PAST IS PRESENT

 Because I believe there is a dominating presence of the past in the lives of all persons, let me summarize something of the past that preceded my stories.

The Scottish Presbyterian settlers, who arrived in Northwest Florida in the territorial days of the early 19th century, established devotion to education as well as to church throughout the area that became Walton County.

In 1882 surveyors and officials of the L. & N. Railroad—completing the line across the Florida Panhandle—saw in the perfectly formed spring-fed lake setting, midway between Tallahassee and Pensacola, the potential for a winter resort. They proceeded to build a fine hotel and named the town Lake De Funiak. Soon afterwards, the Southern counterpart of the famous Chautauqua in New York State was organized with similar educational and cultural programs lasting six to eight weeks.

The Florida Normal School, which trained teachers, and the Presbyterian Palmer College soon followed. Prior to the existence of these schools, there was the flourishing Knox Hill Academy near the original county seat, Eucheeanna. All these institutions gave De Funiak Springs an educational level not matched in neighboring small towns.

Appreciation for the arts and attention to social forms established in more affluent times continued for most of the town's residents even in the harsh and stressful economic days of the 1930s.

Among my relatives, as in many other households, talk of Civil War horrors and pre-Civil War abundance made that time seem like yesterday. The "Yankees" had come all the way down through Northwest Florida, .* devastating the people and property. Ironic because our county and my great-grandfather, John Morrison, as one of two Walton County delegates to the Florida Convention of January 1861, had argued against secession. Under the abolitionist preachings of the Amherst-educated Presbyterian teacher imported for their children at Eucheeanna, these early settlers and their descendants pledged themselves to "stay with the Union, and Mr Lincoln" and thereby abolish slavery. This made Walton County one of only a handful of counties in the entire South to take such a position. But, when War came, they fought and suffered the same fate as the rest of the deep South—as if there had never been arguments, debate and decision. A tragic time, not forgotten even into the 1940s and beyond.

One characteristic shared by the Southerners of my growing up years was an indomitable spirit fueled undoubtedly by the strong religious faith that permeated the whole culture but just as much by pride.

The stoic pride that kept the South fighting against the insurmountable odds of the North's industrial superiority and military strength in the War Between the States became more entrenched as Southerners lived with the consequences of that War: their ravaged homeland. A defensive pride in their valiance and ability to rise above defeat then sustained white Southerners for generations. . .

For African Americans in the rural South, I believe pride was the result of the centuries-old determination, as captives in this land, to keep an inner sense of self while having little choice but to accede to  discriminatory circumstances. Unquestionably, segregation and the denial of equal opportunities shattered the lives of many black people (North and South). Others became very creative in finding outlets to keep their own identity and, wherever possible, to assert individual will.

I think singing raised spirits and reinforced that will of all Southerners to survive yet more “hard times” during the Depression of the 1930s. We sang a lot. The songs we white people sang in church, in school, on automobile drives, on social outings were hymns, Negro spirituals, American folk songs, WWI tunes and popular hits.

The singing I heard by African-Americans (and which affected my life) was as they worked, or in their churches. The songs were primarily the rich legacy of spirituals created during slavery days. Years later I learned that many of the historic songs, sounding like spirituals, actually had double meanings meant only to be understood by other black people—a kind of coded communication which might be veiled criticism of the boss, or cleverly poke fun at the white people over them. It was inside humor, a very inventive survival technique.

A railroad work crew, farm workers, domestic servants sang songs that accompanied their tasks and made the work seem lighter. The sounds I heard from these activities were not joyful. But I imagine they kept body and spirit together. Many black people found deep solace in gospel hymns and spirituals sung in church as an affirmation of religious faith, a source of hope and promise. This singing was and remains today emotionally charged, uplifting, unforgettable—forever a part of my life.

Sorrowful and joyful spirituals, the blues and highly creative improvisations combined with African rhythms became the basis for our distinctive American music—jazz. That, too, I experienced first hand at the Negro Juke (dance hall) in De Funiak Springs. Like millions of other Americans I became an avid listener of recordings and radio broadcasts featuring the uniquely gifted African-American vocalists and instrumentalists, and the popular music influenced by them. Music, then, became a strong tie of kinship with African Americans.

All the information absorbed from the senses, particularly in the early years, are acutely a part of my past and present. Stories told by elders (black and white) before a fire or on a porch vividly conveyed an interconnection of our lives and the history that shaped us. My own experiences growing up in De Funiak Springs and Northwest Florida continue to direct my present life.

Past is present.