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.

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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.

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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.

The Beginning: Memories Of Fort Pierce

Monday's 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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Memories of Fort Pierce

by Steven R. Hudson

The following stories are a collection of memories that I have been encouraged to put into writing by those who love me despite my many faults. Even though my life has not been one marked by great deeds or accomplishments, perhaps it will be a picture of life as it was many years ago before cell phones and video games. When children ran barefoot and innocent along forest paths and creek banks. 

One of my earliest recollections is staying with my maternal grandmother. She and my mother's stepfather lived on Angle Road in Ft. Pierce, Florida, in an area that was at that time, typical

south Florida pine woods. Grandma "Cootie" as she was known by me and my cousins kept chickens and turkeys for meat and eggs, had a concrete goldfish pond in front of the house and a yard full of Chihuahua dogs. I was 2 to 3 years old at this time and the fish pond was a source of great wonder for me. Perhaps it was the fluid movements of the goldfish that brought out a hunter instinct of a sort. I needed to find a sharp stick and spear one of these golden colored wonders. Stick found, I went after my prey and actually managed to spear one of grandma's prized goldfish. Grandma, however, was not amused by what I had done and I was punished with a good and proper "switching" with my own fish spear. This punishment may seem harsh by today's standards but the "switch" was a common type of discipline in those times and was an effective way to discourage wrongful acts. 

Grandma Cootie was a strict but very loving lady. She adored her grandchildren and would walk through fire to protect her family, displaying a fearlessness that belied her small 4' 10" stature. One day I was helping her gather eggs in the poultry yard and was attacked by a big tom turkey that managed to spur me good before grandma was able to get the bird away from me. After checking to see that I was not badly hurt, she retrieved a hatchet and promptly killed the turkey then dressed it. Later we all had a nice roast turkey dinner, compliments of the old belligerent bird.

Our family has always been a family of fishermen mostly out of necessity back then. Fresh fish was often on the evening menu and was the staple of most people of moderate means. We ate Snapper, Sea Trout, Croaker, Red Fish, Flounder and our favorite, Snook. Fish were abundant then. The river and creek banks were covered with Sea Grapes and Mangroves instead of condos and expensive houses like today. Fishing was as easy as driving down to the river bank and throwing out a baited hook. A fishing license was not needed and there were no size or number limits on the fish you caught. We never caught more fish than we needed, just enough for supper, served up with homemade hush puppies and cheese grits. We ate like royalty and did not even realize we were rich beyond measure. I can still see a picture in my mind of one of the fishing spots we went to then. I remember a beautiful tidal creek and a muddy bank at the water's edge covered with the holes of Fiddler Crabs. Spider-like roots of Mangroves formed a barrier on each side of the creek bank and you could see schools of Mullet cruising the shallow water. It was a splendid place.

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Georgia On My Mind

In the past when people would ask me where I am from, I would temporarily go blank. A fragmented, unhappy childhood had left me like a blank slate. Like an orphan tossed on the seas of life, it seems that I had always yearrned for a place I could call Home. My official Home Town never felt like home, so, where did I come from? Where did I belong? I longed, deeply, to find a place to call my own.

Descendants of German immigrants, my adopted parents where born and raised on farms in western Pennsylvania during The Great Depression. They

married and moved to a small town in Central Florida as a young couple in the early 1950's.  Apparently, Mom could not bare children but I've never learned why. After six years of being on the adoption list, they found an underaged young lady "in trouble" and adopted yours truly. When I was a wee tot, on the rare occasions we traveled to their native Pennsylvania, they would take the time to visit old friends or family still living on farms. I fell in love with the countryside right then and there. I felt a kinship with the trees, the wildlife, the smells, the gentle sounds, the clean air and most of all, the solitude. Even the small town was already beginning to be too much for me. I wanted to enjoy the night stars without the light pollution. I yearned to hear the crickets singing and chase fireflies from a back porch.

Psalms 27:10 "When my father and my mother forsake me, Then the Lord will take me up."

What I share next is not to illicit sympathy but to lay the ground work for this story explaining the reason for my feeling so disconnected. Very rarely do I dwell on this small part of my life. These are only shadows and ghosts of the past. I've given it to God and He has lovingly hidden the hurt away.

I think I was fairly happy as a small child before my mother died in 1966, I don't remember. All I do remember is losing the only mother I'd ever known

that sweltering August day. After the funeral Dad made it abundantly clear he didn’t want me around anymore. It turned my already fragile world upside down. My earliest memory is her funeral with Dad telling me to “Shut up, what do you care?! You’re only adopted anyway.” Yeah, he said that to a grieving 10 year old child. I felt like someone had reached into my chest and stopped my heart from beating. Dad was keen on yelling curse words, snapping belittling remarks (his favorite were I was a bastard, and how stupid I was), open hand slap any body part too close to him, or glare at me for seemingly no reason. I started running away. My grades where failing. I became a bit of a day dreamer. The school psychiatrist was as much help as breasts on a boar hog. Two step-mothers later, things where a little improved. At least the last one was a Christian and wasn't abusive. We had our differences, but still she had a good heart. When I was 14 I gave my heart to Christ in a little non-denominational church. Kneeling at the cross (emotionally) I knew I was a sinner, unworthy of His forgiveness but told Him I believed in Him and to do with me as He will. At least I knew He would never leave me! He gave me the strength to go on. His guidance gave me the fortitude to buckle down, get a good education and get the heck out of Dodge as soon as it was legal. When I turned 18 it was made clear I was no longer welcome in that house. No home there! Frightened and with no confidence in my abilities, I married the first man that asked and in the infamous words of Jimmy Buffett “it cost me much more than a ring“. My first husband wasn’t a bad guy but we where definitely mismatched. He wasn't my 'home' either. Thankfully, we parted on amicable terms without too much damage done.

After all that, my current hubby and I met, then tied the knot. Thankfully, he shared my vision of living in the country. It was going to be a difficult task

since we where living in the Big City, in a State where property was expensive and we are not people of means. Thankfully, by now it was the '80s and times where good. With good jobs and lots of prospects for improvement we worked hard for 18 years. It was exciting to dream and plan. However, even though there can be lots of money to be made in a metropolis, a city setting is emotionally crushing to me. I felt stifled, fought a lot of airborn illnesses, and the stress of living so close to others kept my nerves on edge. I fought the crushing sadness that seemed to follow me like a black cloud. 

In 1981, I was working for a gentleman who was also adopted. He urged me to begin searching for my birth parents. Through his assistance, I managed to learn who my birth-mother was. After many phones calls, letters and false starts I had located her within a few weeks. (Again, God's mercy!) Regrettably, though, I was about 18 months too late to speak to my birth-mother as she had died in a traffic accident not far from where I was then living. But I did manage to make contact with a half sister, two half brothers, several aunts, an uncle and my grandfather. It was a rich and rewarding experience. Trust me, like all things great and small in our lives, this ties in. 

For years we continued the search for land. We wanted that perfect location

where it would be our forever home. On weekends when we weren’t repairing our 1952 Florida home, or out in the woods, we where looking at land. Dreaming about land. Praying for land! I think I exhausted every place in Florida I could think of. Then, I got the notion to start looking in southeast Georgia. One Saturday, after a, what I thought, wasted trip to Reidsville, Georgia, to look at more land for sale, we passed a sign on Highway 121 for a local realtor in Blackshear. It was late so I wrote the number down (this was pre-cell phones, after all) and after driving home, made an appointment for the next weekend to look at property. Short story long [smile], the nice young lady took us city folks all around this postage stamp sized county. It seemed every place I looked at it was “still too close to town”. I guess she couldn't believe that we would want to live so far out. Several available properties later, she finally believed me, and took us out to this place. 

Leviticus 25:23 "The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine. For you are strangers and sojourners with me."

It’s no kidding, as soon as I stepped out of her car, and my foot hit the property, with the towering oaks and pines, the inviting quiet, the simple country road, I knew this was it! My heart sang with joy! Hubby and I prayed for success. God mercifully opened the doors for the loan to go through without a hitch. Then we started down the long, curvy road of making this our permanent residence. It would take almost 8 more years of scrimping and saving but we where finally on the way Home. 

The Left Searches Out And Harasses Dissenters

I have enjoyed taking a week or so off to rest my aging paws and weary head from this war. Yes, dear ones, we are at war. True it’s a spiritual war at the moment but it could very swiftly digress into bullets at a moment‘s notice. Our country is making history this year but it’s not a history that many of us will desire to remember any time soon.

“We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places” Ephesians 6:12

This has been a long and painful year in our camp. We’ve had to wrestle with the President of Darkness (aka the unholy Trinity of Obama-Pelosi-Reid). We’ve lost too many beloveds to the Spectre of Death. Friends we’ve known for years and some loved as our own family. I know that most of them are now with Christ but we still miss them in our hearts.

But on to the true subject of today’s post:

There is an article I wish to share with my dear readers today. It’s the The Wilding of Sarah Palin by Robin of Berkeley

“The Left has declared war on Palin because she threatens their existence. Liberals need women dependent and scared so that women, like blacks, will vote Democrat.“

As one can tell by the photo above, I’m a wild game hunter and know the effects of weapons to flesh. It isn’t pretty. It’s violent and messy. Our words can be weapons that tear flesh from bone too. We can kill someone with our words just as surely as I can pull a trigger and stop the beating heart of an animal.

One year whilst deer / turkey hunting I shot a turkey with my Ruger M77 International Carbine (.243 Winchester) from my deer stand. In Florida it was legal to hunt both two days before Thanksgiving. I hit the bird so correctly in the gullet that it eviscerated the creature. It was a clean kill. The tactic I used to put meat on the table reminds me of how the Media and Hollywood treats Christians in general and Sarah Palin specifically.

They hate God and anything to do with Him so vehemently that they‘ll attack His messengers, even at the risk of losing money and viewers. For these "progressives" it is their religion. We are perceived as being “legal” and are their targets.

Robin’s well written article is straight from the heart about how the Lame Stream Media is using eviscerating tactics towards Sarah Palin and other conservatives. It is a mental rape performed in public meant to destroy the messenger rather than the message. Disagreeing with someone is healthy but cruelty is never an admirable trait in my book.

“And so the Left must try to destroy her. And they are doing this in the most malicious of ways: by symbolically raping her.”

I’m not endorsing Sarah Palin for President. Truthfully, she’s not my first choice. I like her, though, as a person and a mother. Mrs. Palin has what is missing from followers of the Left: good character.


“Being nice is underrated.” ~ Anonymous

“Socialism is a system that courageously combats the problems that it itself creates." ~ Polish anti-communist oppositionist

A Kodak Moment

I thought I'd share a couple of the photos from last week. Steve traveled to his sister's house to visit for awhile. I stayed home with the doggies.

Amberlee (5 yrs old)
Isn't she a doll? She is officially my husband's niece and the little rascal wormed her way into my heart when still newborn. My nickname for her is 'cuddle bug'. When she was an infant, her mom put one of those bibs on her for feeding. The bib had 'cuddle bug' stitched on the front and it just kinda stuck.

Amberlee sitting on a 2009 Triumph Bonneville T100
Boy, they start early, don't they? That's me all over at that age and I'm told that Amberlee is the same way. If there were wheels nearby, especially anything on 2 wheels, I was so all over it. [lol] Her Uncle Steve said Amberlee made a bee-line for the green & cream colored Bonneville T100, which happens to be one of my favorite bikes. Good girl!

Amberlee is having an MRI this morning. To-date, it has not been determined what caused the sudden seizure and fever from a couple of weeks ago. Plus, now she has persistent rash and cough! Something is array with this little girls health. Hopefully, the MRI will assist the doctors into making an intelligent diagnosis that she may be healed.

I am in prayer this morning for my little cuddle bug. She's got to be well so she can go riding with her Aunt Sparky! :o)

Deuteronomy 7:15 – And the Lord will take away from thee all sickness, and will put none of the evil diseases of Egypt, which thou knowest, upon thee; but will lay them upon all them that hate thee. (KJV)

Riding Into History 2009

Yesterday, Saturday the 16th, we attended our first "Riding Into History" event near St. Augustine, Florida. It was held at the World Golf Village just right off I-95 south of Jacksonville.

I'm amazed at how many people attended the event. It was all handled very well, I thought. There was good music (Lynard Skynard), beer, hot dogs and lots of fellow enthusiasts. Everyone was very polite and kindly. It was quite pleasant.

Since we met friends there, after touring all the wonderful vintage motorcycles (and a few bicycles), we opted to eat our noon day meal at O'Steens in old St. Augustine. It's located on Anastasia Blvd (A1A) just across the Bridge of Lions. We used to eat there quite often when we lived in Jax. That's what Jacksonville residents call it: "Jax" for short. O'Steens has the most superb seafood. It's always crowded no matter what time of the day or night one tries to eat there. We had a 45 minute wait, so, my friend and I browsed the antique shop next door. I used to collect antique glass, especially the pink shades, but no longer do so. Our new home doesn't have the shelf space for such collections. I still like to look, though.

Anyway, back to the show. If y'all would like to view the vintage motorcycles, I've uploaded them to MyPhotoAlbum. Hubby only snapped a few photos this time. I think after the visit to Barber's in Alabama, that place spoiled us. We've "seen it, done it" now. [lol]

Enjoy!!

Happy Birthday Hubby

61 years ago, you were giving your mother a little trouble by being born backwards. Bet she didn't know that Heavens angels are born that way?!

I do. I know.

Because to the world, you may be one person. But to me, you are the world.

Hubby as a newborn

Isn't he a cutie? (1949)
And always remember, it is not being in love that makes me happy but it is being in love with YOU that makes me happy.

So Great Big Happy Birthday Wishes my dearest and sweetest, not a day goes by when you're not in my thoughts and how empty my life would be if you were not here.

Now, let's go eat some of that carrot cake reposing in the 'frig. :o)

A Drive Down Memory Lane

As I was surveying a local cemetery close to home recently (i.e. snapping photos of tombstones for family genealogists to use at FindAGrave) I happened to glance off into the mature pinewoods and there was another kind of graveyard. I found old abandoned 'skeletons' of vehicles and farm equipment.

When I happened upon the Chevy pickup, a flood of memories hit me. It was the memory of my father and I building an antique 1949 pickup together.


Abandoned Chevrolet Pickup
In the early 1970's, while I was still in High School, my Dad bought two 1949 Chevrolet pickup's. One was for parts and one to actually rebuild. Previously, Dad had built a large workshop on our 1 acre of land, so, there was plenty of room. We pulled motors, scavenged oil soaked parts to find something usable, spent many an hour down at NAPA Auto Parts, haunted junk yards. Finally, it was ready for the finishing touches: the paint job. Dad took it somewhere locally and cheap and had it painted the original Dark Green.

Everybody in our small town of Titusville talked about Don Ackman's truck.

I quite often drove it to school. It was a pickle to handle too. The 3 speed gear shift was on the column. The starter was on the floor ... it was quite a trick to hold down the starter and crank the motor at the same time, it took a little finesse. There was no power steering or power windows. The seats were the hard, uncomfortable, bench-style. The windshield wipers were horrible. I recall driving home from a friends house one night in one of our frog strangler Central Florida thunderstorms and the vacuum-driven windshield wipers would slow down as I applied the gas! So, in order to see, when I thought it was safe enough I would get going as fast as possible then let off the gas and coast so the wipers would speed up, then I could see well enough to proceed a little farther.

It was an experience.

Then one day Dad just up and sold the truck many years ago. Just broke my heart.

I thought I'd had a photo of it but it must be hidden in some boxes somewhere. So here's one from the Internet that is similar:


216 C.I.D. V-6, 3 speed, 5 window
Source: Larry Chapman
The only difference between the one above and Dad's truck was he had an oval window in the back. It was quaint but rendered watching traffic behind you an exercise in futility.

It wasn't comfortable or really very practical, but, oh, if that old truck could talk ... it would have such happy memories of growing up to regale.

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Merry Christmas!

Christmas Past (1971)

Christmas Present (2008)


Create Fake Magazine Covers with your own picture at MagMyPic.com


From Sparky and Wiregrass Steve
Merry Christmas Y'all!


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