By 1966, George was 5 years old and the rest were anxious to travel and see other things besides our backyard and the Glynlea swimming pool. During the last part of 1965 we had to put Nosey down. It was a sad day, but she was suffering every day from an untreatable malady, and she was getting up there in dog years. We immediately replaced her by a multi-breed and not too friendly brown mutt the vet gave us. We named her Pixie. She was okay, but a bit snappy from time to time. One better not approach too closely while she ate, for example (if you wanted to keep your hand). That applied to all but Diane, who loved Pixie. One afternoon, much to my horror, Pixie was chomping down on her daily ration and up appeared Diane who calmly walked up to the dog, patted her head and walked off across the yard with the dogs still filled dinner bowl, and Pixie meekly followed. Heaven knows what would have happened had any other in the family tried to pull off that stunt. Pixie’s time in residence was brief however. In February 1966, Gram and “Pop” Edwards stopped in for a short visit on their way to south Florida. Pop, who was pretty much relegated to a wheelchair, was sitting in a regular easy chair in the living room and Pixie was lying on the floor in front of him. Pop tried to get up, but as soon as he did, Pixie would jump up in front of him and growl. This happened several times, until we noticed his difficulty and toted the dog outside. This happened a couple of more times before they left. It didn’t take us long to realize we could not have a dog with that temperament in the house with kids, not always ours. So the very next week she was returned to the same vet who gave her to us in the first place. Pixie turned out to be the first in a series of three more pooches that pre-dated our final and favorite beagle, Mandy. I am less than sure on the source and sometimes the demise of each of these dogs, other than to say a few contributed to the richness of our back yard soil. That said, I will touch on the dogs briefly here. Ruffles followed Pixie. She was a gift from a forgotten benefactor, but she was black and shaggy, as her name implies and very friendly. My only real memory of her was on a trip to the Branford cabin. We were heading for a weekend and Bruce had invited his buddy Mark Kelly to come along. They both had new rifles that they were dying to sight in on the range we set up down there. Mark’s gun was spanking new, just received for his birthday. Of course we had Ruffles with us, but she was not used to car travel. She developed a roaring case of diarrhea which was manifest directly on top of Mark’s gun. Oh man, what a mess (and stink). It was a rough ride to the cabin and a considerable amount of time cleaning it all up, including the rifle.
I don’t remember Ruffles’ demise, but late in 1968, Muffin entered the picture. This was a real little beagle that we found in the classified section of the paper. We got her around Christmas. She was sure a cutie, but lasted all of two weeks, when she escaped through the back hedge, ran out into Matterhorn Rd. (right in back of us) and promptly got herself run over (Diane was witness). The body was brought home where we conducted appropriate burial services in the back garden. With past dogs and our rabbit hutch out there, our backyard was the most fertile yard in the neighborhood. No wonder the dogwood tree did so well. Soon after we had a new dog that Mom brought home from kindergarten. She was black and short haired. We named her Pepper. Mom was her favorite and she followed her everywhere. She tolerated the rest of the family, but she was all Mom’s. On another trip to Branford, we were all running out the screen door to the lake followed by Pepper whose tail got slammed by the closing screen door. With a deafening yelp, she charged into the lake and sat down. You could almost hear the hiss and see the steam, and hear a sigh of relief from the poor pooch. She actually broke the end of her tail, which was later removed. In the fall of 1971, Mom and I arrived home from running errands, and Karen came running out to the car in tears and claimed she just murdered Pepper. Turns out, Karen opened the front door for some reason and the dog zipped out behind her and ran right into the road as a car came around the corner and nailed her. Of course this could happen to anyone, but it took a while to calm the kid down. It is always traumatic to lose a pet, especially a dog. So we decided to replace Pepper as soon as possible to provide a suitable alternative. Enter very briefly Ginger Snap, a small dachshund looking mixed breed offered to us by the vet. She lasted about two weeks when we returned her from where we got her. Just didn’t fit in with the crowd. Finally the last in the line, a lovable beagle pup we named Mandy. Mandy arrived on scene early in 1971 and was to be the last of the dogs.
Before the side discussion of our various pooches, we left you in the mid ‘60’s. In October of 1966 we took off to Connecticut to visit the folks. While there, the decision was made to make a trip to restored Old Sturbridge Village outside Sturbridge Massachusetts. It was a great trip and showed that a bunch of us could mostly travel successfully. They did a beautiful job at restoration, and since “Pop” was in his wheelchair, moving around was easy and even George lent a positive hand. Back in Jacksonville in late November, we realized the Christmas cards we had ordered from Miles Kimball had not arrived. Well we waited a few more weeks into December and decided we needed an alternative. After all, this was the only time of year we had opportunity to say a word or two (card limited) to all our friends and family, and it was traditional. While at the time the concept was not widely practiced, we decided to put together a Christmas letter (the “letter”). Thus it was the first Barker “letter” was sent to all in 1966. As of 2018, they are still going (51 years). Yes, the math is correct, we did have a one year hiatus in 1980 thinking everyone was getting tired of receiving them since the kids were almost all grown (groan). You cannot imagine how many letters of protest (and phone calls) we received. Seems like a lot of people looked forward to the letter, and so by popular demand we picked it back up in 1981. Thanks heavens we did since it has provided a dandy timeline of significant events through the years, such that I wouldn’t even attempt this extended retrospective without them.
The year 1967 progressed with a note of sadness, as Joyce’s dad, Lou “Pop” Edwards died. We were indeed fortunate to have made the trip last fall and had him with us when we visited Old Sturbridge. I think he always enjoyed being around folks, especially kids, and he really enjoyed the trip. “Pop” had a full, successful and productive 90 years and he will be missed.
As if the trip to old Sturbridge Village in the fall of 1966 wasn’t enough, we packed up and went the very next fall to Tampa Florida primarily to visit Busch Gardens. While there we also visited the restored HMS Bounty docked at the Tampa seaport. I should say here, anyone with kids should take in Busch Gardens. Don’t have any idea how they may have changed over the past 50+ years, but our kids were fascinated by the animals, the train ride and the good eats along the way. Mom and I were enthralled by the proximity of major Busch products (BLB “Before Lite” Beer”) and readily available as well. As to the Bounty, it gave us the opportunity to relate Herman Melville’s “Mutiny on the Bounty” tale and as you can see, everyone especially George played out the fantasy to the very hilt (DV-8).
Other than the church, and square dancing, our major activity as a family, was centered around the YMCA located right on the St. Johns River right down Ft. Caroline Rd. from where we lived. I think it was about 1964-1965 when we first joined because of the jogging program they were promoting. This was really the beginning of the jogging trend and before all the fancy and pricey shoes had come on the market (no Niki’s, New Balance, Brooks, etc. shoes). I had an old pair of “Keds” sneakers. I went up there every Tues. and Thurs. before work, ran a couple of miles and then theY fed us breakfast. Good start to the day. This YMCA was not like any you will see very often. Not a big brick and mortar gym, indoor pool and fancy dressing rooms. The building was a wooden structure with primarily a dining room, kitchen, dressing room and showers (it was not open to women at that time. They had the YWCA). Outside was the swimming pool, which was standard Olympic size and included diving boards. They sponsored an active youth swimming program and team. All our kids dropped out or the Glynlea/Holliday Hill swimming team and joined the Y program in the early ‘70’s. The Y had access to an adjacent property that was not developed, but well wooded and “wild” where a popular day camp program was conducted every summer. Beyond the building toward the river. The Y had a wonderful pier that ran out into the St Johns River. It turned out the water there was shallow enough to provide ideal shrimping conditions. The Olson’s also belonged to the Y and Eric and Bruce learned the art of net casting, and boy did they ever bring home the shrimp (after they sold a bunch). We became so involved with the Y, that I became head of the board of directors for several years.
I will have to say these were golden years in terms of shrimp and fish availability and before all the environmentalists and other “do-gooders” began (and are still at it) ruining it for all the rest of us. Case in point. In the Boy Scouts (where I served as support and not a leader), we had a dad (Jimmy Covart) who was an avid beach fisherman, using huge nets to snag fish. I don’t know exactly how long the nets were, perhaps 23’-30’ in length and 4’ in width (A slight correction: the length of the net was 100’ according to the 1968 “letter”). One long vertical pole was attached to each end of the net such that when stretched out it appeared as a giant tennis or volleyball net. The poles were affixed such that when placed on the ground, very little could squeeze beneath. A person manning one pole just off shore served as an anchor, while another would take the other (lead) pole and holding it as close to the bottom as possible, would make a large sweep out, around and back to shore and then back down to the anchor person. The whole net would then be hauled ashore and the good fish (sheepshead, flounder, and drum) and a variety of crabs, catfish and other denizens of the deep were dumped. I present all this detail to describe one of our annual scout fundraising efforts, in this case a fish fry at the church. We decided this was a great way to secure the raw materials with minimum cost, and Jimmy Covart (the dad) had the equipment to do it. About 20 boys with some parents (us) showed up. Three or 4 propane deep-fry cookers and tables were all set up ahead of time. As soon as the edible take from the net was secured, a fair portion was plopped into the deep fry cookers and we all feasted on freshly caught fish. Boy, it doesn’t get better than that. We still had plenty to bring home for the fish fry festivities.
The mid-60’s and early 70’s were busy years as the kids moved from childhood to early adolescence, and indeed to early adulthood (good grief!). Early in the summer of 1968, we loaded everyone up and traveled to Fairfield CT again. While there my mom really wanted a family picture with all the grandkids, with the brave assumption there would be no more (she assumed correctly). The picture included my folks (Mimi and Da), Dick and Sela with their two, little Sela and Kirt (for Kirtland). Of course Mom and Dad and their contingent of four were included as well (DIV-9). In July, Bob and Jane Elliott had moved to Maine and he had settled into his new responsibilities, and they invited Diane to come spend a week. This would represent a couple of big “firsts” for Diane. Not only is she going to be away from home by herself for a week, but she would be taking her first airplane ride from Jacksonville to Boston, where the Elliott’s would pick her up. From there they made a short stop in Plymouth MA where they would have a chance to tour the classic sailing vessel of Miles Standish fame, the Mayflower. Also, the Elliott’s had neighbors who had visiting kids about her age so she wouldn’t be bored to death. We would follow them in a week and pick her up. This would all happen over a two week period. Such a trip was a major event in her young life, but she was ready for it (don’t know if we were or not). Illustrations shown in DVI – 9 and DVI – 10 pretty well summarize and provide the flavor of that trip.
So it was in mid-summer when we took off to visit the Elliott’s and pick up Diane in Bucksport. We made a few stops on the way, the first being the old seaport of Mystic CT. Here was well replicated examples of seafaring sailing ships and the equipment used in the very prolific commercial fishing fleets of the time. To George’s delight, most wagons and vessels were accessible, and there were very few of which he didn’t take advantage. Leaving Mystic seaport, our next stop was Washington DC. It was our first visit there with the kids (less Diane of course). One of our dear friends at church, Vera Jones had her late husband, a war veteran, interred there and she wondered if wouldn’t mind stopping by and saying hello for her. Just looking at the National Cemetery was a mind boggling albeit breath-taking experience. We would never find him here. In the main facility we found there was complete documentation where everyone was “planted”, and it turned out Ralph Jones (the one we were looking for) was interred in the large National Mausoleum. There we went and there we found Ralph, to whom we paid our respects and passed on Vera’s love. Of course we took in all the monuments and associated tourist attractions while there, including the John F. Kennedy Eternal Flame. We thought George and Abe Lincoln looked especially good together (DVI-9).
Well enough already, it’s on to Bucksport ME. We arrived there the next day, and was greeted with a clear, crisp low 50’s day. Remember this was in July and none of us was really prepared for this. Maine was an interesting phenomenon in many ways, at least to a family from Florida. The geology of Florida was an uplifted coastal plain with wide beaches, and was but a small portion of the grander southeastern coastal plain stretching from southern Maryland south to Florida and then west to the east coast of Texas. As the lower coastal plain of the eastern U.S. lifted, the northwestern and northeastern coasts of the United States became sunken coastlines. No coastal plain or wide beaches. Rather the mountains and uplands made up the shore line. In Maine, its sunken coastline was susceptible to wide tidal fluctuations. Nowhere in the state was this phenomenon more dramatically in evidence than in the Acadia National Park near Bar Harbor. We made a day trip to Acadia National Park where we were all impressed with visits to Anemone Cave and Flume. This was the site of a large cave complex, a part of which was a chimney type formation between the rocks that when high tide rushed in at its base, the water shot the chimney creating a spectacular flume at its top. Another feature (no picture) was Cadillac Mt. We drove to the summit and the view was spectacular. It is very famous for its sunsets, and sunrises. The problem with the latter is it is a 4 hour plus hike up the mountain. We would have had to leave at sunset to arrive in time for sunrise. As can be imagined, there were bountiful numbers of restaurants (most featuring lobster, of course). For you readers who have a bucket list of things you want to do or visit while you can, Acadia National Park should be well toward the top.
While we didn’t have the time to visit, there is one more spectacular feature to tell about our favorite maritime state. In the northeastern corner of the state New Brunswick Canada lays to the north and Nova Scotia lays to the east. Between those two provinces, is located the narrow, funnel shaped Bay of Fundy. This is an extremely deep bay and because of that has plenty of water to serge. The high tide levels of the Bay of Fundy are the highest in the world. Globally, average high tide levels reach about 1 meter (3’). The Bay of Fundy’s high tide reaches 16 meters (48’). That’s a lot of water and it comes in all at once.
Back in Bucksport later that week, we found there was plenty to see right on the mouth of the Penobscot River. One morning at breakfast, Bob announced that it was time to lay in some lobsters if our lobster boil was going to be a success on Saturday night (the culinary highlight of the visit). We just had to drive over a narrow peninsula to reach Blue Hill Bay where the lobster man resides. When we got there, the first thing the kids wanted to do is if not swim at least wade in the water. After Bob made contact, the lobster man went out in his skiff to check his lobster pots. During that time the kids decided it was a good time to hit the water. “Last man in is a rotten egg!!” shouted Bruce, and all four charged into the surf. Look at the picture in DIV-10, and note the deep blue of the water. If that doesn’t shout “I am freezing cold”, I don’t know what would. The kids had some learning to do, and it didn’t take long. “Oh-Man-Ahaaa!!” came the simultaneous shouts as they emerged from the bay far more rapidly than they entered, with a definite blue cast to all of them. When Bob granted their request for a dip, I could see the twinkle in his eye. He was well rewarded, and was almost rolling on the beach at the spectacle. By that time the lobster man returned and simply shook his head. But he did have a bunch of large, healthy and delicious looking lobsters from which we (Bob) could make a selection. No “chicken lobsters” (1 lb.) here in this bunch. Man, we were ready to go. We were ready for the farewell feast offered up on Saturday, and boy was that ever good. By Sunday it was time to say goodbye to a couple of great weeks, but we were ready to head for home.
The fall of ’68 was not devoid of activity by any means. Of course, school was about to open. Both girls were active in the Girl Scouts, and one weekend Karen’s group had booked Fort Clinch in Fernandina Beach in the northeastern corner of the state. Not only was there an historic structure, but an extensive camping area as well. So we all went (much to Karen’s dismay). But we were able to stay out of the scout’s way, yet see the fort for ourselves and enjoy our little “pop” tent. We got there early enough that the kids (all four) could enjoy cavorting amongst the huge sand dunes in the area. Our biggest scare was when Diane got out of the car, she whacked her ankle on the edge of the door and it must have hit a nerve because she passed out completely for a few seconds. As most readers have witnessed, when a situation like this occurs, seconds can seem like minutes. But she popped out of it, and carried on with the rest as if nothing happened. Later on that first afternoon, Karen joined the rest of the girls for the rest of the weekend. After a delicious open fire prepared dinner, and sitting around the fire swapping wild tales, the kids (now just Bruce, Diane and George) hit the hay after an active afternoon. I was sitting outside with our battery driven radio listening to the Florida State and Florida football game. I know, big deal. But it was. It was the first home and home game to be played by the two schools. Up to just a few years previously, Florida State was a girl college. After it became co-educational, it was a few years before they could organize and launch a viable college level football program. This weekend was significant in that it was to be the first in a long line of a fierce interstate rivalry. All of a sudden I heard a loud rattle coming from near where we parked the station wagon, and where the garbage cans were located. I was quiet with the radio low so as not to wake the troops, so I pulled out my flashlight and flashed on the cans. There on his back legs a very guilty looking raccoon was holding a bag of garbage in his two hands and staring at the light through his little black mask. If the photo technology we have today was available then, it would have made a great picture or even short video (DVI-11).
Later that fall, George joined the Indian Guides, a local “Y” sponsored program that was designed to include the dad’s. All the kids were divided up and assigned an Indian Tribe name. Looking up a little history of these tribes, the kids and dads were charged with making a totem pole representing what their tribe considered important in life. In addition, we had to come up with Indian names for ourselves. Well, I figured “Big Bear” and “Little Bear” would be appropriate, and would at least maintain a level of dignity. That was fine until Mom reviewed the situation. The tribe of our choice were the Blackfoot. That tribe was a proud tribe that revered the turtle as sacred. Thinking about it, it was a good choice for them, for here was an animal that carried around his own home and was totally independent, and was covered with almost impregnable armor. They also admired the rabbit for its speed and agility. Thus it was George became “Running Rabbit ”, and Dad? –“Sitting Turtle”. So much for such things as “levels of dignity”. Oh well it could have easily been “Big Wind” and “Little Wind”. Each tribe (usually a given YMCA facility location) was required to build its own totem pole. Ours of course featured the turtle and rabbit (DVI-11).
Just south of Jacksonville, about halfway to St. Augustine was a small unincorporated community of Bayard. St. Regis had a Timber Purchase Agreement (TPA) with a phosphate mining company called Nocatee-Manatee. They had ceased mining activities on the land and figured a TPA was a good way of holding the land and having it work for them. This area was divided into two tracts, North and South. The tracts were divided by State Highway 210 running east from US 1 across lowlands and the Intercoastal Waterway and terminating at highway US A1A at Ponte Vedra Beach. The north tract was set up for hunting and fishing (mostly hunting). Deer stands were set up throughout the area, and the ponds were well stocked with bass. This turned out to be a great initial training area for Bruce and George on the basic use and safety involved with handling a rifle or shotgun, and the finesse and precision in casting a fishing line so the lure was sure to land in just the right spot. In addition, general hunting for small game (squirrels) or other game (hogs) not requiring a fixed stand was allowed throughout so long as you didn’t compromise an occupied stand. I say this because deer stands were reserved ahead of time and it was fully expected the person/persons reserving the stand would remain in close proximity and be assured of reasonable privacy. In addition, in terms of fish management, it was widely understood that after an area was stocked, the area should rest and not be fished for a week or so to let the new “residents” acclimate to their new environment. Relying on the old mantra “live and learn”, we made a few breaches in protocol that resulted in some heated shouting, but were soon resolved with our apologies. As far as the boys were concerned, they began to realize that good old Dad didn’t know everything and when screwing up to fully admit it, apologize and move on. The first incident was one morning in our assigned stand, there was absolutely no action in the area at all, not even song birds or squirrels. So I suggested we go up the road to a piece where there was a stand that may be better. Well as we approached the vacant assumption was rapidly put to rest with some serious bellowing. This was later followed up by a polite but firm call from Sonny Reid, the procurement forester in charge of the hunting activity on the Nocatee-Manatee. I of course apologized and promised it won’t happen again.
The other area of transgression occurred on a trip to our favorite fishing hole (a dammed up creek). We broke out our fishing gear and baited the hooks (usually worms). As fast as we cast, we caught a fish. I couldn’t believe our success, and finally I said enough, something’s not quite right. I found out later they had just stocked the area the day before and had not posted the information before we made the scene. Of course I seldom checked in for any detail, but just waved and drove on. It was a little embarrassing but something we all still laugh about when brought up in conversation.
Most of our hunting time on the tract was not in deer stands but in “plinking” for squirrels. Our success was at best a mixed emotion. If we were lucky enough to bag one, we were then unlucky enough to have to gut, skin, clean, cook and eat the scrawny little dude. The process of cooking was in a crock pot along with carrots and potatoes, in what I happily referred to as Dad’s “squirrel purlieu”. Even to this day, just the term makes everyone involved shudder a bit. But the tract was a wonderful place to just hang out on a fall or spring afternoon. One of the best fishing opportunities was a rather wide creek (drainage ditch) running north and south. One day walking down the road along the creek, we were astonished to see a long serpentine ripple moving slowly down stream. It froze us in our tracks as we all envisioned different monsters that might be causing it. Then it stopped, and a head popped up, then a second head popped up and finally a third head popped up. What we were seeing was three otters cruising together downstream. Now there is an animal that is fun to watch. They can really ham it up almost if they know they have an audience.
On another day we were walking the same road looking for some good squirrel hunting ground, when we rounded a small bend in the road and not 30 yards ahead of us were two bobcats crouched down taking a drink. We froze to a stop and they detected something not right and looked up right at us with tufted whiskers and boring eyes. I sort of held my breath, for all I had was my little pump action 22 rifle, and I am not sure what else we had, maybe a shotgun. In any case I was not looking for a confrontation and apparently the cats were not either and they quickly disappeared into the brush on the other side of the road.
While we are on the subject of wildlife confrontations more scary than comforting, I must include another north tract episode. A few years later, in the mid-70’s we were visiting approximately this particular location (minus the creek). George was working on a Boy Scout merit badge on building small animal shelters. He was working in an area where some clearing had been done and around the edges of the clearing were windrows of debris removed from the clearing (small trees, bushes, grass, etc.). My mom (Mimi) was visiting, and we had all come out to see the kind of shelters George was putting together and what animals he was hoping to attract. We also had brought our beagle dog Mandy with us, who was going crazy with all the wonderful smells she was experiencing. One smell she didn’t like caused her to start barking like crazy. George was standing on the windrow, Mandy was in back of and down in a small swale, and George yelled “snake”. At that point Mandy stopped barking and there was a deadly silence for a moment and then the hair-raising “bzzzzzzz” of a rattlesnake, an Eastern Diamondback no less. Once you hear that sound you will never forget it. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. And the smell? You bet. Like the Water Moccasin, when disturbed a rattle snake will emit a strong odor of musk. My immediate reaction was to tell George to step back and quick, and that poor Mandy was history or would be momentarily. Well she may have been a dog, but stupid she wasn’t. She was back next to us faster than George was. I never did see the snake, but George had a good look and maintained there wasn’t a part of my forearm as big around as that snake.
The northern and eastern sides of the north tract were bounded by another large landowner, J.E. Davis the then current CEO and son of the founder of Winn Dixie food stores. The south tract was much different in that the northern boundary was state road 210 and bounded on the east by the Intracoastal Waterway (a 3000 mile inland waterway along the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico coasts of the United States running from Boston MA southward along the Atlantic Seaboard and around the southern tip of Florida then following the Gulf Coast around to Brownsville TX.). Not only does the waterway offer reasonably safe passage north and south and southwest, but it is also composed of many inlets, rivers, bays, and some artificial canals. As can be imagined, this has created some prime real estate ($$$$!!!). For our use though, only the Nocatee-Manatee owners were involved. Near the northern end of the tract, a creek looking inlet entered the property forming a rather large pond and then exiting the pond, turned southward for about a half mile or so where it turned east again into a smaller pond and on back into the waterway. It was basically a large drainage ditch, but deep enough to harbor a healthy fish population. One had to be careful in casting a fly across the “ditch” to avoid snagging a low hanging tree branch on the far bank. Well one day I did just that. Bruce was with me and had his own fishing gear. Seeing my dilemma, he put down his rod, and offered to wade in and retrieve my fly, which incidentally had slipped into the water and a fish grabbed it. So off he waded across the creek (about 10’), unsnagged the line and retrieved the whole works including a nice large-mouth bass back to the bank. Just south of us was a rather large bush on the far bank that had fallen into the creek barring our view beyond that point. We continued down the road past the fallen bush and sunning himself on the opposite bank was what I believe was the largest Alligator I have ever seen. It seemed to have conked out with its mouth half open as if it had just eaten a big meal. Whatever the situation was, I don’t think Bruce will be volunteering for future wading expeditions in that body of water. To get to this particular spot, the main woods road from the front gate traveled eastward parallel to the northern boundary to the property line. On the way in, we would pass three or four gate entrances to lesser woods roads south into the tract. They all had locks, or combinations which we could pick up from the headquarters. The third gate led to a road that initially went south, but turned east and ran right to the tidal wetland bordering the waterway. This was an interesting area where access was available during low tide. Better know the tidal times or be stranded on one of the many small islands scattered through the wetland. These islands varied in size, but most were large enough to support a fair sized stand of Atlantic White Cedar (Chamaecyparis thyoidies).Sometimes referred to as “Falsecypress” because of its feathery lace-like foliage resembles that of a bald cypress, the tree is short and well-shaped and just perfect for a living room based Christmas tree. That is, given all its touted characteristics show up in all specimens. Well, hardly. Some trees had perfect shape for half a tree, the second half being shaded out by neighbors. But we usually found one that would do even if we had to take two flat sided trees and bound them such that together they looked like one nice tree. It soon became locally famous as our “Charlie Brown” tree. Not only did we cut a tree for our use, but Joyce’s kindergarten had four or five classes and we were to find trees for each one of the classrooms. One year we got so enthusiastic about the mission we forgot about the rising tide. No disaster, we got out OK, but we were soaked from head to toe and freezing. This was December after all. In another non-Christmas tree venture to the south tract, we were doing a little fishing. Joyce and I were Bruce and pal, and George (Don’t think the girls were with us). We had finished fishing and were easing back to the main gate when we noticed a gator plodding down the road the same direction we were. Well the big tough boys (not George) were not going to let this opportunity pass them up, so they jumped out of the car and began to walk up on the gator, who saw them and increased his speed not wanting anything to do with us. Well the boys hurried after him and before long the gator eased off the side of the road into the drainage canal, but upon reaching the bottom, decided here’s the spot to take a stand, and he wheeled around and with mouth wide open let out a loud hiss that we could hear in the car. The boys almost turned inside out trying to reverse direction and get back to the car, which they did. We really didn’t have to say much, and as we approached the main gate, I looked in the rear vision mirror and there was no George! Where the heck is George I wanted to know, and a small voice said “here”. He was flat on the back floor after witnessing that episode standing behind the front seats. We all laughed of course. About half way home his little voice announced firmly that just because some people lay on floors doesn’t mean they are afraid of Alligators! More laughter.
The next year I was relating our Christmas tree debacle of the previous year to Tony Ortegas, the forest manager, when he suggested an alternative. Seems there was a rather large sand pine (Pinus clausa) plantation on the north tract that should be just about the right age, and it could probably use some thinning. Oh boy, a new source.
So it was pre-Christmas 1968 we sought out the sand pine plantation and set forth to make a mini-harvest (a tree for us and 6 trees for Mom’s pre-school). All of us were involved including our new pup “Muffin”. While the pine was not as scraggly as the cedar, they were not pruned in any way, much less a Christmas tree and we ended up with a strange collection. Like the cedar, often two trees were required to achieve a reasonable yuletide shape. So how possibly could this innocent cutting of trees be exciting, you may ask? Well the very first year we visited the site, Karen was out ahead of us all scouting for the best candidate trees, when there seemed to be a commotion going on around her feet. When I got to her location, it turns out he was stomping around and stirring up a snoozing pigmy rattlesnake who was trying hard to rattle (one rattle and a button). I couldn’t believe it, and when Karen realized it, it didn’t take her long to vacate the area. I later learned her foot ware consisted of a very holey pair of sneakers. Although the pigmy rattler is not considered deadly, a bite can hurt like the devil, and one could become quite ill from the venom. Karen was a lucky girl that afternoon. In any case, the school was delighted with the trees regardless of shape or condition, as long as they were green. Our annual Christmas picture of the four kids and dog was made with our “Charlie Brown” tree as background (DIV-11).
As 1969 unfolded, events occurred that changed our outdoor routine substantially. Early in the year (or perhaps late 1968) my uncle George Edwards (my dad’s brother in law) died and left a modest sum of money to his nephews. While it wasn’t huge, it was to us in our then current financial situation. Regardless of all that, we decided we would invest in a pop-up camper-trailer. We chose the Apache brand (DVI-13). As can be seen in the illustration, the camper had a metal top (roof). Upon entering a crank in an externally accessible crankshaft, and cranking, the roof would lift and twin platforms (fore and aft) would deploy. The two platforms were double bed sized and served that purpose. It also provided room for two single bunks on the floor of the camper. In the middle of the camper (under the roof) on the floor, was a fridge, a two burner stove, and a sink with a faucet. There were also two additional electrical outlets and a water hose fixture. So essentially the camper was self-contained and weather adaptable.
During the spring and summer of 1969 we tested out our new camper pretty much around home, especially at the various beach venues. The big event in the fall was hurricane Camille that devastated the Mississippi Gulf Coast. St. Regis had interests in the area since just north of the landfall, the town of Picayune was located as was out forest headquarters. In addition, the main landowner in the area, Crosby, maintained property right on the coast. It was one of the “dream” homes that looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. Our church also had a minority church it supported named the “Back Bay Mission located on the outskirts of Bay St. Louis. Finally, many acres of forest land were also affected. From a company standpoint, this area fell under my area of support responsibility, so west I went to the Mississippi gulf coast. Plate DIV-12 shows a quick overview of what I found on this trip. For all the hurricanes I had flown through in my life, I have seen nothing that could possibly describe what I found. U.S. highway 90 is located right on the gulf as it passes through Biloxi, Gulfport and Bay St. Louis on its way to New Orleans and west. This was a four lane highway, but at this point, only one lane was open and it was not always the same lane. At one point near Biloxi, a huge barge was parked at right angles across the eastbound lanes. The old Crosby mansion I was asked to check out was nothing but a flat concrete slab with a forlorn looking set of stairs leading up to it. The swimming pool was full, full of water and debris.
The Back Bay mission our church supported was inland far enough from the beach, it missed pretty much the 30 foot storm surge that swept ashore, though they were very appreciative of my visit and concern, but they were OK and were spending their energy helping out others not so fortunate in the community. A toast to that, and my short visit with them was almost worth the trip. But I had to move on, so I turned north and headed for Picayune to check in with our forest manager, who was having his own problems locally. Timber damage was sporadic, but severe where it occurred. Probably the result of embedded tornadoes which is not uncommon in larger hurricanes. Before the storm hit, the rainfall had been pretty sparse creating hard and dry soil conditions. In the stands where damage occurred, the trees didn’t just tip over, but snapped off sometimes 15 or 20 feet high. This meant hazardous tree salvage. But enough of the big blow (author excluded). The rest of 1969 was much more enjoyable.
If this was the year of the “big blow”, it was also the year of the Apache. In December, Gram Edwards came for a visit on the way further south. We asked her if she would like to try out our new outdoor accommodations for a few days in the Ocala National Forest, Juniper Springs to be exact. She couldn’t wait, and what a couple of days they were (DIV-13). Florida is an interesting state because of its Karst topography. Such a topography is formed from the dissolution of soluble rocks such as limestone, the underpinning of the state. It is characterized by underground drainage systems with sinkholes and caves, and underground streams. Imagine walking through the woods (any place) and coming upon a pond with absolutely sparkling clear water such that one could count pebbles 10-12’ deep. This describes Juniper Springs. Because it is a national forest, one could logically conclude this situation was rather unique, but not so. While the eastern and western coasts of the state are flat and sandy, limestone lies beneath, but in the central portion of the state, there is a limestone ridge running north and south from about Lake City, through Gainesville to just beyond Ocala (and Silver Springs no less). Back in the spring of ’67, Southern Timberlands hosted foresters from the company’s other regions (West Coast, Tacoma WA, Mountain States, Libby MT, Lake States, Rhinelander WI, Mid Atlantic, Massena New York, and New England, Bucksport ME). Of all the interesting areas of interest we showed them, including MarineLand, Okefenokee Swamp, and Cape Canaveral, no site was so fascinating for them than the plain old southeastern timberlands. Sinkholes swallowing whole groves of pine trees just blew their minds. But the most fascinating is spotting a small stand of bald cypress in a pond and upon inspection, noting the water in the pond was absolutely crystal clear and cold. Not only that, but the outflow from the pond ran some 100 yards and then formed another pond and disappeared, only to reappear some 4 miles away. The creek simply ran underground for that distance.
On one of our sojourns, we took a float trip down the Ichetucknee River, which is a gorgeous crystal clear river that is fed by 30 major limestone springs in its two and one-half mile course. The trip began just below Lake City at Ichetucknee Springs. Then it was under private ownership (a mining company). The trip included seven kids on floats plus Joyce (in the bow) Joyce’s mother (in the stern) and you know who was in the middle of a “Jon”- boat. The trip was about 2.5 miles long and ended just beyond the US highway 27 bridge. The river is also narrow, so we were able to maintain either Joyce or her mother in the reeds, low-hanging trees and/or gooey egg masses along the shore. In spite of all this, we all had a grand time. A short distance beyond the “take-out point”, the creek disappeared underground. When asked how long the trip took, my response was about 2.5 six packs. Since that time, the area was purchased by the state and turned into a State Park. In came state regulations, including no six packs, trips had to be organized within state mandated times and you had to pay. Heck, what fun is that? Glad we took the opportunity when we could.
As we wrap up the 4th decade and look forward to the ‘70’s, we will briefly revisit Branford and introduce you to another couple of St. Regis cabins that played a role during that time. On on one of her many trips south, Gram Edwards joined us (and the camper) to the beach campground Kon Tiki on our way to Branford, and later that year, Ma and Pop Barker visited and we decided we would like to share our Branford life with them. As earlier mentioned, the lake at the Branford cabin was part of a multiple lake flood control and water management system. Sometimes the pier was completely out of water, other times completely underwater (DIV-14).
While we are talking St. Regis managed lands and he perks it provided employees who chose to take advantage of the opportunities they provided. Of all the Southern Timberland employees, I suspect none exploited this more than the Barker family. Besides Branford, St. Regis managed a large river bottom hardwood forest. The river was the Apalachicola, which was the Florida extension of the Georgia originated Chattahoochee River. The forest manager actually lived in the town of Apalachicola, and his main vehicle for patrolling the lands under his supervision was a Boston Whaler. On one of the river’s tributaries, the company had a nice cabin with a full kitchen and ample sleeping area for several people. The cabin was in the town of Wewahitchka, where its main landmark was it’s community church. In the spring of 1970 we spent several days at the cabin. We took Eric Olson with us and we had a great time. There was on site a typical Jon boat that was put to heavy use in cast-netting for fish. In addition, Louis Long (the tract forester) made his Boston Whaler available to us while we were there. When he delivered the boat, we happily motored him back to town where he had his pick up truck parked. In addition he left us with a big gunny-sack full of fresh oysters! Man, things couldn’t get better than this (DIV-15).
As we move from the decade of the ‘60’s to the ‘70’s things didn’t slow down much, rather they took on a different perspective. The Branford days were pretty much over both in terms of current family interests and Southern Timberlands Wood Supply (procurement) seemed to find the cabin, and pretty much expropriated it’s contents including the magnificent Garland stove