In Loving Memory: Myra Cook Ackman

Myra (Cook) Ackman

Her memorial at FindAGrave

Twelve years ago today, I lost my precious step-mother of 36 years. She was a determining force for the better part of my life. Since her passing I have tried to hallow her memory with praise because of the endearing impression she's made on all who knew her. Many times I find myself reminiscing about some funny quip or some bit of advice that has helped me through the years.

She was blessed with a raiper wit that comes from growing up poor in the Kentucky mountains. Her humor was quick and merciless. Myra grew up in a coal mining community but she was "trained to virtue and grace, in faith and God's fear." An expert self-taught seamstress, she was rarely not at the old Singer sewing machine. Memory is sometimes muddled but with fondness I remember one joke in particular she would say when 'caught' sewing on a Sunday. Because Myra was of the die-hard Baptist faith, she would say she would have to remove all the stitches with her nose when in Heaven because she sewed on the Sabbath.

Her cooking was superb. A kind of cordon bleu but with a country flair. She could take an ordinary meal and make it special. We are still serving many of her delicious recipes, especially around the Holidays.

When I hear a Polka, her favorite music, it still brings a smile. Her favorite song, though, was Last Date by Floyd Cramer. She would crank that tune up and sway to the melodies that spilled out of that old cabinet record player. Last Date is one of my fav's now too.

In 2008, four years after her passing, her memory was still fresh, I wrote a brief story about how she came into my life.

Rest in peace dear lady. I'll bet you're sitting next to Floyd Cramer listening to him play for the heavenly bodies. I look forward to seeing you again in Heaven with our blessed LORD Jesus.

Wordless Wednesday ~ Lakeland, Florida

Hancock Road, Lakeland, Polk County, Florida USA

Motorcycle: 2013 Honda CB 1100

Throwback Thursday: Early 1980's

Sparky and  the original Sam

Early 1980's

Yep, that's me hamming it up on my parent's sofa in Titusville, Florida. The original Sam (Miniature Schnauzer) sleeps beneath the coffee table. He was a sweet dog. The photo was snapped by then new husband. This past August 11th we've been together for 36 years. Bless him, he always is my biggest fan.

In the beginning it seemed like we where broke most of the time. Thank goodness we where young and full of energy! And thanks to a booming economy with President Reagan, hard work, frugal living and God's blessings, prosperity graced our home. Even with all the work the world was still fun though. I have memories of dinner parties with friends, SCUBA diving, motorcycling, dancing, traveling, fishing, hunting, and so forth. Life is quieter now but I wouldn't trade a day of any of it for all the money in Fort Knox.

Anniversary Memories

Today we celebrated 36 years of wedded bliss. And it has been blissful, for the most part, and I give God the credit for that. In honor of this auspicious occasion, we journeyed to a far off land called Amelia Island. Lunch was at Timoti's Seafood Shak. On the way out of town, we stopped off at a little dog bakery called RedBones. Bought several treats for Jack and Sam III, the Jack Russell Terrierists.

The Restaurant was not much to look at, is it?!

The natives where friendly and offered us food

in return for common currency.

There's nothing more dangerous, than a hungry Sparky. 

Keep all fingers and toes at least 10 feet away.

Who is that good looking guy that keeps following me around? *lol*

The way we learned of Timoti's Seaford Shak's existence is in the latest issue of RoadRUNNER Magazine. I believe it was last Fall, the author of the story, and a riding companion, rode their Dual Sports from Folkston, Georgia, to our area, and back again. For anyone who rides, RoadRUNNER monthly supplies informative and well written works.

Anyway, the food was good and the company better.

My husband likes to say a photo refocuses a memory. For a good laugh, go to this link at Shutterfly and see what we looked like in 1979. Fresh faced, much slimmer, didn't ache anywhere and still unaware of the perils ahead. I'm thankful the Lord has let me make this long journey together. He gave me a wonderful life companion that has daily filled my heart with joy. I know I'm a much better person for having stuck to the course.

Our First Home #tbt #florida

Today for Throw Back Thursday, I have chosen to share a couple of photos of our first house. I was in my 20's then, freshly married, living in Jacksonville, Florida, when we bought the already old house in October 1981 for around $38,000.

The original owners had painted it

white with battleship gray trim.

No curb appeal at all.

I researched the history a bit after purchase, and the whole neighborhood was built around 1955. It was older than me! That poor house was just about a total wreck from neglect when we first moved in. There were roaches everywhere, cracks and fist-sized holes in the stucco walls, no doors on the bedrooms, the yard had been ignored since forever, no central heat or air, window panes as thin as paper, etc. The yard was more of a sand pit and only slightly larger than a postage stamp (65 x 120). It had only one very small 6' by 6' bathroom. But, we where young and, oh, so happy to have a place all our own. Through the years the house became The Ongoing Project (nice name for Wallet Sucker). Most of our spare money, which there wasn't much of then, went into the maintenance and upkeep of said abode. And the government calls a house an asset! "Asset" my big toe! *lol*

First thing on the agenda, after bug bombing the stew poopie outta the place, was repaint the house, inside and out. The outside became Hudson Brown (no lie! that was the name at Sherwin Williams) with dark brown trim. It looked rather classy, I thought. Then, it was time to tackle the yard.

Now that's curb appeal!

[click to enlarge]

I think it was worth the effort. I became accustomed to having strangers stop and talk while I worked outside. They would say such flowery, honey laced comments about how much better the place looked it fairly made my head swell. *blush* Ok, ok, I relished it. *giggle*

Then we moved to Southeast Georgia in 1993 to our current custom built home. I don't miss the old neighborhood but I do miss our lovely neighbors. We all kept up with each other for a long time until some began to die off and others move away. It was a fun place to live for awhile but I am exceedingly grateful to be living in the country now.

Long Ago, And Oh So Far Away, I Fell In Love With You

"Yeah, yeah, I promise already.

Can we eat now?"

"Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother,

and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh."

- Genesis 2:24

August 11th, 1979, my husband and I gathered together at our apartment complex with friends sans family, and with the aid of a local Notary bribed with the promise of lots of free eats and adult beverages, tied the marital knot.

Cutting the cake.

Steve had sent me two dozen roses

for the ceremony that night.

"Husbands, love your wives, 

even as Christ also loved the church,

and gave himself for it;"

- Ephesians 5:25

Today, 35 years later, the knot is still tied. Oh, it's a little frayed at the edges from wear but the bond is tighter than ever. Most of our life together has been joyful but we have endured the death of loved ones, sickness, surgeries, crushing disappointments, financial hardships, vehement disagreements, and numerous other man-made road bumps. Some of his family have shown their backsides to me for whatever reason. The next, it was mine being unkind. Still, we've stuck together like glue, and dared to world to try and intervene again. He's such a good man. I've always felt like I was the lucky one in this relationship. That I got the best end of the deal. He always very kindly states it is just the opposite (such a sweet liar ... ha ha).

"If we confess our sins,

he is faithful and just to forgive us [our] sins,

and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

- 1 John 1:19

My husband is the one who helped lead me to Christ through the Grace Message to lead the proper kind of life. I was a Christian in name only before that. After showing me Christ's love through his enduring love for me, I changed my way of thinking. I still remember falling to my knees in our first house and proclaiming to God that I will follow Him no matter where he leads me. My life from that point on only got better. God has never let me down.

I know I've said it before but my husband is a fantastic cook! He really could be a professional Chef. I'd much rather eat at home than a restaurant. We started our celebrations at home yesterday. After watching a full afternoon of MotoGP racing in Indianapolis accompanied by beer and chips, we engorged on home cooked thick New York Strip steaks, Ford Hook Limas and boiled Red Potatoes coated with real butter. Tonight should be equally enjoyable.

The celebrations will continue on into this week. Our plans are to board The Boys (Jack and Sam aka The Jack Russell Terrorists) for the first time, then pay a visit to northern South Carolina. A five hour trip one way so it will be an over nighter. I've been chomping at the bit to visit Competition Accessories in Rock Hill. I so want a few new motorcycle gear items and they are the place to get it. I know I could mail order but I don't like buying a helmet or clothes without trying them on. I have the worse luck with that! Especially shoes.

Anyway, back to the original ceremony, there are more photos here of our wedding.

Eli answered, "Go in peace,

and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him."

-1 Samuel 1:17

Ride Safe,

Throw Back Thursday: 1962-1963 First Grade #tbt #florida

This week for Throwback Thursday, I'm featuring my First Grade group photo from Whispering Hills Elementary School in Titusville, Florida. I'm not sure if the school is still in operation but there may be some history listed here.

I don't remember any of my classmates or, sadly, where they are. Their names are not listed on the back. And I won't ask if you can guess which one is me since for most of my dear viewers, my face is a mystery. Ok, I'm the one grinning like someone said "Anyone want chocolate?!" [extreme right row, third grin back]

Isn't it nice to see children all clean and not wearing offensive t-shirts or torn jeans? *sigh* And notice the little sailor suit imitation with shoes and socks?! One thing I remember of my first year in Junior High (7th grade) is I was warned to not wear socks or I would be kidded unmercifully. So I was sans socks from Day One in Junior High. That was about 1969.

By the way, all this reminiscing got me to thinking about the old home I grew up in. So, I researched the address on the Brevard County Property Appraiser website. It's in foreclosure! Poor things. I am grieved to hear of their misfortune. And, no, I don't want to live there again. Not ever. No way. Nuh huh! I like where I'm at. However, it was interesting to look up the old place. It looks neglected now. [If the link doesn't work, I can post a captured photo later or search for 55 North Holiday Lane.] When Myra and Dad owned it, our home was a show place.

Have a happy day everyone!

Ride Safe,

Part Twelve: Saturday Matinees or How I Learned to Love Dubbed Japanese Monster Movies (Phew)

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. Since we have no children, he has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his then 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

(Please note: None of the photos in this post are from our files. They are all from the internet.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Saturday Matinees or How I Learned to Love Dubbed Japanese Monster Movies (Phew)

by Steven R. Hudson

There is only so much fun that three boys can have on hot summer days. The Mealer boys and I had picked the last of the season's Blackberries. We had caught Water Snakes and tadpoles down at the creek and gone skinny dipping with the other neighborhood boys at the forest pond. A new drainage canal had being dug through the woods behind Center Park and we had rolled down the giant earth mounds left by the excavation machines as we played "King of the Mountain",  coming home so dirty that I was made to strip off my shorts and wash down with a garden hose before being allowed inside. We needed a new activity and our moms came through for us.

I guess moms need a break from the tedium of housework and child care and what better way than to drop off your kids at the Arlington Theater for a Saturday matinee triple feature. While the kids enjoy the movies, mom can shop to her heart's content at Woolworths without having to listen to the whinings of bored children.

So Saturday became movie day that summer. Our moms would drop us off at the little theater on Arlington Road, a dollar bill in our pockets. Admission was only 25 cents which left enough for a large Coke, popcorn and a candy bar. Ike was president and things were cheap in 1959 and '60. Corny science fiction and cheesy monster movies were the common fare at these kid centered matinees with a weekly serial western thrown in to keep you coming back for more. The marquee showed the day's exciting lineup. "Mole People", "The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms", "Earth Versus Flying Saucers", "The Blob", but my favorites were the Japanese flicks like "Mothra", "Rodan" and "Godzilla". The dubbing in the Asian movies was always entertaining in itself, the mix of Japanese names and dubbed American voices and slang, "Wow Ichimura, that was a close call man".

The matinee I best remember is the one we never got to see, the one I named the "Raisinets Incident". The incident started innocently enough. We paid our

admission and headed straight for the snack bar as we always did. We had each bought a box of chocolate covered raisins called Raisinets along with our staples, Cokes and popcorn. It was not long into the first feature when one of us said something (can't remember who) funny and that started us giggling which, strangely enough led to us tossing Raisinets at one another. Suddenly a low voice behind us said, "You three boys come with me." Busted! We were thrown out on the street and into the summer heat. It would be many hours before our moms would be by to pick us up. We wandered up and down the sidewalk, gazed into store fronts and killed the time as best we could. After a time that seemed like eternity our moms finally came to take us home. "How was the movie" they asked. "It was pretty good" we answered.

Part Eleven: Catching Supper at Little Jetties

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. Since we have no children, he has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his then 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

(Please note: None of the photos in this post are from our files. They are all from the internet.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Catching Supper at Little Jetties

by Steven R. Hudson

As I mentioned before, we are a family of fisherman and many of our happiest times revolved around weekend fishing trips. We could not afford the luxury of a boat but fortunately there were many great fishing spots that could be accessed from shore in Duval County. One of Dad's favorites was the Little Jetties as they were locally known. This was just off the Old Mayport Rd. at the confluence of the Intracoastal Waterway and the St. Johns River. Huge granite boulders had been placed here to prevent erosion and protect the river and waterway channels. On any pleasant weekend anglers would gather here upon the great rocks and cast their lines. Fishing from the rocks could be dangerous. The boulders were irregularly shaped and slippery. When you reached the top you could look down on the barnacle encrusted submersed embankment as it disappeared into the dark river water. I remember how eerily beautiful it all seemed. When I was younger I would spend most of my time chasing Fiddler Crabs on the muddy tidal flat behind the jetty or trying to catch tiny fish trapped in the many small pools left by an ebbing tide. When I was older Dad would let me fish with him on the rocks. It was glorious being high on the jetty wall with the wind from the nearby sea in our faces and the constant chatter of gulls overhead; my little brother chasing fish in the tidal pools behind us as I had once done.

Surf fishing at Mickler's Landing was another favored pass time. You could drive out onto the beach there from A1A and at low tide, drive on the hard packed sand as far as you wished. We had a most memorable weekend at Mickler's when I was ten. The Mealers joined us for an overnight surf fishing trip. A makeshift camp of beach blankets and folding chairs was set up on the beach above the high tide mark. Our moms had prepared enough sandwiches, snacks and drinks for the weekend. The only clothes we brought were the bathing suits we wore for it was summer and the night would be warm but made comfortable by a breeze off the Atlantic. Our dads got out their fishing rods and tackle boxes and walked along near the surf, looking for that "spot" where there was sure to be fish. We boys were sent on a mission to find Sand "Fleas", a mud dwelling crustacean that is excellent

bait for Pompano. After we had gathered enough Sand Fleas to satisfy our dads, we began exploring the sand dunes. They were remarkable in the evening light, starkly white against the dark Blue-Jack Oaks and Cabbage Palms that grew on their backsides and out to A1A. The dune tops were adorned with Sea Oats that swayed softly with the ocean breeze and White Morning Glories grew along the footpaths that led way to the beach. Later that night we laid on our backs in the wet sand and gazed up in wonder at the Milky Way and millions of stars that were now so easily seen against a black sky, unsullied by pollution from city lights. We scraped away wet sand and watched in amazement at the flash of tiny phosphorescent organisms hidden there and all the while the surf pounded relentlessly against the shore. Late in the evening a pickup truck drove up to our camp site. There were two men in the truck and our moms were frightened. They told us boys to run down the beach and fetch our dads. When our dads came up they walked over to the truck and we could hear angry words being exchanged. Thankfully, the two men drove away after this verbal outburst and we did not see them again. Morning came and it was time to pack up our stuff and head for home. It had been a great weekend even though the fishing had been poor. My friends and I were sad to leave. It had all been such fun. 

Part Ten: Shootout At The OK Canal

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. Since we have no children, he has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his then 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

(Please note: None of the photos in this post are from our files. They are all from the internet.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Shootout At The OK Canal

by Steven R. Hudson

There were certain items in Grandma Cootie's house that were off limits to me and my cousins, Uncle Bill's guns. They were everywhere about the house. There was a revolver atop the dresser in Grandma's bedroom. A Winchester rifle was leaned in the corner of the living room and Uncle Bill's Walther pistol, a war souvenir, was often lying on a desk top. We youngsters were warned that these guns were always loaded and we were not to touch them. We never did for we feared the consequences. In order to satisfy our youthful curiosity, Uncle Bill took me and cousins Billy and Johnny down an old dirt road that followed one of the many local drainage canals. We were going shooting and were agog with excitement. We had never shot anything other than BB guns but now we would be handling and shooting real firearms. Uncle Bill stopped the car in a wooded place on the canal bank and went about setting up some old cans as targets.

 His old Winchester .22 rifle was taken out and it's safe operation explained to us. Soon we were taking turns enjoying the crack of the rifle and watching the cans topple.We shot the little rifle until our ears rang and, all too soon, it was time to leave. Before we left though, Uncle bill got out his .30-30 lever action Winchester to demonstrate the difference between this rifle and the little .22 we had been shooting. He told us to cover our ears and then fired at a small pine tree growing on the canal bank. CRACK-BOOM went the rifle and the tree seemed to explode at it's base and then topple over. We were dumbstruck. I now dreamed of having my own rifle and the fulfillment of that dream was not far off.

Grandma and Uncle Bill did not live in St. Lucie long when they decided to move to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Uncle Bill had been a plastering contractor for years but now dry wall was replacing plaster as the favored way to finish interior walls. Adobe style houses, common in New Mexico, required skilled plaster work. We would not see my Grandma or Uncle Bill for the next few years. They would hit on hard times in New Mexico and never recover the prosperity they had enjoyed in previous years. When they returned to Florida, they moved in with Gramoddy. Years later, they would homestead an island on the Indian River where many more great adventures awaited.

Throwback Thursday: My 1979 Kawasaki KZ650

Welcome to my first attempt at Throwback Thursday.

Above is a photo of my sweet Hubby and me from the early 1980's. I was only 24 and Hubby was 32. I wish I was still that skinny! This is my first street legal motorcycle. It was a 1979 Kawasaki KZ 650 set up for touring with a Vetter Fairing, Bates Box, and King and Queen seats. It even had a homemade cruise control, of sorts. Since we both liked to ride, and neither cared to be a passenger, we would take turns up front. Because female riders where a rarity in the '80s, we sure got some amazed looks!

We had a lot of adventures on this bike. "They" say hindsight's 20/20 but I wish I could have kept it. I sold the bike when we bought our first house in October 1981.

This photo was snapped somewhere between Titusville and Jacksonville, Florida, along the I-95 corridor. We where freshly married and had been down to visit my Dad and step-mother in Titusville for the day. It is about a two hour trip one way, so, about half way back we had stopped at one of the rest areas to refresh ourselves. A kindly by-stander, now long forgotten, took the picture for us. I'm forever grateful to that man. Because of his kindness we still have a very happy memory memorialized forever on film.

Part Nine: The Birds, The Bees ... And The Honey

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. Since we have no children, he has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his then 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

(Please note: None of the photos in this post are from our files. They are all from the internet.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The Birds, The Bees ... And The Honey
by Steven R. Hudson

On a warm summer morning we boys, that being Ray, Jackie, Peanut and I,

were walking the trail from Sherwood Forest toward the Mealer house carrying bundles of Dog Fennel stalks we had cut to make a tepee. De-limbed Maple saplings had already been stacked at Ray and Jackie's backyard to make the tepee frame. The Dog Fennel stalks, feathery and green and wreaking of Chlorophyll, would be woven over the frame of Maple to form the walls of our "Injun" dwelling.

Along this path stood an old Bald Cypress. The tree was one that could not help but be noticed, standing alone now on dry ground that was once a shallow wetland and somehow having avoided the saws that felled it's companions. Like all members of it's kind, it was swollen at the

base with many "Cypress Knees" thrusting from the ground nearby. Something was different as we approached the tree this day. A steady buzzing sound from the tree caught our attention causing us to drop our bundles and investigate. There was a hole about six inches wide at the tree's base and a steady stream of Honey Bees flying in and out of the opening. We passed by this tree many times a week on our way to the forest and were surprised that the bees had escaped our notice until now. Being of an age famous for short attention spans, we forgot about tepee construction and set about investigating the beehive. 

The first painful lesson learned was that Honey Bees get highly irritated when you get too near their honey store. Pulling their barbed stingers from our tender young flesh convinced us that another approach was needed. Now it seems that at least one of us brigands had heard that smoke was like a drug to bees. Smoke would calm them, making them docile enough so that we might rob their honey supply without being stung. We began gathering some dry sticks and enough tender to make a small fire near the hive opening and dry leaves would make plenty of smoke to soothe the hive's protectors. A long sapling was cut and used to push the sticks and tender up to the opening which was less than a foot from ground level. Dried grass was wrapped around the pole's tip and lit to make a long "match" to get the sticks and tender burning. This actually worked as smoke drifted up and into the opening. We became emboldened and moved closer, throwing more sticks and leaves on the fire and fanning the smoke into the opening with a palmetto frond. The bees seemed confused and crawled around the opening, no longer flying aggressively toward us. Which of us would be brave (crazy) enough to reach in that opening and pull out the honey comb with it's sweet treasure?

If Peanut was known for anything it was impulsiveness. If you wished to see him do something risky or just plain stupid,  just dare him to do it. So we dared him and straight away, he reached into the hive opening, felt around for a moment, then pulled out a comb a foot long and dripping with honey. Jackie rushed home to fetch a bucket for the honey comb. The bucket was soon filled and raid over, we retired to a shady spot to enjoy our spoils. We cut the comb open and lapped up the honey like thirsty dogs. It was so sweet and delicious and, like dogs, we ate too much and got sick. The bees had gotten their revenge.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A Special Note For Today:

In case my readers haven't noticed,

I'm not much into celebrating holidays.

However, March 17th is a special day for us

because on this day 35 years ago

Sweetie and I had our First Date.

(And, yes, I wore green that day.) :)

We've been together as a couple ever since.

We always, always find some way to celebrate this day.

For everyone else, I hope your day is special too.

Thanks for stopping by.

Happy Saint Patty's Day!

Part Eight: Indian River Memories

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. He has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his then 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

(Please note: None of the photos in this post are from our files. They are all from the internet.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Indian River Memories
by Steven R. Hudson

Not all my adventures revolved around our home in Center Park. We made frequent trips to Ft. Pierce to visit Grandma Cootie. She and my step

grandfather no longer lived on Angle Road but had moved into an old wood frame house fronting on Indian River in St. Lucie. There was a great open porch without railings surrounding the structure. A stately old Live Oak tree stood in front amidst tall Cabbage Palms. The side and back yard had Orange and Grapefruit trees. A dock stretched at least a hundred feet into the river with a large platform at it's end and Coconut Palms lined the paved road that fronted the house. Looking across the river, (actually a salt water lagoon) you could see Mangrove jungles that defined the shallow waters of the far bank and small islands, covered with Australian Pines were strung like pearls along the river's channel.

Grandma was an excellent cook and enjoyed cooking up huge feasts in preparation for our visits. Exiting the car, we could smell the aroma of roasts, hams and home baked pies and cakes from her kitchen. We would eat until we could hold no more and Grandma would carry on, decrying our "small appetites" and all the left overs she had to deal with. Of course, the next few days would see the left overs disappear. Everything she cooked always tasted so good.

Evenings found us all on the dock to catch Mangrove Snappers, Trout and Snook. If the shrimp were running, a Coleman lantern would be hung over the water to draw the shrimp to the surface to be scooped up with a dip net.

Sometimes something unusual would be drawn to the light and our baited hooks like a Barracuda or an eel like Cutlass Fish. Needle Fish would chase the small fish drawn by the light and were a prize if you were fast enough to net one as there was no better bait for big Snook. Breakfast would consist of crispy fried fish fillets, eggs and grits. It was so good waking to the aroma of fish frying and coffee bubbling in Grandma's old fashioned percolator. Breakfast over, we might take a boat ride on the river with Uncle Bill as we called our step grandpa, to gather fresh oysters if they were in season or go to one of his favorite fishing spots for Sea Trout or Snook. Uncle Bill grew up on the Indian River, earning a living in his youth as a commercial fisherman and it seemed he knew every cut, creek and island it held. He could tell stories by the hour about his life on the river, trolling wire lines for Trout, catching sea turtles and even Manatees. Such activities would be illegal now but in those days these animals were abundant and anything you could catch would be used for food.

Uncle Bill's mother lived in an old wooden house on 32nd Sreet in Ft. Pierce. We called her Gramoddy. Her yard was a jungle of old trees, vines and bamboo and looked out of place next to the neatly manicured lawns of other homes on that street. Her next door neighbors were Robert and Gladys Loyd. They were wonderful folks and friends to my Grandma and Uncle Bill. They had a daughter my age named Sherry, my first crush, and I would go next door to the Loyds whenever we visited Gramoddy to see her. Mr. Loyd had a very successful fruit trucking business and I remember him and Mrs. Loyd being kind, friendly people. It seems they were always making homemade ice cream when we visited and it tasted so fine under the shade trees of their back yard. Grammody's yard was a great place to view nature. She had bird feeders all round her house and she would hand feed peanuts to the squirrels, all of which she had given names. The most tame was a female she called "Gray Baby". I would watch her bird feeders for hours and she would help me identify the birds that I was not familiar with. I saw my first Painted Buntings at her feeders and my interest in watching birds was born and nurtured there.

Part Seven: Tales Of Sherwood Forest

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. He has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his then 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

(Please note: None of the photos in this post are from our files. They are all from the internet.)

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Tales Of Sherwood Forest

by Steven R. Hudson

So much of our play centered on a stand of tall Cypress, Tupelo and Water

Oaks. Spanish Moss festooned the trees and the sunny edges of this wood were girt with prickly, head high briars. It was situated in the very middle of Center Park and had probably been planned as a park by the developer before some calamity of business brought such plans to a halt. The trees formed such a canopy that little sunlight reached the lone footpath that cut through the heart of this magic place. Our previously mentioned fishing canal defined the north side and a crude bridge of fallen logs gave access to the trail on that side. We played out countless boyhood fantasies in that wood, of Robin Hood, Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians and other imaginings.

Every dime store in those times sold bow and arrow sets. The small maple bow and three rubber tipped arrows were stapled to a cardboard backing with the profile of a noble Indian chief on the front and bulls eye target printed on back. This was an essential piece of kit for a round of Cowboys and Indians and I think every kid back then had one. We actually shot these rubber tipped arrows at one another. A wonder none of us lost an eye.

 Many rabbits inhabited the briar patches around Sherwood Forest and these bows now gave us an idea of how we might hunt them. Of course the "sissy" rubber tips had to go first but we found the arrows would not fly true with their tips simply sharpened to a point. Something heavier and more lethal was needed if we were going to be successful rabbit hunters. It was Peanut who came up with a solution. A soda bottle cap could be bent over the end of the arrow shaft and then hammered flat. This locked the cap to the shaft and formed a sharp, thin steel point that could be made even sharper with a little honing on a stone. Armed with this new deadly weapon we were ready to rabbit hunt. We soon learned that rabbit hunting was not as easy as we had thought it would be. Rabbits are quick and we had to get very close with our under powered maple bows to have any hope of making a hit. We next experimented with making stouter bows that would cast our newly upgraded arrows with more authority. The raw materials for bow making were all around us. Medium sized maple saplings were found to make a decent bow and Peanut actually managed to kill one unfortunate rabbit. We soon tired of bows however. Far more interesting weapons were coming.

We loved making forts in Sherwood Forest. Cast off pieces of plywood and cardboard could be fashioned into walls and roofs. A hammer and a Mason jar full of rusty nails were all that was needed. Ray, Jackie and I found a pile of cardboard at a building site and dragged it off to add to a fort we had already but as we neared the briar patches, a new idea was hatched. Why not build a hideout in the midst of those impenetrable briars. With a machete, "borrowed" from Mr Mealer's back porch, we began a kid size crawl tunnel into the maze of thorny canes. As we went, strips of cardboard were laid down to protect us from the thorns. At last we tunneled to the center of the briars and hollowed out a room large enough that we three could sit cross legged. We lined the room with the remaining cardboard and made a "door" out of woven canes to hide the entrance. We felt so clever.

Part Six: Blackberries And Fishing

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. He has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his then 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Blackberries And Fishing
by Steven R. Hudson

You could nearly live off the land in Center Park, I think, and Blackberry* season was proof. There were two large berry patches, one on the east side of

"Sherwood Forest" where unsold lots had become fields of grasses, new growth trees and wild flowers. The other was in a clearing at the end of a two path dirt road on the south side of Beach Blvd. The Alhambra Dinner Theater sits on the exact spot today. In late May and early June the sweet, juicy berries would ripen, luring me and my friends. We carried brown paper bags to haul back the tasty treasure that our moms would bake into cobblers and pies. The bags would get soaked by the purple-red juice as they filled to overflowing. Our lips would be stained also as we ate about as many berries as we gathered. Blue jeans and sneakers were worn as protection from the thorny vines but our hands and arms got scratched from reaching into the tight spots that always held the best berries. Hot cobbler with vanilla ice cream would be the reward that evening.  

Sometimes berry picking could be a little scary. Ray, Jackie and I were picking berries in the patch near Sherwood Forest one morning. The vines grew in mats atop knee deep grasses that made it impossible to see where you were placing your feet. Our bags were nearly full when the air suddenly exploded with sound of escaping steam. We froze, too scared to even move. A big rattlesnake was nearby and we had no clue as to it's location. As if we had been given a signal, we dashed off in three directions like frightened quail. Miraculously, we did not step on the snake as we ran all the way back to Ray and Jackie's house. A few days later, the lure of the sweet berries was too much and we returned, each armed with a long stick. We poked the clumps of grass as we went and listened for the rattler. Nothing was heard and we soon got over our fear.

Fishing was a common summer activity and there were three good fishing holes. The creek which I've already mentioned, a canal on the northwest side of Sherwood Forest (built as subdivision drainage no doubt) and a large forest pond, not far from the berry patch south of Beach Blvd. The pond is now in the center of an apartment complex next to the Alhambra Theater. The canal was our favorite because it was nearby and there was plenty of room to swing our cane poles. There were Blue-gill and Warmouth bream in abundance. Large-mouth Bass were there also but we did not know how to catch them. It was so satisfying to walk home with a long string of fish over your shoulder. 

Summer meant afternoon thunderstorms which filled the ditches to overflowing on Cornelius St. The ditches drained down to Beach Blvd and from there to the creek. Soon they were full of minnows, crawfish, water snakes and fingerling bream and pickerel. We waded the ditches, catching small fish to put in Mason jars or old fish bowls. There were many small water snakes which I easily caught, firing up in me an endless fascination with snakes.

(Please note: None of the photos in this post are of his actual childhood. The *Blackberries mentioned are actually Dewberry but most locals call them Blackberry.)

Part Five: Trailer Potatoes

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. He has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Trailer Potatoes
by Steven R. Hudson

As I've mentioned in past missives, Grandma Cootie and Uncle Bill often found themselves living in unusual circumstances. Such was the case in the summer of 1954. I was 6 at the time and we, that is Mom, Dad and I were headed to Ft Pierce. I was going to stay with Grandma for a week while Mom and Dad took a short vacation. I guess all young parents need a break, a chance to be together and relive the halcyon days of newlyweds. This would be the fist time I had ever been apart from my mom and dad for an extended period. Mom kept telling me how much fun I would have being with Grandma, all the fun things I would do during my visit. Mom told me about the trailer they were living in and how exciting it would be staying in a travel trailer for a week.

We arrived late afternoon and as soon as I saw the trailer I was excited. It was an Air Stream, it's polished aluminum skin reflected the glow of the setting sun. Rivets adorned the seams of it's fluid, aircraft style body. Enormous Sunflowers had been planted along the trailers sides and their disc shaped blooms towered above my head. Uncle Bill and Grandma had placed the trailer on Grammody's  home lot as a temporary place while they waited to move to a permanent residence. Mom and Dad said their goodbyes. I watched them drive away. A week seems so long when you're only 6.

After the initial fascination of trailer life had started to wane, in other words, about a day, I was getting bored and homesick. There was little to do to hold my interest outside of chasing lizards and catching insects in Grammody's yard. There were no other kids around my age and Grandma was busy each day with her usual chores. Grandma, in an effort to brighten my dour attitude, told me that next morning she was going to prepare something special for breakfast. That would be nice I thought. Grandma was such a good cook.

When I woke next morning there were the usual, wonderful smells coming

from the small two burner range. Coffee perking and bacon frying in the pan. Grandma was busy peeling potatoes and chopping onions. Now I had never heard of having potatoes for breakfast before. Grits, toast and bacon were the only sides that accompanied eggs, maybe ham or fried fish in place of bacon, but potatoes? I sat at the table with my head in my hands, not sure if potatoes were anything special for breakfast. Grandma finished cooking the potatoes , made toast and fried some eggs. I sat there staring at the plate."What are these potatoes called", I asked. "Why these are Trailer Potatoes", said Grandma, "only people who live in trailers make them and that's why they are so special". That is so neat I thought as I devoured the tasty potatoes, eggs and bacon. Cheered by my good fortune, I went outside to chase the lizards and bugs. Next day Mom and Dad came by to take me home. I told Mom all about Trailer Potatoes and asked if we could have them at home even though we didn't live in a trailer. "Of course", she said. Mom and Dad must have been amused by Grandma's clever ploy. It was years later that I was told the truth about Hash Brown Potatoes. 

Part Four: I'm A Cowboy

As I stated in his first post, once weekly I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. He has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside.

This is his story.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I'm A Cowboy
by Steven R. Hudson

On a summer day a truck pulling a small horse trailer parked on our street.

The driver got out and began knocking on doors. This was not at all unusual in those days for door to door salesmen were common. Very few mothers worked outside the home and selling vacuum cleaners, encyclopedias, Bibles and even cleaning brushes could be a lucrative enterprise for a man with a gift for gab. When the man arrived at our door we learned that he was a photographer and in the trailer was a pony and cowboy costumes. For a small fee you could put on the cowboy garb and get your picture taken on the pony. I was so excited when Mom said yes to my pleas. When the man helped me into the saddle I was ready to ride off with Roy Rogers, all I needed was a pair of six-shooters and a rifle in the saddle scabbard.

The creek became a favorite spot for us boys. We would cross Beach Blvd and follow a narrow muddy path along it's banks. Usually we were there to hunt frogs which dove into the creek by the hundreds as we disturbed them from their hiding places along the bank. Frog gigs were fashioned from Maple limbs, sharpened with a pocket knife and then hardened in a fire. Sometimes we would gig a few unlucky frogs but we tired of this when we could not convince any of our moms to fry up the legs for us. Baloney sandwiches would have to do for lunch. The creek was a truly beautiful place. The water ran clear when it hadn't been muddied by heavy rain. The banks were lined with huge old trees. Their roots were exposed along the foot path and formed a maze that we had to step over as we walked. Moss grew heavily upon overhanging limbs forming a drapery that hinted of danger and mystery in our young minds. Bees and butterflies swarmed on the purple flowers of Pickerel Weed that grew thick in the shallows and the buzz of Katydids and Cicadas filled the air, heavy with summer humidity. We walked along barefoot, a pair of shorts or cut offs and sometimes a T-shirt, our feet calloused and hard and our skinny bodies brown as bugs. A scene right out of "Lord of the Flies".

My first encounter with a venomous snake happened while on a minnow and crawfish hunt with friend Peanut. There was a pair of fancy brick gates on Huffman Blvd that marked the entrance to Center Park and a large pool of water at the culvert here that always held big crawfish. As we neared the gates we could see a large banded and heavy bodied snake at the base of one gate. It was a Canebreak (coastal Timber) Rattlesnake. As we approached it started rattling a loud buzz like escaping steam and reared it's head defensively, warning us to come no closer. We didn't. We were awe struck at the size and power of this beautiful reptile. Peanut climbed up on the gate so he could get a better look. I stood where I was and after a while the snake crawled away. We talked about that snake for days and it grew bigger and more fearsome with every telling.