Tag: Jacksonville Florida

Black Bottom 3

Once upon a time. I took a friend to the swamp bank. It was green with algae. Ugly. Not like it use to be. 

I invited a cousin. Beloved. 

We shared what we could. We answered questions. We wanted him (my new friend)  to get familiar with the past. The old days of Whitehouse/Westide. It’s fringe. It’s fun and it’s dark. It’s Southern Gothic. 

A lot was told. The Goat ( I call him that because of the stable life he has created for himself, his wife and his four daughters. He has grandchildren. He is a well known figure in the Westside community. Respected. ) made a statement about John Hysler giving the word to kill black men that were kidnapped and forced to work whiskey stills. 

The writer ran with it. He mistakenly touted stills on Old Gainseville Rd. He made up a neighborhood where the men were kidnapped from. It seems to me like these are important facts. In a story where much is left to the imagination, I cling to the known. In my opinion he made many errors. It was disappointing to me. He had no interest in us. As a matter of fact he was demeaning. As he is with most all Whitehouse/Westside people. And yet, I still call him friend.

Continue reading Black Bottom 3

Black Bottom 2

All things concerning Black Bottom. This is actually the third introduction to this topic. The first is set private. I have to make adjustments. This is an important subject to me. This has been an overwhelming, emotional subject to pursue. It’s kind of underground. (no pun but so ironic) I am committed to writing. We will see. I have witnessed numerous other writers on blogs do good work. That’s all I hope for.

Black Bottom

Out in the swamp, in Baldwin, Florida, under the earth, by a body of water, lay the bones of black men. Stolen from the streets of Jacksonville. Killed by vicious, backwoods moonshiners. Men who believed black people were like animals. Convinced they were animals. Put on this earth to be supportive of them. To provide a service; be it barking to protect, pulling a plow, or a source of transportation.

If they were of no use any longer. You kill ’em.

Now some people think killin means shootin. Not thinking, that if you want to kill a man, at an illegal whiskey operation, you don’t want to create an explosive sound. One that would draw attention to your egregious deed. You can slit their throat. Shove their face in the convenient mud. Suffocating their life’s energy. Laugh at their struggle. Why deprive yourself of the entertainment?

You could drown them in the creek and feed them to the gators. Save the time of diggin a grave. And you know those white, backwoods moonshiners didn’t do any digging. It would be a good guess those demoralized, threatened, tortured, helpless men, dug their own graves. Their flesh and bones long ago decayed. Now consumed by the swamp ooze that abounds in Florida.

Stagnant – missing – lost.

But all of this is an educated guess. We don’t know exactly who or how all of this happened. Pure evil murder.

But be sure it happened.

I am a Cracker by Birth – A Redneck by Default and a Peace Activist through reading, writing and education.

The Family Farm

The Westside – Blair Rd.

In Jacksonville if you head west out Normandy Blvd, you will cross a line of demarcation. A boundary, a separation, a distinction.

The people that grew up in this area know that border. As you cross Fouraker Rd. you are on different terrrain than the other areas of Jacksonville. The land has now been quartered and re-quartered. Subdivisions have been built on what was once sprawling pasture land.

It is no longer recognizable as the majestic acreage that it once was.

Cattle grazed under massive oaks. They lumbered to the creek for their daily water. They gave milk and beef, complimantary to the garden vegetables. Biscuits were a staple. No one knows biscuits like people who were raised on the Westide.

Even in my life time it was not uncommon to see someone traveling on horse. ( That was me! )

Many of us, whose family’s have been there since the 1840’s know we have a different history.

Peculiar personal histories.

Continue reading The Family Farm

Always From the Pulpit

Red for the church house door. Red doors of prosperity. Red door of “do I open this door.”

I recently went to a promotion for a book by a local author. It’s something I have been doing when I am at home in Florida. Participating in the local literary community. It’s current. It’s art.

I listened to the speaker. This was hosted by the Jacksonville Historical Society. The author of his twenty something book did a fair job. I bought the book.

As I waited to have my book signed, another author stood to my left and tried to engage the writer in a conversation. He asked questions? He mentioned his writing. The author was distracted, of course. He feigned interest and obviously had no idea what his peer was talking about. I took this all in.

Then I opened the book. The words were ……….. I mentioned to the lady standing next to me, “It looks like I am going to be living in my dictionary again.” I have a created habit of looking up every word I read that I am not familiar with. This book was full of them on every page. I complained. “Why do people do this? She replied, not verbatim, “the author wants to show his knowledge of language.” I would have to say he was successful on that plane of existence.

I said, “Why doesn’t anyone write like Flannery O’Conner anymore.” She looked at me and said do you mean like in layers and ………..

I replied, Yes.

As we move forward, dragging the past into the present. Flying it high in the south. A new Confederate flag. A trending political word power. Emotive and inciting.

Murder, drama, politics in words meant for …… A new National Enquirer.

I read and comment.

I challenge.

I am deleted.

Fly High – From the Pulpit – The New Improved Confederate Flag

Dark or Dumb

Rich people don’t tell their secrets. That would be dumb. People want to believe that those with money behave in a certain way. It’s only the poor and depraved that rob, molest, rape, maul or are just plain mean spirited.

We know that’s not true, if you can believe anything in the movies. Everything is true except for what is made up. That is the nature of stories.

So, those with a little cash in their pocket don’t want to say that their children are alcoholics and drug addicts. They don’t want to say an overdose was really an overdose. They want the attention to be diverted, to someone far away, who could be doing God knows what. Talk about them in a negative way. Not that boy who was a cowboy hero. He died with his boots on.

She laid in the bed at the Howard Johnson’s Motel. Her ribs were broke. Her eyes were black. They played cards. We bowled.

Believe what you want.

I’ll believe anything these days. Judge Dearborn, the only probate judge in Jacksonville, Florida had no problem with them committing felony fraud, as long as they put the money back.

I bet people who rob minute markets wish they could get that deal. And why shouldn’t they? It should be the new rule. If you get caught pay the money back and everything is ok. If they could do it, why shouldn’t other people.

White collar crime baby.

Dark or dumb?

*an added thought – Judge Dearborn was plain faced and no emotion. Retired Don Wright. Attorney at law laughed about the theft. He said, any normal family would accept it. They gave the money back. Does that mean that Judge Dearborn and Don Wright can be robbed and if the robber is caught they will plainly accept or laugh and smile and say, “no problem,” just give me my money back.

*For some reason, I don’t think so.