of composition might be broken in order to evoke a feeling of surprise or anticipation in the viewer. If one ain't careful, one would have a dern' good piece of artwork there. The artist learns these five principles of art - drawing, composition, color, handling of the medium, and creativity - and the myriad elements and properties of each, then learns through study and practice how to modify and defy them and add them to his work. This is not unlike patting one's head while rubbing one's tummy and dancing a waltz to the tune of Dixie, not to mention balancing a tumbler full of water on the upturned nose while maintaining a "don't give a dern" attitude. If he/she can succeed, or even approach success, he/she can begin to validly enjoy the epithet "artist." To be concluded next week.