Southern Living

Southern Living

The Journey South

By Valerie Curtiss

Sitting damn near bare-bottomed on the sunwarmed dirt in the garden of our newly
purchased home, nestled snugly in foothills of the Southern Oregon coast, basking in the heat of the first summer sunshine, brings to mind the years we spent in the Panhandle of Northwest Florida. The homes, the attempted gardens, the wildlife, the bugs, and the people.

Now what in God's name would make anyone sell everything they owned, pack up what was left into a 4 x 8 trailer, and with truck and camper, A Great Dane, and a red Himalayan cat, travel from Washington State 3000 miles cross country to about as far away as you can get just to live in Northern Florida.

The depression in Northwest which followed in the wake of Mount St. Helens blowing it's top gave us a nudge. Following its temper tantrum, we decided to get away, to pick a spot on the map, and relocate, away from the thick penetrating residue of dust which had permeated the air. Farmer's couldn't farm, cars couldn't be driven, and every one wore masks for weeks. Property values plummeted, manufacturing empires changed their minds about relocating in the Inland Empire. "For Rent" signs appeared on every street, and life in the Pacific Northwest had become very boring. It was a time when people on Welfare were eating better, and living more comfortably than those working 40 hours a week for the State which doled it out.

As we sat and dreamed of our destination, we only had a few priorities, no ice or snow, a warm ocean nearby, low property values, and abundant hunting and fishing. We pored over maps, read the land ads in Mother Earth News, sent away for real estate brochures, and finally made contact with a realtor in Northern Florida whose brochures promised us a land of milk and honey, oranges groves and eternal sunshine.

We sold the house, held eternal yard sales, and packed what we had left in a 4 x 8 trailer, traded our car for a pickup and camper, and said goodbyes to friends and family, and after what seemed like an eternity, the day of departure had arrived.

Rain splashed streets bade us a fond farewell the day we left, a typical slopping wet Northwest January day. As our journey began, we headed South, my husband and I, and 10 year-old J, headed for the "Land of Sunshine," warmth and easy living. We rejoiced, no more snow tires, no icy pavements or burst pipes. We barely outran the snow which threatened to catch us every time we stopped at a rest stop, no time for sightseeing as we raced through Oregon, and finally we headed through hospitable, and back in those days, not so smog covered Sunny California.

Now travelling with a Great Dane is an art in itself. You haven't experienced life until at a rest stop, tight and snug in your camper bed, with a Dane by your right ear, someone walks by and he barks. It was somewhere in Texas, while we were shopping for some groceries that THE CAT decides to take a stroll of the neighborhood, after someone left the camper door far enough open that she could get out. Try chasing a $400 Himmy around a strange crowded parking lot at rush hour.

There is one problem with sleeping in a camper. They place these cute little closets above the bed, and if I had died during that trip, they would have arrested my husband for murder, as every morning without fail upon awakening, I would rise up and WHAMMY, another bruise to the skull.

We did do some sightseeing along the way, taking pictures with giant cactuses in the Arizona Desert, capturing sunsets as we stopped to pee. We had to stop to wipe off our windshields and headlights every five minutes driving through Houston as the oil-laden putrid smelling smog penetrated the truck, the camper, and our lungs. On the CB we heard the pleas of the "lady in distress" calls as we headed down the highway, and the comforting talk of truckers as they plied their trade along the highways. There were many sights and sounds along the way. The excitement of our first glimpse of the ocean as we hit the Gulf along the Southern Texas Coast, the thrill of going through the tunnels crossing the Mississippi, and the sight of huge palm fronds at the rest stops as we drew closer and closer to our southern destination. The accents shifted, the talk slowed as we traveled through Alabama, and after ten long days, finally made it into Florida. During that time my husband had grown a beard, a little daft, and looked like a rock star as his long blond hair reached his shoulders.

"Heading South"

Housing

Housing is not hard to find in Northern Florida. Ole Jim Walters had some fairly good salesman apparently, and his matchbox wonders can be still be found littering the land. There are about four types of houses in the Northwest corner of Florida. First off the fancy low slung brick ranchers. You know the kind, with a porch that stretches the whole front of the house, 4-5 rocking chairs or a glider comfortably placed for "settin' a spell." Always a wreath that matches the season decorating the front door. A few classically placed shrubs for foundation plantings. These are all owned by middle class farmers, ranchers or preachers of the area and come complete with swimming pools, equipment barns, livestock or grain bins, and acres and acres of land.

The second choice is the other odd assortment historic homes, or homesteads, often built by the settlers, sheltered by ancient oaks or beautiful pecan trees. Many times of log or board and batten construction, these too are equippred with the shady porches, but much more practical, being screened and holding antique furnishings and without even trying have the "country" motif. You hardly ever see these for sale. They are passed down from generation to generation, family homes full or warmth and country folk.

Then there are the do-it-yourself shelters assembled during the early years of the back to the land movement, built from recycled materials, refurbished chicken houses, motels and churches. These most often are inhabited by aging hippies, living their lifestyle more often than not with the aid of the government as they collect disability or pension checks.

Finally, in our price range was the Jim Walter Home. Now old Jim was had some pretty enthusiastic salesman in the south during the past 20-30 years. A couple of acres here, and a couple of acres there, slap up a shell, you finish it off, save all kinds of money. Don't pay rent, don't buy someone else's dream, build your own.

Now we have lived in quite a few different houses, in different states but the ones we purchased in Florida were something to write home about. For starters, when you only have small down payment, and a pickup and camper you won't be needing much anyhow, this tends to limit the realtors who are willing to work with you.

The first house we purchased was nice enough looking, three bedrooms, a bath, large living room and kitchen, and a couple of acres of land, bordered by soybean fields on the north and south, and forestry land to the East. Out west a lay the river. Suffice it to say, for $25,000, sitting on a couple of acres, it was basically a square box, no insulation and a nonexistent septic tank. Problem was, ole Jim was a mite slack when it had been time to fix the floor to the walls, kinda ran short of nails or something. We hadn't lived in it more than 6 months when the floor and the walls, kind of like the red sea began go their separate ways. Being from "up North, we hadn't really heard that Mr. Walters had built up such a reputation for sloppy building habits.

About that time we decided to depart the country and move "to town." Now "town" being a collegiate center, there wasn't much available to buy as most everything was rented out to college students, the Baptist Bible kind. The only house that our realtor had available "in town" sat on an acre, but also on the main drag into town, across from the Stockyards. It was "early homestead" variety and had large airy rooms and huge shade trees, and basically the only house available in our price range. Taking my husband's words as gospel, "just buy something, I trust you" I purchased the house, after some heavy persuasion to the seller (the same realtor owned both houses) to trade in the recently de "parted" Jim Walters matchbox to finalize the deal.

The first mistake was the house had been rented to a family who had lived in it for 7 years. Now these people made Ma and Pa Kettle look clean. Pappy Pelon had been a 'baccy chewer, and had for the last seven years, spit chew" into the fireplace. Trouble was his eyesight was failin', and his aim was a mite rusty and every wall in the house that had a fireplace, also had a delightful pattern of "snooce" stains decorating the chimney, walls, and adjacent doorway areas. Needless to say, hooking a hose up to the hot water faucet and literally hosing down the inside of the house with soap and a broom was the only way to get those walls clean enough to paint.
One nice thing about old houses, is the bathtubs. This one had a deep old fashioned claw foot kind wherein one could soak for an hour or two, after you got the cast iron warm enough so your bum wouldn't freeze. The room was also large enough for a dressing table and a chair, so one could sit and primp in front of a mirror, a luxury in today's modern skinny bathrooms.

Now this house didn't have any closets in the bedrooms. In fact, it barely had any floors. Attest the fact that Sam, stepping out of bed one day, fell through the floor up to his knees. Needless to say he was not happy. Oh, I forgot to tell you about the stockyards. Now the bedroom windows opened right onto the stockyard, not that they smelled bad or anything, but we never did quite get used to waking up at 5:00 am to the sedate hollers and shouts of farmers moving their stock from loading trucks to pens with piercing whistles interspersed with gutteral cries of encouragement "Oi, Oi, Giddyap, Oi, Movitout"

But, the stockyards did offer it's own reward. Half the town met there on a sleepy warm summer evening for the fine entertainment of shooting rats. Where else can your target practice with moving targets?

Employment

It's not especially hard to find work in the South (that being anywhere South of I-10, particularly if you want to work for local government. Now I am not saying that nepotism rules, but you sure lengthen the odds if you "jest happen" to have a relative who also earns a living with a government check.

Having had a family member employed by the City fathers, I can honestly say it was an education in Southern "Good ole' boy politickin." Being new to the community, and having formed a close alliance with the Chief of Police and his family, whose wife just happened to be chief dispatcher, and being of modest intelligence, one was able to get hired on as a night dispatcher for the local "Po leece" Department. Of course, being available for the graveyard shift made it fairly easy to get the job.

The fun part of performing services for the citizens of a small Southern community comes with the learning a whole new language. "Frinstance"... "jook jynt" or "gin mill" colorful names for the local dance hall or tavern. Colored folks down South still live in "The Bottoms." Now, if that don't have a nice ring to it.. Just a few 2 room shacks hovelled together, complete with front porches, dilapidated chairs, a stoop, and 3-4 males, smoking, drinking, staring out at bare-ass dirt, day in, day out. And just remember, a sweat shirt is a long loose T-shirt that one scoops up in the heat of the day and wipes the beads of sweat off your upper lip and forehead.

When the quiet of the night shift is interrupted by "Sherf, you best cum git ole' man Carvah, and car' him up to Doc Jack's, he done cut hisself good." screeched at 130 decibels by a lady of color who herself is about to "fall out" in a "daid faint" this could very well need serious interpretation, especially when you have only been on the job and hour-a-half. Greetings in the line of "Jergitit," "jwantoo" and, and "jeetyet?" have all been nicely commented on by that funnier than all get-out comedian from Atlanta.

It might not be hard to get a job for the city, but keeping it can be a dicey matter, if John Shipstaller's nephew Bob, fresh out of reform school now needs employment, the last one hired is the first one fired, if you get my drift. While visiting friends one begins to notice that everyone who works for the city uses the same brand toilet tissue, the same soap, mops, brushes, paper towels and so forth! A drive around the neighborhood will serve to point out that the only people with blacktop paved driveways are the city commissioners, and it is openly boasted that one city manager built his whole house with materials "left over" from the City Yard.

Dog Days

Dogs play a large role in the Southern life. Porch dogs, hunting dogs, and shot dogs. Our "cross street neybahs" were an old couple, never saw noon lessen they were dead drunk, hadn't had a licence to drive in fourteen years. At that particular time we were blessed with the companionship of a goofy, extremely friendly, never hurt a fly great Dane who loved to visit. On one particular day, he was let out to water the garden, and after a few minutes, didn't return. We called, searched went up the road and down, and after we were frantic, we found him lying in tall grass beside the road in front of the neighbors, shot in the hindquarters with buckshot. When queried our "friends" informed us the "huge wald thang was coming at me!" This particular great Dane also loved to hunt, he knew all the proper signals, would stay, lie down, and flush, only problem was he would hunt anything that moved, grasshoppers, butterflies and lizards.

Speaking of dogs, in one particular Northern Florida town, they have an efficient but dubious method of animal control. It's called "Target Practice." Dogs found "awanderin" were taken to the city sewer system, kept in a row of cages and "onest a week" used for target practice. Cats never even made it that far, they just shot on the spot.

Some of the younger men did take their job seriously for a few months out of the police academy. One ambitious young man, studied hard, took the exams, and worked his way onto the County Sheriff's Department. It only took a few weeks to burst his bubble, and he was back complaining that "you have to call around to three counties to see who the relatives are before you can even arrest anybody." They had to live by the "book." Not a book of rules, but a book with a list of whom they better damn well not give traffic tickets to.

Midnight Ambush

Now, I'm not stating right out that the average officer on the police department was trigger happy, or blind, but then most of them being either ex-marines or Viet Nam vets, could add a little fuel to a situation. Late one afternoon the call came in that a couple of armed addicts were planning on going to the hospital, taking hostages and robbing the pharmacy of drugs.

Plans were made, officers rounded up, city personnel deputized, shotguns handed out, and the rush of adrenalin could be smelled in the air. By midnight the hospital staff had been warned, the doors locked, and the air filled with anticipation. The grounds were surrounded by cops, and every Tom, Dick and Harry who could carry a gun, all under cover, and out of sight. On the evening in question, the perpetrators were not aided by the weather, the moon was bright, and only a few scattered clouds rushed across the darkened landscape. On the dot of midnight, a car was heard pulling up a few hundred yards away. All sounds hushed, they held their breath. Two figures moved stealthily but purposefully across the lawn and slid under the cover of an outbuilding, and a huge propane tank. The minute they appeared on the other side, gunshots filled the air. Only by the Grace of God did they not blow the whole darn building clear to Timbuktu.

"Stop.. Police" the chief yelled, as the two unfortunate thieves hit the ground. In one, a hole the size of a bicycle helmet blown clear through his upper torso, chest bone, blood and tissue, now fertilizer for the green expanse of grass behind him. The other injured and dying, groaned, gasping for air, prone, a few steps to the right. He didn't have much of a chance as an officer put him out of his misery. Now who amongst us is to say, that they didn't do the right thing? Think on it awhile. No innocent people got hurt, no wasted hours of standoff and national notoriety, and no waste of the taxpayer's money and manpower on a long, drawn out trial. It was efficient and effective and there were two less "low-lifes" around to pollute the community.

Alternative Lifestyle

There is more than one way to make a livin' in the swamps. Back in the 80s, there was this fellow who made the rounds of the small towns, once a week stopping down under one of the many bridges that cross the Chatahootchee river, buying up all the wild critters you could round up, all types of snakes, tree frogs, bull frogs, box turtles, snapping turtles, and even toads to ship up and send overseas.

If you're thinking about bringing in a little extra money in this manner, there are a few things you must take time to remember. Never ever put a bullfrog in the same cooler as 128 tree frogs, or by morning you will only have 8 tree frogs, and the fattest darn bullfrog you ever did see. If you don't want to head for divorce court, never ever leave a cooler containing an 8 foot cottonmouth on the table without something pretty hefty on top!

You get to see some mighty pleasing country, drifting down the greenish gold channels of the muddied Chatahootchee waters on a warm summer evening in search of this expansive wildlife. Loading the boat upriver, and drifting at a lazy pace, for the most part gliding silently under the canopy of overhanging trees one must keep a sharp look out for whatever moves - tree snakes, water snakes, 'gators and frogs. White egrets flash against the browns and greens of the waterway, as if you were drifting through a painting.

Growing a garden in Florida is a real challenge. After you have planted all those things with strange sounding names, Okra, black eyed peas, etc, you practically have to set out there with gun, poison, and bug traps, in order to get a crop before the varmints do. When planting for instance, when you get a row of perfect seeds planted in their perfect row, you don't have to water them, sweat dripping from your brow will have done the job for you.

In the north people will pay a fortune to have their bushes sculpted to look like things, elephants, buses, cars, houses, you name, they sculpt it. Down South you don't have to do that. Just leave a shed, truck, car, boat, or what have you, out in the yard for a couple of weeks and before you know it you will have your very own Kudzu sculpture. They say Kudzu which grows about 4 feet a day was imported by this bright fellow as feedstock for cattle. Well, he shouldna done it! Now as it rambles it's merry way on down the highway it swallows up trees, houses, barns, telephone poles, whatever gets in its way, and if cows were just a tad bit slower, it would swallow them up too.

"Florida Swamp"

If you ever heard of the "good ole boy" type of government, in swamp country, it is a reality. The easiest way to get a job working for the city or the county is to have a relative already working. If you think big government is crooked and things should be done on a smaller level, then I say, you best think again.

Now most swamp country city governments are so crooked, you could drill a well with 'em. We already note that everyone who works for the city uses the same brand of toilet paper in their homes, and even odder, it is one you cannot buy in the local supermarket. That also goes for cleaning supplies, brooms, mops, and other paper products. Some say that one superintendent's house was built entirely from the City Supply yard. You can also catch a lot of city asphalt trucks who just happen to dump their "leftovers" on the driveways of those in management positions. The police department employees take turns "bidding" the lowest bid for confiscated property at prearranged "low bid" prices. And we have all heard about the police department that had a couple of kilos of marijuana in the police evidence locker, but come trial date, they had to dismiss the case... all that was left of the two kilos was less than enough for a couple of joints.

But of course, in swamp country, it does not pay to stick your nose into another's body's business. It's way too easy to become 'gator bait if you happened to get in someone's way who might be doing something a little bit shy of the law. This kind of blindsight is what allowed the largest shipment of marijuana to leave the county in 20 years to do so aboard County trucks, blessed by the County Sherriff. All "good 'ole boys' to the core.

Now don't get me wrong, I loved the years we spent living in the south, the weather, the hurricanes, the slower paced way of life, not to mention the food. Seafood gumbo with fresh oysters and shrimp, tomato gravy with White Lily flour biscuits, fried okra, black eyed peas and cornbread. I love living in the Pacific Northwest, but it would almost close to heaven if we could persuade the powers that be, that all Coos Bay needs to make it complete is a "Popeye's" Fried Chicken.