Throwback Thursday: 1973 BMW R75/5 #tbt #motorcycle

I'm going to be lazy today (feeling a little bit down and exhausted) so have asked my husband to post about his beloved 1973 BMW for Throwback Thursday. He has such enjoyable memories of his first street legal motorcycle.

1973 BMW R75/5

In the spring of 1973, I got my first big street bike, a BMW R75/5. Before, I had ridden dirt bikes mostly and my regular commuter was a Honda 350. The BMW was a real step up. I now owned a bike that I could jump on and ride to California, if so inclined. It was a beautiful green with hand painted pin stripes on the tank and fenders. The tank sported a large chrome panel that looked somewhat like a common kitchen appliance and earned the name "Toaster Tank" by motorcycle enthusiasts. I had the dealer install a Vetter fairing and later, a larger 6 gallon tank for more range. It had a shaft drive like a car rather than a chain, a rarity 40 years ago.

A "mom & pop" store in Western North Carolina

That's the owner of the store (now deceased) in the photo.

A few months later I sold my car and the BMW became my only source of transportation. I commuted to work, grocery shopped, dated and vacation traveled on the bike. I became expert at dealing with adverse weather conditions from torrential rain to sub freezing cold. It was my trustworthy traveling companion and, if it was possible to love a machine, I fell hard for this one. I never tired of finding a reason to ride and at work's end on Friday would often leave for the weekend with no particular destination in mind and nothing but my tent, sleeping bag and a change of clothes strapped to the back of the seat. These travels most often ranged to the mountains of Georgia or North Carolina where the cooler weather, lovely scenery and challenging roads made riding such a joy. My "Bimmer" never let me down and was totally reliable for all the years I owned it; never needing anything other than routine maintenance. 

In a moment of lust for new scuba diving gear, I sold the bike. Watching the new owner ride away filled me with regret as though I had betrayed a friend. 

Many bikes have come and gone since but none have ever left a mark like the "Bimmer" did.

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.

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.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

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.

Part Three: 11935 Cornelius Street

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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

11935 Cornelius Street

by Steven R. Hudson

Our house in Center Park, like most Florida homes then, was concrete block with three small bedrooms and one bath. Linoleum covered the floors throughout and the walls were rough textured plaster that "sweated" when the seasons changed. There were no trees in our yard which appeared barren except for the plugs of St. Augustine grass that gave a strange polka dot effect. It rained every afternoon in those times, or it seemed so, and the little plugs of grass sent out their "tentacles" and quickly produced a carpet of green, broken only by patches of white flowered clover. There was a large vacant lot behind the house with an ancient Long-leaf Pine on the lot's east side. We had no air conditioner to counter summer's heat but winter was made bearable by an oil fired space heater. I remember how happy we were to have our own home. Life was good.

I turned six that spring and started first grade at Southside Elementary, a school that is still part of the county school system. I caught school bus # 73

each school day, Mrs. Dent driving. My teacher, Mrs. Grady, told us that we needed to memorize our addresses and telephone numbers and to this day, I still remember them. 11935 Cornelius St. and 724-2426 or RAymond 42426 as the telephone numbers were always proceeded by the name of the exchange back then, R and A being 7 and 2 on the dial, no touchtone either. I enjoyed school, especially the days when we had art class. I loved to draw and my teacher recognized that I had some natural talent as even at that age I drew three dimensional figures and had an understanding of perspective. She told my mother that I should get training but we were poor and that would never happen. I was always given drawing supplies at home however, sometimes I would spend an entire evening drawing, mostly dinosaurs, my favorite.

That same year a family from Chattanooga, Tennessee, moved into the house directly behind ours and across from the vacant lot. Gene and Irma Mealer and their two sons, Ray and Jackie. Gene Mealer was a commercial artist and a good one. Ray and I were the same age and his brother Jackie only one year younger. We became fast friends and would remain so for many years. Our parents became friends also, especially our mothers who, to this day, are still in contact. 

There was a Mexican family, the Lopez's that lived a few houses down. They had a son my age named Roberto but we all called him Robert. I was amazed that he and his siblings could speak another language as easily as they spoke English. Robert had three sisters and three brothers, his oldest sister was already married and his oldest brother was in high school which I thought really cool. I remember his mother being a very kindly woman who loved children and was always inviting the neighborhood kids in for homemade cake and a glass of cold milk.

There were other friends that came and went as families moved in and then moved elsewhere. Many of the names I still recollect, Rick Martin, Bobby Fann, Peanut (I never knew his real name), and Bret and others I can't remember.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Part Two: The Move To Jacksonville

As I stated in last Monday's 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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Move To Jacksonville
by Steven R. Hudson

When I was about four we moved to Jacksonville, FL. We settled into a small rental cottage on Lake Lucina in the Arlington area of Duval County. The cottage was owned by the Dickson family and I believe the road down to the lake is still called Dickson Road. There was a large pear tree in the yard and only a short walk to the lake which was surrounded by Cattails and alive with the trill calls of Red-wing Blackbirds that nested in the reeds. Sometimes Mom would fish at the lake for Bream which were really tasty when fried crisp in corn meal batter.

About this time Dad got a small black and white television. The screen was so small that we had to get very close to watch, but the cabinet it was mounted in was huge and the whole thing looked quite silly compared to the sleek flat screen TV's of today. It was a great deal for us however, as TV was the "new" thing and we were now on the cutting edge of the latest technology. There was only one channel available, WJXT Channel 4. It was our sole source of programming but that was fine with me. I remember lying on the floor in the afternoons, close to the tiny flickering screen watching the "Lone Ranger" battle it out with bad guys, Tonto at his side and his horse Silver carrying him into the western sunset after another victory for law and order. Next was "The Cisco Kid" and justice meted out with a Spanish accent. After supper, the local news with Bill Grove and then the National News on CBS with Douglas Edwards.

My first trip to the emergency room occurred when we lived here. Mom had caught some Bream in the lake and fried them up that evening for supper. Mom would always pull my fish apart before I ate to check for small bones but this time she missed one and the bone was stuck solidly in my throat. I began to cough and cry and I can still remember how uncomfortable and scared I was. Dad put me in the car and rushed me to the emergency room where the bone suddenly passed about the time we arrived. Crisis over. 

We lived in that cottage only a short time. Dad bought us our first house in a brand new subdivision called Center Park. We were now only seven miles from Jacksonville Beach, on the newly four-laned Beach Blvd and bordered on every side by thousands of acres of beautiful woodlands. There was a large creek that flowed north to south on one side of the area and crossed under Beach Blvd., disappearing into moss laden oaks that lined it's banks. There were many vacant lots that had not been built on and a huge stand of Cypress trees and Oaks, like a great wooded park, that stood square in the middle of the subdivision. I and the many new friends I would make here named this park, "Sherwood Forest". Moving here was the beginning of a great adventure and the golden years of my childhood.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

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.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~