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When I examine what caused me to feel safe and protected while growing up in De Funiak Springs in
the late 1920s and ‘30s, the nurture of a place and loving immediate and extended family comes first to mind. townspeople too were important with their always friendly and gracious concern for one another. And then there are remembrances of three special persons who held diverse and vital roles in the life of the town.
Jesse Evans
Jesse Evans was the night marshal on a two-man police force, the only policeman on duty at night for nearly thirty years. Everyone knew Mr. Evans was downtown every night of the week checking the stores. Coming out of the Ritz Theater after a late movie, I could see Mr. Evans way down the street as he moved his powerful flashlight from side to side. Immediately there was a feeling that everything was safe, even after viewing a scary movie.
I never noticed that Mr. Evans wore a gun, but he did. His son, Cecil, a classmate of mine, told me his dad wore a holster housing a 32-calibre Smith and Wesson. He just never used it in all those years. Only occasionally would Mr. Evans come upon a burglar and then a story I heard my father tell my mother went something like this.
Jesse Evans was the night marshal on a two-man police force, the only policeman on duty at night for nearly thirty years. Everyone knew Mr. Evans was downtown every night of the week checking the stores. Coming out of the Ritz Theater after a late movie, I could see Mr. Evans way down the street as he moved his powerful flashlight from side to side. Immediately there was a feeling that everything was safe, even after viewing a scary movie.
I never noticed that Mr. Evans wore a gun, but he did. His son, Cecil, a classmate of mine, told me his dad wore a holster housing a 32-calibre Smith and Wesson. He just never used it in all those years. Only occasionally would Mr. Evans come upon a burglar and then a story I heard my father tell my mother went something like this.
"Jesse caught a man trying to break into a store. He just calmly pulled out his night stick and told the would-be thief he'd have to lock him up for the night. Furthermore, Jesse told the fellow to go ahead on to the jail. He'd meet him there, as he had a few more rounds to make. Sure enough the man was there waiting for Jesse."
"He didn't use a gun, did he?" Mamma asked in a worried voice.
"Good heavens, no. Besides, the thief didn't have a gun, so why should Jesse pull his? Poor fellow likely has a hungry family and no money in these hard times. Jesse knows about that. There's no better man anywhere than Jesse Evans. I'm sorry the turpentine still he managed closed, but people in this town are lucky to have him. He's honest, good-hearted and not easily ruffled.”
I recall my own experience with Jesse Evans.
Once when I'd been home from college for a weekend visit, I had to catch a 4:30 a.m. bus back to school in Tallahassee. I bravely assured my mother I was not at all afraid to walk the several blocks to town and once there I'd surely see Mr. Evans, as I walked in front of the stores to the Florida Hotel where the Greyhound bus stopped.
As I left the house, the night seemed especially dark, not only because there was no moon, but also because one of the few street lights between our house and town was out. The dark distance I had to cover looked very threatening. My courage waned, yet I had to keep going. Trying not to think of wild scary happenings, like the possibility that a deranged Dr. Jekyll might emerge from the lakeyard, I began to sing songs in my head. I didn't dare sing out loud for fear of arousing dogs and their barking. As I sang silently, I kept step to the rhythm of the song, while I strained my eyes far ahead for any sight of Mr. Evan's flashlight. Where was he?
I crossed the L. & N. railroad tracks and felt a bit more confident as I approached the four blocks of lighted business section. After walking one block, I noted that the stores were not nearly as brightly lit as I'd thought. I turned a corner now thoroughly frightened without the distant comforting presence of our dependable night marshal. As I rounded a corner, I saw a figure moving towards me from out of the shadows. No use calling out as no one else was about, but I think I was about to scream from the tension I'd built up, when the figure now very close, his eyes accustomed to the night, said with surprise, "Marjorie, what in the world are you doing out here?"
In my memory Willard, and his always reliable service as the church sexton, was as important as the minister. Ministers came and went, while Willard remained, giving continuity and stability to the life of the church.
My mother was the church organist and so it was usual for Mamma to be the first person after Willard to arrive and the last before him to leave. My sister and I frequently accompanied our widowed mother to evening services Willard was always at the front door to greet us, and then stayed late, without complaint, keeping lights on inside and out until we were safely on our way home.
Arriving early gave my sister and me a chance to marvel as we watched the “quarter-hours" bell ringing. With his strong arms Willard pulled in even rhythm the heavy hemp rope.
When as an adolescent I began lessons on the organ, Mamma sent me off to the empty church on weekday afternoons for practice. I recall the first time I went alone. I took the key from its outside hiding place near the back door and with some qualms walked into the eerily silent church with only faint light showing through the stained glass windows. I was a little frightened because there had been reports of an escaped convict from a nearby prison. My imagination was in charge as I walked up behind the altar to the organ and turned on the goose-necked lamp over the music rack.
Just as I sat down, I heard heavy footsteps in the adjoining social hall. They became louder as someone I could not see came closer. As my heart raced, expecting the worst, the familiar voice of Willard came from the rear of the church. “It's just me, Miss. Your Mamma told me you were coming to practice. I thought you might feel better if you knew I was here."
"Oh, Willard, I am so glad you are here. Thank you."
Willard, who was not usually at the church on mid-week afternoons, went about tasks of cleaning with just enough sound for me to know where he was, but not loud enough to distract. His comforting presence on that afternoon and all the other times he was dependably there made a lasting impression. This sensitive attention to our family was extended to the entire church family to whom he undoubtedly felt a responsibility.
Willard was a heavy set, large-framed, gentle black man whose quiet goodness demonstrated the constancy and commitment of his religious faith and caring for others, even though in the actual worship service he was seated nearly out of sight at the back of the church.
George C. Blake
Mr. George Blake was the Louisville and Nashville station master and telegrapher in De Funiak Springs for forty-six years. When he began work with the L. & N. in 1898 at age fifteen, he was its youngest employee. Mr. Blake came to De Funiak in 1917 and upon his retirement at age seventy-five, he was the L. & N.'s oldest agent.
From the earliest beginnings of De Funiak Springs in the 1880s and into the 1930s the trains, freight and passenger, were its primary contact with the outside world. Freight trains brought in commodities and carried out products of the area's principal industry, lumber. Before De Funiak Springs had a Western union office, before long distance telephone service became reliable, before there was regular Greyhound bus service, Mr. Blake and the L. & N. represented the most immediate access to the world beyond our town.
On summer evenings, just at twilight, my father would suggest that the family go down to the station and watch the evening train come in. The city, or perhaps the L. & N., under Mr. Blake's supervision, maintained a nicely landscaped small park of lawn and shrubs next to the station. This park provided a perfect place for children to romp and play while waiting for the arrival of trains.
My sister and I looked forward with excitement to first hearing the whistle, then seeing the brilliant headlight down the track and finally Standing on the platform as the powerful steam engine roared into the station. Watching people getting off and on with the courteous assistance of black porters in white jackets and black caps was fascinating. The most elegant scene, however, was that of the dining car--watching well-dressed men and women at white linen-covered tables with a small vase of flowers on each table, attended by fast-moving waiters. The most mysterious to observe was the sleeping car as shades were slowly raised or lowered. I hoped the people could see our pretty park and Mr. Blake's garden, even though the daylight was fast fading.
Mr. Blake's garden contained a variety of roses and annuals, with borders of zinnias or dahlias or petunias, planted in a small plot between the depot and freight office. This lovely garden backed by a spectacularly high trellis of delicate, pink-flowered coral vine against the freight office was an unusual sight alongside the railroad tracks. Children knew never to risk Mr. Blake's sharp reprimand by walking through or trampling on this treasured spot. I'd been told too that people traveling on the trains knew they were in De Funiak Springs when they saw the beautiful rose garden and coral vine.
My father was a telegrapher in the Navy during World War I. He enjoyed listening to the click-clickety-click messages coming in on the wireless as we stood outside Mr. Blake's office.
Mr. Blake was a man of few words, while Daddy loved conversation. I'd notice as my father would start talking that Mr. Blake, who usually wore a serious, almost dour expression, would at first not respond, head down, working on sheets of paper. But, as Daddy began to reminisce, about the small towns up and down the L. & N. line, Mr. Blake leaned back in his swivel chair and got involved in talking.
"George," Daddy asked, "do you remember the time just after the War when you asked me to substitute for you? My brother Jim and some of his prankish friends got me to send a message to an important business man Jim had just met on the train. The man had come through here on his way from Jacksonville to New Orleans. Message told him it was most urgent he get oft at Milligan and that someone in an automobile would meet him. As you may recall, no one was there to meet the poor fellow out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night." Daddy would break into laughter as he envisioned the effect of this practical joke.
"Yes, Malcolm, I recall that," Mr. Blake solemnly replied. “I still don't think it was right for Jim to fool you and that gentleman.”
"He didn't use a gun, did he?" Mamma asked in a worried voice.
"Good heavens, no. Besides, the thief didn't have a gun, so why should Jesse pull his? Poor fellow likely has a hungry family and no money in these hard times. Jesse knows about that. There's no better man anywhere than Jesse Evans. I'm sorry the turpentine still he managed closed, but people in this town are lucky to have him. He's honest, good-hearted and not easily ruffled.”
I recall my own experience with Jesse Evans.
Once when I'd been home from college for a weekend visit, I had to catch a 4:30 a.m. bus back to school in Tallahassee. I bravely assured my mother I was not at all afraid to walk the several blocks to town and once there I'd surely see Mr. Evans, as I walked in front of the stores to the Florida Hotel where the Greyhound bus stopped.
As I left the house, the night seemed especially dark, not only because there was no moon, but also because one of the few street lights between our house and town was out. The dark distance I had to cover looked very threatening. My courage waned, yet I had to keep going. Trying not to think of wild scary happenings, like the possibility that a deranged Dr. Jekyll might emerge from the lakeyard, I began to sing songs in my head. I didn't dare sing out loud for fear of arousing dogs and their barking. As I sang silently, I kept step to the rhythm of the song, while I strained my eyes far ahead for any sight of Mr. Evan's flashlight. Where was he?
I crossed the L. & N. railroad tracks and felt a bit more confident as I approached the four blocks of lighted business section. After walking one block, I noted that the stores were not nearly as brightly lit as I'd thought. I turned a corner now thoroughly frightened without the distant comforting presence of our dependable night marshal. As I rounded a corner, I saw a figure moving towards me from out of the shadows. No use calling out as no one else was about, but I think I was about to scream from the tension I'd built up, when the figure now very close, his eyes accustomed to the night, said with surprise, "Marjorie, what in the world are you doing out here?"
"Mr. Evans," I exclaimed, nearly collapsing with giddy relief, as I recognized his stocky figure and uniform in the dim light. “I'm on my way to catch the bus back to Tallahassee."
"Well, then," he replied calmly, "I'll walk along with you.”
"Where's your flashlight?" I asked in an almost accusatory tone, as I'd so counted on seeing it.
“It's here," he showed me. "The batteries on the blamed thing just quit. I was on my way to the jail to pick up new ones when I saw you.” Then he added, “You're a pretty brave girl to walk all the way from your house."
“Not as brave as I thought,” I admitted as we neared the hotel bus stop. “|I really had no choice but to walk. Uncle Stuart and Aunt Bern are living in Tallahassee while Uncle Stuart is the Governor's attorney, and we only have a car when Mamma's sister stays with us. I love driving Aunt Eleanor's Packard, but she's not here now."
“Here we are,” Mr. Evans announced as he delivered me safely to the hotel door.
"Thi telephone Mamma now to let her know I'm OK. Thank you, sir."
"Well, then," he replied calmly, "I'll walk along with you.”
"Where's your flashlight?" I asked in an almost accusatory tone, as I'd so counted on seeing it.
“It's here," he showed me. "The batteries on the blamed thing just quit. I was on my way to the jail to pick up new ones when I saw you.” Then he added, “You're a pretty brave girl to walk all the way from your house."
“Not as brave as I thought,” I admitted as we neared the hotel bus stop. “|I really had no choice but to walk. Uncle Stuart and Aunt Bern are living in Tallahassee while Uncle Stuart is the Governor's attorney, and we only have a car when Mamma's sister stays with us. I love driving Aunt Eleanor's Packard, but she's not here now."
“Here we are,” Mr. Evans announced as he delivered me safely to the hotel door.
"Thi telephone Mamma now to let her know I'm OK. Thank you, sir."
“You're welcome. Come back soon," he called out as he walked on in his slow, methodical way, completely at ease with his nightime protective role.
Willard Ales
The clear, yet urgent, ringing of the bell from the Methodist Church tower announced to our small town not only that Sunday church service morning and evening would begin in one-half hour, but that Willard was there ringing the bell and making certain the church building was ready. On cold winter nights the bell sounded louder and more insistent. Church members knew that Willard would have a wonderful fire going in the huge wood-burning stove discreetly positioned at the rear of the church.
Before the days of forced air heating systems the historic church relied on pot-bellied stoves, both in the sanctuary and in the adjoining social hall and meeting rooms. Willard faithfully tended all, keeping the rooms comfortable.
Willard Ales
The clear, yet urgent, ringing of the bell from the Methodist Church tower announced to our small town not only that Sunday church service morning and evening would begin in one-half hour, but that Willard was there ringing the bell and making certain the church building was ready. On cold winter nights the bell sounded louder and more insistent. Church members knew that Willard would have a wonderful fire going in the huge wood-burning stove discreetly positioned at the rear of the church.
Before the days of forced air heating systems the historic church relied on pot-bellied stoves, both in the sanctuary and in the adjoining social hall and meeting rooms. Willard faithfully tended all, keeping the rooms comfortable.
In my memory Willard, and his always reliable service as the church sexton, was as important as the minister. Ministers came and went, while Willard remained, giving continuity and stability to the life of the church.
My mother was the church organist and so it was usual for Mamma to be the first person after Willard to arrive and the last before him to leave. My sister and I frequently accompanied our widowed mother to evening services Willard was always at the front door to greet us, and then stayed late, without complaint, keeping lights on inside and out until we were safely on our way home.
Arriving early gave my sister and me a chance to marvel as we watched the “quarter-hours" bell ringing. With his strong arms Willard pulled in even rhythm the heavy hemp rope.
When as an adolescent I began lessons on the organ, Mamma sent me off to the empty church on weekday afternoons for practice. I recall the first time I went alone. I took the key from its outside hiding place near the back door and with some qualms walked into the eerily silent church with only faint light showing through the stained glass windows. I was a little frightened because there had been reports of an escaped convict from a nearby prison. My imagination was in charge as I walked up behind the altar to the organ and turned on the goose-necked lamp over the music rack.
Just as I sat down, I heard heavy footsteps in the adjoining social hall. They became louder as someone I could not see came closer. As my heart raced, expecting the worst, the familiar voice of Willard came from the rear of the church. “It's just me, Miss. Your Mamma told me you were coming to practice. I thought you might feel better if you knew I was here."
"Oh, Willard, I am so glad you are here. Thank you."
Willard, who was not usually at the church on mid-week afternoons, went about tasks of cleaning with just enough sound for me to know where he was, but not loud enough to distract. His comforting presence on that afternoon and all the other times he was dependably there made a lasting impression. This sensitive attention to our family was extended to the entire church family to whom he undoubtedly felt a responsibility.
Willard was a heavy set, large-framed, gentle black man whose quiet goodness demonstrated the constancy and commitment of his religious faith and caring for others, even though in the actual worship service he was seated nearly out of sight at the back of the church.
George C. Blake
Mr. George Blake was the Louisville and Nashville station master and telegrapher in De Funiak Springs for forty-six years. When he began work with the L. & N. in 1898 at age fifteen, he was its youngest employee. Mr. Blake came to De Funiak in 1917 and upon his retirement at age seventy-five, he was the L. & N.'s oldest agent.
From the earliest beginnings of De Funiak Springs in the 1880s and into the 1930s the trains, freight and passenger, were its primary contact with the outside world. Freight trains brought in commodities and carried out products of the area's principal industry, lumber. Before De Funiak Springs had a Western union office, before long distance telephone service became reliable, before there was regular Greyhound bus service, Mr. Blake and the L. & N. represented the most immediate access to the world beyond our town.
On summer evenings, just at twilight, my father would suggest that the family go down to the station and watch the evening train come in. The city, or perhaps the L. & N., under Mr. Blake's supervision, maintained a nicely landscaped small park of lawn and shrubs next to the station. This park provided a perfect place for children to romp and play while waiting for the arrival of trains.
My sister and I looked forward with excitement to first hearing the whistle, then seeing the brilliant headlight down the track and finally Standing on the platform as the powerful steam engine roared into the station. Watching people getting off and on with the courteous assistance of black porters in white jackets and black caps was fascinating. The most elegant scene, however, was that of the dining car--watching well-dressed men and women at white linen-covered tables with a small vase of flowers on each table, attended by fast-moving waiters. The most mysterious to observe was the sleeping car as shades were slowly raised or lowered. I hoped the people could see our pretty park and Mr. Blake's garden, even though the daylight was fast fading.
Mr. Blake's garden contained a variety of roses and annuals, with borders of zinnias or dahlias or petunias, planted in a small plot between the depot and freight office. This lovely garden backed by a spectacularly high trellis of delicate, pink-flowered coral vine against the freight office was an unusual sight alongside the railroad tracks. Children knew never to risk Mr. Blake's sharp reprimand by walking through or trampling on this treasured spot. I'd been told too that people traveling on the trains knew they were in De Funiak Springs when they saw the beautiful rose garden and coral vine.
My father was a telegrapher in the Navy during World War I. He enjoyed listening to the click-clickety-click messages coming in on the wireless as we stood outside Mr. Blake's office.
Mr. Blake was a man of few words, while Daddy loved conversation. I'd notice as my father would start talking that Mr. Blake, who usually wore a serious, almost dour expression, would at first not respond, head down, working on sheets of paper. But, as Daddy began to reminisce, about the small towns up and down the L. & N. line, Mr. Blake leaned back in his swivel chair and got involved in talking.
"George," Daddy asked, "do you remember the time just after the War when you asked me to substitute for you? My brother Jim and some of his prankish friends got me to send a message to an important business man Jim had just met on the train. The man had come through here on his way from Jacksonville to New Orleans. Message told him it was most urgent he get oft at Milligan and that someone in an automobile would meet him. As you may recall, no one was there to meet the poor fellow out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night." Daddy would break into laughter as he envisioned the effect of this practical joke.
"Yes, Malcolm, I recall that," Mr. Blake solemnly replied. “I still don't think it was right for Jim to fool you and that gentleman.”
"Oh, Jim was always playing jokes. Besides, he said the fellow had acted so arrogantly when he stepped off the train with him in De Funiak to jook around, the man was just asking for somebody to take him down a peg or two.
“It's too bad Milligan’s becoming a dying town now the lumber's about gone," replied Mr. Blake, shaking his head.
“Same is true for Caryville, but I understand re-forestation is starting," my father said in a bright, cheerful voice as he pulled out his pipe. “In the old days people just thought pine trees were endless. Now we know better.”
As my sister and I quietly tugged at Daddy's sleeve, he asked, "George, do you think you could let these children have a ride on the baggage cart?”
Mr. Blake agreed and we were delirious with happiness at this small pleasure of sitting atop trunks or boxes as Mr. Blake pulled us along. Walking back to the station from our ride to the freight office, where Mr. Blake left the cart, he was still in a reminiscent mood and asked, “Malcolm, was it true that
a few years ago, I believe it was 1925, you actually sent a telegram from the new Western Union office to Canada costing ten dollars and fifty cents? Somebody told me that was 50¢ more than the Western Union's monthly rent."
“That's right. Before this Depression hit, I had as high hopes for land sales in Walton County as they were having in South Florida. Real estate brokers down there made plenty of money. Now, though, I don't know who can afford to buy land, let alone lots on the several tracts of Gulf property I own. But, I keep telling Mamie Ruth some day our ship will come in.”
"I think I'd bet more on trains than ships, Malcolm," Mr. Blake replied, as he left us and went back into his office with its loudly ticking clock on the wall and the wireless still clicking out its messages.
That wireless brought information not only about the multiple Operations of the trains coming through, but other news of the world. I remember my father’s making repeated trips for news the year of the great flood when the Choctawhatchee River, normally twenty miles away, Overflowed its banks. It was at the station too that he learned of Lindbergh's Solo flight across the Atlantic before this news made the newspaper headlines.
“Same is true for Caryville, but I understand re-forestation is starting," my father said in a bright, cheerful voice as he pulled out his pipe. “In the old days people just thought pine trees were endless. Now we know better.”
As my sister and I quietly tugged at Daddy's sleeve, he asked, "George, do you think you could let these children have a ride on the baggage cart?”
Mr. Blake agreed and we were delirious with happiness at this small pleasure of sitting atop trunks or boxes as Mr. Blake pulled us along. Walking back to the station from our ride to the freight office, where Mr. Blake left the cart, he was still in a reminiscent mood and asked, “Malcolm, was it true that
a few years ago, I believe it was 1925, you actually sent a telegram from the new Western Union office to Canada costing ten dollars and fifty cents? Somebody told me that was 50¢ more than the Western Union's monthly rent."
“That's right. Before this Depression hit, I had as high hopes for land sales in Walton County as they were having in South Florida. Real estate brokers down there made plenty of money. Now, though, I don't know who can afford to buy land, let alone lots on the several tracts of Gulf property I own. But, I keep telling Mamie Ruth some day our ship will come in.”
"I think I'd bet more on trains than ships, Malcolm," Mr. Blake replied, as he left us and went back into his office with its loudly ticking clock on the wall and the wireless still clicking out its messages.
That wireless brought information not only about the multiple Operations of the trains coming through, but other news of the world. I remember my father’s making repeated trips for news the year of the great flood when the Choctawhatchee River, normally twenty miles away, Overflowed its banks. It was at the station too that he learned of Lindbergh's Solo flight across the Atlantic before this news made the newspaper headlines.
And, especially was Mr. Blake's news important to our family when in 1936 he had immediate and continuing word of a devastating tornado which hit Gainesville, Georgia, where my cousin Kay was in school. Mr. Blake communicated this news to our family and through his service we subsequently learned that the school and Kay were safe.
With George Blake so competently managing the hundreds of trains that went through De Funiak, there were never any accidents. With his important position of communicating and transmitting information in and out of De Funiak Springs, he provided a sense of security that was not shaken even when disasters struck. Our town seemed protected even while being part of the larger, more dangerous world.
With George Blake so competently managing the hundreds of trains that went through De Funiak, there were never any accidents. With his important position of communicating and transmitting information in and out of De Funiak Springs, he provided a sense of security that was not shaken even when disasters struck. Our town seemed protected even while being part of the larger, more dangerous world.
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