genealogy-writers-group - Tumblr blog

[genealogy-writers-group]

The Buccaneer Lodge

Most tourists visiting the St. Augustine Alligator Farm pay little notice to the narrow, tree-lined road they use to get to the attraction’s parking lots. A short drive down that road will introduce you to one of the most interesting neighborhoods on Anastasia Island. Old Quarry Road - as it is called today - was first used by the spanish to drag large blocks of coquina from the quarry located near the present-day amphitheater to Quarry Creek. From there the blocks were loaded on barges and floated across the bay for use in the construction of the Castillo de San Marcos.

Centries later - in May 1917 - Alfred Day bought a parcel described as:

Beginning at Quarry Creek, highwater mark, run thence along old Light House Road, 222 feet, thence northwest to land of Hite, 190 feet, thence west to marsh, thence along marsh, 350 feet to point of beginning.

He built a house looking out over Quarry Creek and the marsh surrounding it. The three-story house was large with wide eaves and wrap-around porches to shade the rooms on the lower floor. The construction used local resources - coquina for the foundation, heart pine and cypress for framing, cedar shingles for siding and palm tree trunks as pillars to support the porch. It had 12-foot ceilings and each room had windows on at least two walls to best catch the sea breezes. The house was built for summer comfort. The only heat consisted to two fireplaces and later a floor furnace located in the living room. The property was bordered on the north and east sides by the Heckscher estate with woods to the south.

In 1940, the estate of Alfred Day’s widow sold the property to Adolph Bittner. Mr. Bittner created the Buccaneer Lodge in the house and managed it until October 1952 when he sold to William and Marjorie Barrett, my parents, and moved back to Germany. I’ve tried to get more information about “the Lodge period” but haven’t found much yet. Although many locals from my parents’ generation remember it for luncheons and private parties, city directories during that period don’t mention it.

At some point during the time Mr. Bittner owned the property, “old Light House Road” became Young Avenue and was extended across the marsh to connect with Coquina Avenue. Quarry Creek was only a trickle of water at our end and was no longer used to define the property line. There were four other homes on Youn Avenue with lots of woods and marsh to keep children occupied. We had plenty of wildlife - raccoons and armadillos, owls, wild pigs and even an occasional alligator.

For several years our only source of water came from an artesian well located on the property behind us. Because this was “sulfa” water, we had the Culligan man visiting frequently to replenish the water softener. There was a cistern under the house and at one time the gutters emptied into it. On the back porch a hand pump was used to draw water from the cistern. I’m sure before there was such a thing as water-softening, the rainwater was put to good use.

The house’s large porches served many purposes. Grandma’s wicker furniture - with a little help from some old sheets - became castles or forts on rainy days. Many a production was staged on the porch including the magic show where my cousin and I were going to saw my sister in half. Fortunately for her, Mom decided to check just what it was we were planning to do with that saw. It was also a great place for birthday parties and other noisy functions.

Many of my memories of that house have to do with sounds. You knew it was getting close to dinner time when the National Guard fired their cannon at retreat. I remember laying in bed in the early morning stillness listening to the shrimp boats. I could hear them motor from their docks on the San Sebastian River, up the bay, through the draw at the Bridge of Lions and on until they passed the old Spanish fort and turned to head out the inlet.

Of course there were lots of animal sounds. From the alligator farm came the rumbles and moans of the alligators during mating season and the screams of the peacocks. The raccoons were always arguing with each other out in the marsh and the marsh hens frequently added their voices to the conversation.

In the background to all of this was the sound of the surf. Once the traffic and other noise of the day settled down, the surf was always there.

At one point, the city dug up the street to install sewer lines supporting new home development. Under the old live oak just outside our driveway gate the construction crew discovered the bones of two Indians. Since Indians had been involved in the quarry operations during the fort construction and signs of an Indian Village were found just behind the Alligator Farm, it wasn’t surprising to find Indian remains in the area. Then someone happened to remember a story about a pirate - I can’t remember which one - who was coming to see the governor of Florida about some kind of amnesty deal. This pirate expected a double-cross so, according to the story, he buried his treasure on the south side of a live oak tree on Anastasia Island then killed and buried his two Indian servants with it. That announcement brought out every metal detector and shovel for a 10-mile radius - keeping the neighborhood in chaos for weeks. Of course, there was no treasure - just a lot of disappointed treasure hunters.

We weathered many storms in that house. Most hurricanes came from the Gulf and had lost much of their punch by the time they got here. Flooding was the biggest concern so our house - built with a high crawl-space - was the logical place for friends and neighbors with houses built on slab foundations. This worked well until Dora came to visit in 1964. Because Dora was coming at us directly from the Atlantic, Mom decided to head inland for this one. Although the house was not damaged, we lost several trees on the property - one just missing the porch.

I left home when I enlisted with the Air Force in 1972, returning for holidays and vacations. One Christmas holiday included my sister’s wedding. The reception was to be held at the house so you can imagine the work that went into getting it ready. I spent most of that vacation polishing brass doorknobs and silver trays along with anything else that could be scrubbed. The wedding was beautiful and the house looked glorious.

Soon after, the city renamed Young Avenue to Old Quarry Road. For years they had tried to pave the road, but to meet code they would have to cut many of the old oaks and cedars that lined it. The residents fought hard to keep the trees. Finally a code exception was granted allowing the road to be paved while leaving the trees. Fortunately most of the character of the old road is still intact.

Mom died in 1983 and we sold the house soon after. Several years later the new owner made a deal to use the house in a movie. The movie - Illegally Yours - never made it to movie theaters but still occasionally shows up on late-night television. The old kindergarten classroom figured prominently as the family kitchen. My husband and I were in Germany when it was finally released and someone sent us a home-made video copy of the movie. Somehow, during its journey to us, the tape lost all its audio. Didn’t matter - it meant less distraction as we looked for local landmarks and friends performing as extras.

The house has been sold several more times and each new owner has worked to restore it. The classroom is gone and the porches returned to their original glory. The yard has been beautifully landscaped. We’ve gone back once - when it was featured in a Christmas tour of homes several years ago. It was a delightful visit.

We enjoyed an enchanted childhood in a glorious old house built for family living in a world that no longer exists. Who in their right mind would allow children to roam the woods, marshes and roads unsupervised day after day? Can you imagine a scenario today where five neighborhood children - all with the measles - are camped out in one house while they recuperate? Cellphones? Our parents got us headed home by ringing the bell outside the back door. Each family’s bell had a distinctive clang.

The house still thrives, but it is no longer the home of our childhood. That world may be gone, but today each of our homes includes the essence that made the big house so special.

It’s called family.

[genealogy-writers-group]

The Cherokee Roses

Growing roses in Florida can be a challenge. The heat, humidity and bugs in this part of the world conspire to destroy the delicate hybrids most people prefer. They’re just too much work for me. We have two types of roses here at Moultrie Creek headquarters - the Cracker rose and the Cherokee rose.

The Cracker rose is actually one of the antique China roses better known as Louis Phillipe. It’s a bush rose with clusters of small, dark red blooms that bloom year-round. When we first looked at this plant in a nursery, I asked their resident expert - a very charming, very Southern lady - if this would be a difficult rose to raise down here. She answered in her slow, Southern drawl - “Honey, this rose will grow in traffic.” She was right. We whack the bushes back a couple of times a year to keep them from getting leggy, but that’s all the attention they get.

The Cherokee rose is an entirely different creature. You seldom see it growing in a garden and it’s almost impossible to find a nursery. In early spring, you will find it blooming all over the woods and roadsides here in north Florida where it grows wild. The Cherokee is also an antique China rose - a climbing rose that blooms once a year. It’s flower is a simple white, five-petal bloom with yellow stamens. While most roses have thorns, those on the Cherokee rose are formidable. If you want security, plant a perimeter of Cherokee roses - and buy some sturdy leather gloves before you try handling them.

This rose received its common name because it is linked to the Trail of Tears. The petals represent the tears of the Cherokee women as they made their way on their forced emigration. The golden yellow center symbolizes the Cherokee gold taken from them. It is the state flower of Georgia.

Our yard is no manicured landscape so the Cherokee rose fits in perfectly. It also serves a very symbolic purpose. Both my mother, Marjorie Barker Killebrew Barrett 1920-1981 and her mother, Lois Link Barker 1887-1968, loved the Cherokee rose. Like the rose, both women were strong and tough but each had a quiet beauty - in both body and soul. My rose climbs up the front porch rail right outside the window next to my desk and, like many family traditions, it provides a link to the people of my past.

Just looking at the records of their lives, you’d find a great deal of tragedy associated with my Cherokee roses. Lois lost her mother at the age of 5. She was in her early 20s when her father died. Her husband, Dolph, and his father both died within a week of each other when Marjorie was not quite two years old. Lois raised four children by returning to her home state of Tennessee and teaching school. Not only did they survive the Depression, but Lois managed to hold on to the Georgia farm. Marjorie’s first husband, Joseph Killebrew, was killed in World War II. Her second marriage ended in divorce not long after the birth of her fourth child. She too raised her family by teaching school.

There was nothing tragic about either woman. From the letters she saved, we can see that Lois was a bit of a flirt before she and Dolph were married. I don’t remember a “doting” grandmother, but we always enjoyed visiting or having her visit us. I seldom saw her agitated and she always enjoyed company. The letters and cards received after her death show the many lives she touched and their love for her.

Mom was strong, talented, resourceful, gracious and fun. She sewed beautifully, refinished furniture, did her own upholstery and had an eye for design. Every weed, every scrap had design potential. She could see potential in even the most common items. Her flower arrangements and Christmas decorations were eye-catching. My favorite prom dress was made from a sample piece of upholstery damask and the end of a bolt of drapery satin.

She loved the beach so we spent lots of time there. [It helped that it was only about a mile from the house.] She thought nothing of piling us all into the car for a Sunday breakfast cookout and swim at The Cove before getting dressed for church. Our big front porch was the official rainy-day playground for our neighborhood.. Grandmother’s antique wicker would get up-ended and covered with sheets to create playhouses. Many a theatrical was performed on that porch. One exception was the magic show where my cousin and I were going to saw my sister in half. Mom gently convinced us that we needed to perfect our other tricks before taking on this one.

I remember her irritation - mostly about small things like poor grades [anything below a B was poor], getting home after curfew or chores that didn’t get done. She constantly pressed us to do better, work harder and study more. We could be anything we wanted, but we would have to work for it. Yes, she could do the mother guilt thing very well. However, when crisis hit she seldom panicked. Injuries, accidents, hurricanes and illnesses were handled with amazing calm.

She was just reaching the stage of life where she could relax and enjoy herself when the illness struck that would take her life so early. The last lesson she taught me was to make the best of today because you don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Like all her other lessons, this one has served me well.

Not long after she died I spent a long weekend at the family’s Georgia farm with her two sisters. Our project was to find a suitable stone for mom’s grave. Mary and Lin were looking for Georgia marble which meant we’d be looking at old stones that, for one reason or another, had been removed from their original owners’ graves. We visited several monument companies without finding anything we liked. At our last stop, one stone stoood out because of its unusual shape. Once we got closer, we knew this was our stone. The front of the stone was carved with Cherokee roses.

[genealogy-writers-group]

[genealogy-writers-group]

[genealogy-writers-group]

Discover creative storytelling ideas

Improve your writing skills

Attract research cousins

Inspire family interest

MOULTRIE CREEK