She's baaack home

I haven't been home (to this blog) since July!  Wow.  But then, people, have you been looking here?  I need an audience. Suffice to say, I've been busy.  But I have been thinking about home, AKA Port St. Joe.  I've been thinking about it a lot.  Believe it or not I have retyped  the published copy of The Chinaberry Album into a Word document.  That's 419 pages worth.  I didn't find it easy to spend that much time typing but did enjoy going back to Bay Harbor of T.C.A.  Refreshed my memory and helped me clarify a few things in the book that follows, Heat Lightning.  I have to say, I think T.C.A. is a good book.  Even though I wrote it, I wasn't bored.  Go on line if you've read it and say a few kind words about it on Amazon--if you liked it.  I need a little help from my friends here.  Even though Bay Harbor is a place in Chinaberry, people in Port St. Joe would feel at home there.  I love to go home again so will be back with more postings if I feel somebody is out there reading them.

It's summer, folks

Okay, so Old Florida is supposed to be on my mind at least three times a week.  Those are the blogging rules, but mine took a vacation -- of sorts.  More like, hit the road.  But I still thought of old Florida even on those long, hot days behind the wheel of a car speeding down 95, 16, 75 -- you name it and I was there!

Judging from the comments and followers nobody missed me anyway.  Why do I bother?  It's a cliche but hope springs eternal.  Actually I'm surprised I do this.  I hated diaries in my youth and carried that same hatred over to adulthood when I didn't "journal."  And in many ways what is a blog but a diary turned journal turned blog?  I can't recall feeling any pressure to make use of the diaries that were favorite gifts in my youth, but did get a few, "You don't journal?" comments in adulthood.  Bogs are something else though and come with built-in pressure. 

You don't lose ten years of your life if you don't blog, you add ten years -- or more.  Blogging must be a part of your vocabulary to keep you current.  Once the kids are gone, what else is there to keep you current?  I'll tell you what, there's Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and BLOGGING.  I'll confess that I don't follow a lot of blogs.  Next to hating the chore of keeping a diary, I hate reading most blogs.  Just diaries grown tall.  If I can learn something, find a touch of nostalgia, nudge a memory or find some inspiration, I'll follow that blog, but I don't really care about the achievements of your children or grandchildren.

I don't mean to sound bitter.  It's important to keep up with the times, and I plan to do that even if I rely on the "old" in my Florida reminisces.

Right now I hear the call of the wild.  My new sheltie puppy wants her lunch and could care less about my blog.  We had sheltie puppies even in Old Florida so I'm not too far off base.  We do love this little girl and glad she's home with us in Florida.

Home Again, Home Again

Okay, let’s go home again.  I can think just so long about those moonlight strolls.  Actually I could think of them a lot longer, but that’s another story.   Back to

Port St

. Joe where today population figures vary from 3,982 to over 7,000.  That may seem a bit of discrepancy to those who have never lived there, but to those of us so privileged, it isn’t at all surprising.  Any ten people in Port St. Joe might seem more than twenty if you add in all the pride they take in being counted among the town’s inhabitants.  How many people get post card sunsets every night or have the buoyancy of salt water to console them as they swim on a summer’s day off shore of those sugar sand beaches.   And none of those lucky people need worry about acrophobia in a city that boasts an elevation of only five feet. 

But this simple community of inviting beaches and delicious seafood has its own ghosts.  Born of fame and grief, it was once a thriving community, and the First Constitutional Convention of Florida was held in old St. Joseph in 1838.  A monument to commemorate the event was unveiled on January 11, 1923.  The monument remains a favorite landmark today.  It is a rare family living in Port St. Joe that hasn’t had a picture taken in front of this stately memorial.  There’s one in my photo album of my parents and me when I was about three I’d guess.  Daddy sits uncomfortable in a suit and tie.  Mama beams in a long sleeved dress of red crepe.  I stand between them with my Dutch boy haircut and a simple white dress.  Pictures are like ghosts that stir up memories, bring back the feel of a crepe dress, the warmth of a summer day and a future waiting for another picture.

       One friend asked that I write more about Port St. Joe.  I hope I’m not overdoing it and that you enjoy the reading at least a fraction as much as I enjoy writing about it.  After all, I’ve written two books about Port St. Joe, AKA Bay Harbor, and never tire of it.  It’s home, and I’ll always love it.

Let me hear from you, and don’t forget I have my current events blog at http://www.ruthcchambers.com/

A tiny dot called Port St.Joe

Yes, Florida is still on my mind, and I keep my promises.  Today I’ll share the names of a few of  Florida’s out-of-the way locations.  My favorite is a tiny dot on the map called Port St. Joe.  It’s also called home.  I haven’t lived there in more years than I care to recall, but it will always be home.  There are no space shuttles cutting through the morning sky, no high rises, no Hemingways or Flaglers.  A small, unassuming place on Florida’s Gulf Coast, I know of at least three books--and there are more-- that have been written about this coastal community.  In 1947 Rubylea Hall penned The Great Tide, Louise M. Porter wrote The Lives of St. Joesph in 1975, and in 1988 The Chinaberry Album was published, my own tribute to Port St. Joe, AKA Bay Harbor in the novel.  

            Port St. Joe is a quiet place, a panhandle town nestled between Apalachicola and Panama City.  Its sugar-sand beaches are unparalleled, and its proximity to other resorts makes it doubly appealing.  Panama City, another lovely beach community, is less than 40 miles distance, and Apalachicola, a fishing village turned chic bed and breakfast resort, is a mere 23 miles.  Nearer to home are Indian Pass and Cape San Blas where beachfront homes can be rented or purchased.  A state park offers swimming, sand dunes and water birds. 

Moonlight strolls on St. Joe and Mexico beaches are a given, the only sound the breaking of the surf.  No glass high-rises mar the view.  No celebrity sightings.  Just the moon, the stars, and you.   Write about what you know, and I know those moonlight strolls and still cherish the memories of the boyfriends who shared them with me.

But more about Port St. Joe another day.  I’d like to dwell on the memory of those moonlight strolls a bit longer. 

Old Florida on My Mind

Welcome to my debut Florida blog.  Join me on the screened porch.  Pull up a rocker.   Make yourself at home, and I’ll tell you a little of what Florida means to me.  

            Florida is the Sunshine State and so much more.  It’s a glistening chameleon stretched beneath the sun, caressed on the West Coast by the Gulf of Mexico and on the East Coast by the Atlantic Ocean.  Florida is much more than 1,350 miles of coastline, much more than 663 miles of incredible beaches.  Florida is more than the top travel destination in the world--it’s a heartbeat, a memory, it’s Old South, New South and New York--Miami style.

 Florida is a land of ghosts.  Who doesn’t believe Papa still strolls the streets of Key West, that Fort Myers isn’t brighter because something of Thomas Edison is still there, and how could John Gorrie ever totally abandon Apalachicola where he developed mechanical refrigeration that would one day bring air conditioning to nearly every home in the Sunshine State and beyond.  Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings is a nearly palpable presence at Cross Creek.  Inside the humble dwelling where she entertained some of the most famous people of her generation, her dress is waiting, flung casually across the bed. Her car is in the carport, waiting.  Stirred by an unseen breeze, lacy moss sways, swooning in the ancient oaks.  Waiting. 

The scent of cooking vegetables drifts through her house, and it’s easy to believe she’s ready to entertain.  The women who work at this historic site can vegetables from the backyard garden, but the little fawn, Flag, is only a memory and doesn’t disturb the garden’s bounty.  And Ponce de Leon?  Does he still sip water from the Fountain of Youth in St. Augustine?  Doesn’t  Steven Foster wish he’d seen the Suwannee River? 

            Florida’s popular attractions are a given, but what of the hidden Florida, those out- of- the way spots that don’t roll off the tongue quite so easily?  Maybe next time.  After all, this is Florida where the living is easy and the rockers don’t squeak.

            Would love to hear from you.
http://www.oldfloridaonmymind.blogspot.com/
http://www.ruthcchambers.com/