tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10448712962662839922024-03-14T04:03:58.876-04:00ruth.the.writerA collection of columns and short stories about growing up in Florida and quirky bits of history not commonly known.ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-9450731892997907182014-12-14T16:02:00.001-05:002014-12-14T16:02:04.970-05:00Dear Santa... Please Send Books!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Just in case you're
still searching for that perfect Christmas present for your favorite book
addict, here's a few suggestions:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepagbj0T88JH6q5ybeyGwbzCxdUPe0LXPUV61JnglcMlbCgszULT8ZeVJF4UaLyo9qTwuaQQQTzFlrNJJTXDh3Fd0AL41l0kgAI2gfM0Hd_dd3sD8jzWSurkdVrLxvfcY6grE-k4fJ_nS/s1600/Books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepagbj0T88JH6q5ybeyGwbzCxdUPe0LXPUV61JnglcMlbCgszULT8ZeVJF4UaLyo9qTwuaQQQTzFlrNJJTXDh3Fd0AL41l0kgAI2gfM0Hd_dd3sD8jzWSurkdVrLxvfcY6grE-k4fJ_nS/s1600/Books.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.dailykos.com/blog/Readers%20and%20Book%20Lovers#" target="_blank">Books!!</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">For children</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">:</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Story of Daphne the
Duck</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> by Maxine E.
Schreiber<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> A
beautifully illustrated and written tale about a Muscovy duck named Daphne who
manages to lay her eggs in a flower pot on a fifth floor balcony in Florida.
Children everywhere will enjoy reading Daphne's triumphant story. Click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Story-Daphne-Duck-Maxine-Schreiber/dp/1496148762/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418587559&sr=1-4&keywords=ruth+hartman+berge" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Betty Tales: The True
Story of a Brave Bobblehead Cat</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> by Ruth Hartman Berge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> This
children's story about a disabled cat will help children learn about diversity and disability as well as encourage them to use determination and persistence to
reach their goals--just like Betty! Click <a href="http://bettytales.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For mystery lovers:</span></span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Murder
A La Carte </span></b><span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">by
Prudy Taylor Board</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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"...a fitting title for a book that from the first pages of the
prologue pulls mystery fan readers deeper and deeper into the action, leaves
romance readers aching and yearning, and avid readers of any genre—even
foodaholics, drooling and hungry. The final moments of Prudy Taylor Board’s
fast moving mystery novel left me gasping, and mortally afraid for our world as
we now know it.” Click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Carte-Prudy-Taylor-Board-ebook/dp/B00365FI2G/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418588121&sr=1-3&keywords=prudy+taylor+board" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a>.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Virginia B. Elliott</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<span style="background: white;">Author of How to Board up Your Kitchen and Cook
from a Hammock and The Romantic Tomato. Former South Florida Television talk
show host and frequent cooking show guest.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>OR how
about...</b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">A Grave
Injustice</span></b><span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> by
Prudy Taylor Board</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">
Amazon.com says, "</span><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A Grave Injustice Corey Harris is haunted.
Haunted by new relationships, haunted by old relationships, but mostly haunted
by dead relationships. A GRAVE INJUSTICE is one scary read! Prudy Taylor Board
turns the heat up page after page, and you won't be able to rest until you read
the last word. Click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Grave-Injustice-Prudy-Taylor-Board/dp/1595071857/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418588804&sr=1-1&keywords=a+grave+injustice" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a>.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b>And
then there's romance:</b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <b>When
I Dream of You</b> by Rosa Sophia</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
This novella is set in Juno Beach (Florida) and beautifully tells
the story of young Nina Archer who finally meets the man she met in a dream a
year before she met him in person. Sparks fly as Nina tries to overcome past
trauma and a less than perfect home life. Will she choose to leave Florida or
will she stay? Click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/When-Dream-You-Rosa-Sophia-ebook/dp/B00NLSRDCG/ref=asap_B0040NN5W8?ie=UTF8" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a>.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b>Or
history?</b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Pioneering
Palm Beach: The Deweys and the South Florida Frontier</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> by Ginger L. Pedersen
and Janet M. DeVries</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
Amazon.com says, " Palm Beach's sunny and idyllic shores
had humble beginnings as a wilderness of sawgrass and swamps only braved by the
hardiest of souls. Two such adventurers were Fred and Byrd "Birdie"
Spilman Dewey, who pioneered in central Florida before discovering the tropical
beauty of Palm Beach in 1887. Though their story was all but lost, this dynamic
couple was vital in transforming the region from a rough backcountry into a
paradise poised for progress." Click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pioneering-Palm-Beach-Florida-Frontier/dp/1609496574/ref=pd_sim_sbs_b_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=0GMNPD8C66YSRQPX10C1" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a>. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Growing
Up in Northern Palm Beach County: Boomer Memories from Dairy Belle to Double
Road</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">s by
Ruth Hartman Berge</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> A childhood in Florida's charming
Northern Palm Beach County creates genuine nostalgia for sun, sand and running
barefoot under palm trees. Author Ruth Hartman Berge weaves memories of a boomer childhood
in Northern Palm Beach County with the history of the people and the places so
many loved in this glimpse into a Florida that no longer exists."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b>Humor
with good advice?</b></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Elderly
Parents With All Their Marbles: A Survival Guide for the Kids</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> by Pamela Carey</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
Through personal memories and humorous anecdotes, author Pamela
Carey shares the lessons she learned as her elderly parents grew increasingly
more dependent on assistance while they remained in control of all their
marbles. Funny, informative and beautifully written, this is a loving
daughter's story of end of life issues everyone will eventually face. Click <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/elderly-parents-with-all-their-marbles-pamela-carey/1118977046?ean=2940149195343" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a>.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-56672533518393255682014-12-07T19:50:00.001-05:002014-12-07T19:50:37.692-05:00Life as a Fish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJ2Qi6yBActelRzrMXmV20B7JS_UvERV3sKbN-WYeEOtQL6upUuELwWa5aQyQHH1wnGLJFXRnDBQoQ4o1k2iuYmoWJWY2mSfPYnxcjaM8jv3ypXlHdKScwO8JoUtovQvewYZkJ-0NerRZ/s1600/Tarpon+Club+22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJ2Qi6yBActelRzrMXmV20B7JS_UvERV3sKbN-WYeEOtQL6upUuELwWa5aQyQHH1wnGLJFXRnDBQoQ4o1k2iuYmoWJWY2mSfPYnxcjaM8jv3ypXlHdKScwO8JoUtovQvewYZkJ-0NerRZ/s1600/Tarpon+Club+22.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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My parents dropped me off on the Florida State University campus for the first time in the Fall of 1977. It was the following year I tried out for and joined, The Tarpon Club--a group of young women who donned swim suits and nose clips and dove into the water in the fabulous indoor pool at Montgomery Gym. Performances of The Tarpon Club involved music--both above and beneath the water--stage lighting and costumes. Audiences sat on bleachers above the pool for the best view. I had a blast and enjoyed pushing myself to hold my breath underwater while swimming the full distance of a large pool underwater. Most of the other moves weren't for the faint of heart, either. Try lying on your back and holding BOTH legs perpendicular to your body. Yeah. Not easy. </div>
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The heaters mounted on the walls around the pool would blast on cold days in an attempt to heat the frigid air in the mid-1920s building. We'd change from our warm clothing to swimsuits and walk as fast as we could across the tile to get into the heated pool. The smell of old building and chlorine clung to all of us by the end of practice when we hauled ourselves out of the pool, eyes red from opening them underwater as we practiced our routines.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRj8LEAKWfZQ8ZdzMg_tM38MAubp42W_IIfRpC2ijAqnzyB4JVdB0xu9Mue6jpX0yH_ciVxtz0-pEY26M2rjlbdZZR0f2nK0aFLs37H7EJFTigBxCHqxaX5H6gE_PlfBK0epbSnEetMN-/s1600/Tarpon+Club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRj8LEAKWfZQ8ZdzMg_tM38MAubp42W_IIfRpC2ijAqnzyB4JVdB0xu9Mue6jpX0yH_ciVxtz0-pEY26M2rjlbdZZR0f2nK0aFLs37H7EJFTigBxCHqxaX5H6gE_PlfBK0epbSnEetMN-/s1600/Tarpon+Club.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I had no idea how long the group had been in existence, I just liked the idea of jumping in the water and performing. Now, I hadn't been a couch potato as a kid, but the amount of athleticism required for this sport was way above anything I had attempted to that point. (Except, of course, the swim out into the ocean off of Juno Beach to earn my senior lifesaving certificate. In the years after <i>Jaws</i>, the movie, it was awfully scary.)</div>
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I only performed with the Tarpon Club one year, long enough to graduate from "Minnow," the term used for first year swimmers, to a full-fledged Tarpon with a silver pin to prove it. The show I swam in was "Say It In a Word." They re-used that title a decade or so later, although, I'm not sure if it had the same routines. One year really wasn't enough, but there were too many choices of things to do in college and I ended up heading in a different direction and with a finite amount of time for extracurricular activities and sigh, studying, I left the group. </div>
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The Tarpon Club started when Florida State was still Florida State College for Women in the 1920s. Originally, the Life Saving Corp, the group evolved into The Tarpon Club in 1937 as the swimming demonstrations grew into performances. Tarpons performed in movies that were nationally aired. Members went on to swim with Esther Williams, famous for her swimming movies. And members became Weekee Wachee Mermaids, the dream career for thousands of little girls in Florida. The Tarpons won national awards and continued shows and competition until the group disbanded in 1994. </div>
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Alums met in 2002 to celebrate the decades of swimming in Montgomery Gym pool. It was the last time, the pool would be open for a performance of any kind. In 2004, the old swimming pool was converted into a theater for the dance department.</div>
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I may have been an active member of The Tarpon Club for one year, but I can tell you it was an honor to swim in the Montgomery Gym pool and an honor to be included as part of an organization that existed on the FSU campus decades before synchronized swimming became an Olympic sport. </div>
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I found this documentary on The Florida State University Web site. If you've got the time, watch it all the way through to see exactly what this group was about. And yeah, there are a couple glimpses of me in the pool, but I bet you can't spot me!</div>
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<a href="https://heritage.fsu.edu/flash/videotarpons.html" target="_blank">The Tarpon Club Traditions from FSCW to FSU (April, 2002)</a>ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-32750717579361475152014-11-30T16:42:00.003-05:002014-11-30T16:42:41.971-05:00Florida Needs More People Like Leah Schad<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoYyCsAPZHoDcz4QPrG_A40b3P7dJwR_h4v4djVbNhV8VZ7Qw4YzMh1jwWtDLCjPWUJiYv3dr7BryDpYcRu4jucVJiL_yXa0eAbltHR-yayJ0lcB053XWxSxP0g6k14H40096JnJ-q4eA/s1600/Leah+Schad+2002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoYyCsAPZHoDcz4QPrG_A40b3P7dJwR_h4v4djVbNhV8VZ7Qw4YzMh1jwWtDLCjPWUJiYv3dr7BryDpYcRu4jucVJiL_yXa0eAbltHR-yayJ0lcB053XWxSxP0g6k14H40096JnJ-q4eA/s1600/Leah+Schad+2002.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leah Schad, 2002</td></tr>
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A few days ago, Linda Schad, a friend of mine from high
school days who knows my absolute favorite thing to write about is Florida and
Florida history, messaged me with a link about her mother, Leah Schad. The
comment that accompanied the message was “Your family built historic places in
the county and my Mom worked at saving it.” Well, my family only built one
house in Delray Beach (the Historic Hartman House), but the legacy of Leah
Schad is one that will, hopefully, impact the entire South Florida area.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Ms. Schad worked on the Board of Directors of the South
Florida Water Management District; was Chairman of the Florida Audubon Society
and on the National Board for the Audubon Society. Known locally as the “grande
dame of environmentalism,” she devoted her life to the preservation and
conservation of our unique and fragile South Florida ecosystem. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The link Linda sent me led to a <a href="http://www.palmbeachpost.com/news/news/local/leah-schads-environmental-work-commemorated-at-oke/njDNM/">palmbeachpost.com</a> article
about an event held on November 22, 2014 in which a plaque in the
memory of Ms. Schad was unveiled at the Nature Center at Okeeheelee Park in West Palm Beach. Why a
plaque? Well, because in addition to being involved in the previously mentioned
organizations, Ms. Schad was also an original member of the Okeeheelee Park
Citizens Advisory Committee, and was a huge part of the development and design
of the Nature Center that now sits snuggled near the northern boundary of
Okeeheelee Park on Forest Hill Boulevard. It was her hands and heart that helped
develop a wonderful Nature Center to truly highlight the beauty of our South
Florida environment and to educate future generations about why its all so
important.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The loss of Leah Schad in February of 2008 was heart wrenching
for her family, but it was also a loss for Palm Beach County and South Florida.
As someone who writes about little things in the history of Palm Beach County to
try to bring a Florida that no longer exists alive to my readers, I hope you
have the opportunity to tour the Nature Center and see what Leah Schad worked
so hard to do—keep a part of our “old” Florida alive and educate future
generations to respect our fragile environment before it, too, becomes
something wistfully written about by people like me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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***</div>
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Okeeheelee Park is located at 7715 Forest Hill Blvd., West
Palm Beach, FL 33413 (one mile west of Jog Road). The Nature Center can be reached at (561)
233-1400. Hours change seasonally, so check their website through Palm Beach
County Parks and Recreation (<a href="http://www.pbcgov.com/parks/nature/okeeheelee_nature_center/#.VHuOJNLF_LM">CLICK HERE</a>).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-89815005530235792412014-11-23T19:18:00.002-05:002014-11-23T19:18:20.728-05:00Black Friday or, um, Thursday?<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbj-awEttbXzamQ2W4P2uel4wNihuWnOmlO5WzmaWlmKyxvfiDMHLpRwQdMkCQ9SUQeYULJmNoAPThOqE7GQ_WOhGrEauwb9RgD_4yrvqwTgnGY7jSrcGH6-p8BR_uTaYxI02owVKPtkZ/s1600/DSCN0203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbj-awEttbXzamQ2W4P2uel4wNihuWnOmlO5WzmaWlmKyxvfiDMHLpRwQdMkCQ9SUQeYULJmNoAPThOqE7GQ_WOhGrEauwb9RgD_4yrvqwTgnGY7jSrcGH6-p8BR_uTaYxI02owVKPtkZ/s1600/DSCN0203.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1960s in Delray Beach, Florida</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When my children were small, the hottest gift for Christmas
was the Razor scooter. Remember those? Shiny chrome, four wheels and a handle
bar? At four a.m. on a Black Friday in 1997 or so, my best friend and I were in
the crowd at Walmart waiting for the plastic to be pulled off the crate of
Razors. Walmart was offering them dirt cheap and only one per customer. Both of
us got one and I paid her for hers so that both of my kids could have one under
the tree Christmas morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There’s been a lot of yelling about Black Friday this year…
and it’s not because everyone’s comparing the sales. This year, like last, Christmas displays in several stores
went up before one piece of Halloween candy had been devoured. People complained.
Most stores didn’t listen.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This year, like last, a lot of stores are proudly
advertising that they won’t be closed for Thanksgiving. As far as I can see,
that’s not sitting well with the public. A few paid attention to the public outcry last year and have proudly announced that their employees will be spending the day with their families and not stocking shelves.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I was a child, everything was closed every Sunday except
the occasional gas station and we survived. I remember flying back into the United States from
Europe after our honeymoon and eating Thanksgiving at the hotel restaurant. I
felt bad that the waitress was there and my new husband left a huge tip—to thank
her for spending part of her holiday serving us.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Since this is the United States, everyone is free to shop or
not. But for me? Won’t be shopping on Thanksgiving, regardless of the lengths retailers
go to entice me. Some things are just more important than shopping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and thank you for being a part of my blog. </div>
</div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-9805538806367678352014-11-16T17:38:00.003-05:002014-11-16T18:29:52.694-05:00Carefree Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWIDfcEpbYrNnWtpYoFDfjzBI0mtGV7KMCwAEfmcAnYlBZjqCnjfKBX2T2k4SD3LFCTWvGKO5dj4j8XMjpxnwiw5ioaggWf11CrGr3R8TcyIEQSqZohayov5DSsheM8v4ktWH91kCHe9W/s1600/iphone+10+2012+047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWIDfcEpbYrNnWtpYoFDfjzBI0mtGV7KMCwAEfmcAnYlBZjqCnjfKBX2T2k4SD3LFCTWvGKO5dj4j8XMjpxnwiw5ioaggWf11CrGr3R8TcyIEQSqZohayov5DSsheM8v4ktWH91kCHe9W/s1600/iphone+10+2012+047.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Although I grew up in North Palm
Beach, we often drove south to catch movies. In the mid to late seventies when
I was a teenager, there weren’t all that many movie theatres around. Never any of the mega-movie plexes you see now, if there were six separate screens in one
building, it was huge!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> One
of our favorites was in West Palm Beach along the east side of South Dixie
Highway. My best friend and I drove south in her white Comet to catch the
latest movies. One time we drove through the rain and flooded streets only to
scream as the car decided it didn’t want to stop in the where we wanted to park
and nearly hit the surrounding cement wall. Our destination? The Carefree
Theatre.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">
The Carefree Center, which opened in 1936, was an ice cream shop and a
laundry when Elias Chalhub bought the property and expanded in into an
entertainment mecca that included a bowling alley and soda fountain. The
Carefree Theatre was built as an addition and first opened in 1947, decades
before we slid through the parking lot in 1976. The theatre was big and cavernous. Those were the days when going to the movies meant a night of
entertainment. No cell phones rang during the presentation and the guy in
front of you wasn’t checking his cell for “important” text messages every
couple of minutes. (Seriously? Is he a nuclear physicist the President is
trying to contact to save the world? A brain surgeon on call?) We sat in the
dark munching popcorn and dreaming of one day being movie stars.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> The
site later became the Comedy Club where for a two-drink minimum, one could sit
and laugh until one’s sides hurt. We always held off bathroom trips as long as
we could because if we stood up to head to the restrooms, the comedian would
attack and the entire room would turn to watch us, the victims, slink out of the
room. Larry the Cable Guy was one of the locals who got his foot in the door to
the comedy world through the club at the Carefree.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> In
yet another incarnation, the site held live shows and concerts. Big names and
movie festivals appeared until the hurricanes of 2004 (Charley, Jeanne and
Ivan) when the roof of the building was so damaged, the building had to be
closed. The building is still there—78 years after it was built, but no one
goes in these days.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"> When
I find myself in a movie metroplex these days, I often take a minute or two to
close my eyes and remember how it felt to sit in a padded chair in a large,
dark room... the only light coming in fits and starts from the action on the
screen that filled the wall at the front... the slight clacking sound that came
out of the little square high on the wall behind us as the movie film ran
through the projector. The smell of popcorn takes me back—at least until a cell
phone rings.</span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-20140028460648539782014-11-09T15:21:00.005-05:002014-11-09T15:21:53.858-05:00Baseball and Heroes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBpMgv53x2BgoRzA1pPgrKLzSHIQmbyDpHMOCyLPMT6YrQo1tazpx2Hg73bfZuQqk5s4KiSQSYkEajkClEPee9paHEXiMGCOpd2vsug5MdbnNBEkIJD71Hd6lR5LxyxmLbDwKZ-MYki8L/s1600/IMG_0620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBpMgv53x2BgoRzA1pPgrKLzSHIQmbyDpHMOCyLPMT6YrQo1tazpx2Hg73bfZuQqk5s4KiSQSYkEajkClEPee9paHEXiMGCOpd2vsug5MdbnNBEkIJD71Hd6lR5LxyxmLbDwKZ-MYki8L/s1600/IMG_0620.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In Florida, it seems one is never far away from a baseball field. I grew
up on Jacana Way in North Palm Beach. Within walking distance of my home was
Osborne Park. Baseball fields, cement block dugouts, steel and wood bleachers
and a little cement block snack bar together made our field of dreams. When we
were around eleven or twelve, we were allowed to walk to the park on late
summer evenings to watch our friends play Little League. We’d buy a soda and a
hot dog and climb the bleachers to sit on wooden planks. After the hotdog was
devoured, we cheered and screamed as our friends took their turns at bat. There was often the smell of freshly mowed
grass and despite the heat of the day, the nights always seemed to cool off
just a little in time for the game. We could see flying insects as flashes in
the beams from the tall field lights. The crack of the bat hitting the ball would resound off of the apartment buildings to the south.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At the
front of Osborne Park was a curved cement block wall painted white. A flag pole
behind it was illuminated at night and the entire crowd assembled for the game
would stand, hands over hearts, and sing the national anthem before the umpire
yelled, “Play ball!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When
games weren’t being played, the fields behind the perfectly manicured ball
field were excellent spots to kick a ball or throw a Frisbee. Dugouts were
great spots for long talks over a Coca cola and moon pie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As many
times as I walked by that curved cement wall, it never occurred to me why the
wall was there and what the bronze plaque on it said. I decided it was time I
knew and as my readers know, when I find out something about Palm Beach County
history, I love nothing more than to pass it on to you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I end
up driving through North Palm Beach a lot, usually to meet friends who live in
the area. One Saturday morning, I took the time to stop at Osborne Park. The
formal baseball field closest to Prosperity Farms Road looked like it hadn’t
changed much. The dugouts were still the same ones I had walked past as a
child. Built out of concrete cinder blocks, they’re now painted dark green.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCNp0f435BBEGCk1N9990comi1rT548TpF-4t9dsPV5U2Bt2Zn-PD-4b5lOzw9TdxVSXjSecEXwmZl8leZtfxbZzNITvUxF6dVxvZiMKnYy2gu7li3j07EX4Par8sj0a14iYLrIly3PJ-w/s1600/IMG_0617.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCNp0f435BBEGCk1N9990comi1rT548TpF-4t9dsPV5U2Bt2Zn-PD-4b5lOzw9TdxVSXjSecEXwmZl8leZtfxbZzNITvUxF6dVxvZiMKnYy2gu7li3j07EX4Par8sj0a14iYLrIly3PJ-w/s1600/IMG_0617.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
On this
visit, though, I walked to the curved wall at the front and read. The little
park we loved wasn’t named after some random politician or early founder of the
area, but the former Prosperity Park was dedicated to the memory of Lt. Ronald
Osborne in 1967. Born in 1941, he was only twenty-five when he left his home on
Robin Way for war. He never came back. While serving as a Second Lieutenant in
the United States Army, he died on December 4, 1966 of of wounds suffered in battle after
serving only one year. If you travel to
Washington, DC, his name is among those on the wall at the Vietnam Veterans
Memorial. Lt. Osborne was buried at
Arlington Cemetery.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwlRPTgEXZK_uZmcmRhVx1vwtZl8BWF_voP2EDsXRUJZ6_X3jJHvBWjh20v_XD6_CInEC9og4tp-pEH8bcsYavBxG4XVjhCVzgF6eCyvIISPbkrJo_iSeXVGzCvKiilCjAZnv5KR9mPyS/s1600/Osborne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwlRPTgEXZK_uZmcmRhVx1vwtZl8BWF_voP2EDsXRUJZ6_X3jJHvBWjh20v_XD6_CInEC9og4tp-pEH8bcsYavBxG4XVjhCVzgF6eCyvIISPbkrJo_iSeXVGzCvKiilCjAZnv5KR9mPyS/s1600/Osborne.jpg" /></a></div>
We
often hurry through our lives and don’t often make time to slow down and look
at the bits of history around us. I know all the years I’ve been walking and
driving by that monument at the front of Osborne Park, I never slowed down to
read it. I’m glad I finally did. As I stood under the flag on a beautiful,
clear spring morning, I said a little prayer for the brave, young soldier who probably
spent time swinging a bat at this park. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-68030067721948966092014-11-02T12:07:00.000-05:002014-11-02T12:07:51.309-05:00Election Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3ZfGPp-93TT2OG6PlbqBA2tkKWwTvdOIi48F0JgO1Q5qo1BTxqJqxoUcDt8rHegoioV1f4sGmgbO8RnKPqja2cxn4Fz1wGfJvmmyAhaB6KBVXeGETQpIuhaiOXORhPHL9dmZrSXH5qus/s1600/Voting-Booth-300x199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3ZfGPp-93TT2OG6PlbqBA2tkKWwTvdOIi48F0JgO1Q5qo1BTxqJqxoUcDt8rHegoioV1f4sGmgbO8RnKPqja2cxn4Fz1wGfJvmmyAhaB6KBVXeGETQpIuhaiOXORhPHL9dmZrSXH5qus/s1600/Voting-Booth-300x199.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I remember going with my mother
to the North Palm Beach Elementary School cafetorium (yes, that’s what it was
called) in the 1960s so that she could cast her vote. I had to stand right
outside the curtains of the voting booth while she did whatever mysterious
things were involved in voting. I looked forward to the day when I, too, could
disappear behind the curtain and, like the Wizard of Oz, flip and pull levers
and switches and magically tell the world who I thought would do a better job in an elected office.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I turned 18 right after the
presidential election when Jimmy Carter defeated Gerald Ford. I didn’t get the
chance to vote in a presidential election until 1980 when Reagan defeated
Carter. I was disappointed that the curtained booths had disappeared somewhere
between the 60s and the 80s. Plastic dividers lined three sides of a high table
and one leaned in and punched holes in the paper opposite the candidate of our
choice. Twenty years later, the hole punching and the infamous butterfly ballot
became an issue during the Bush/Gore election when the hanging chads threw vote
counts off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
These days, we take a black pen
and connect the end of an arrow with the beginning of an arrow. It doesn’t feel
mysterious or impressive to me—feels more like a kindergarten coloring class.
But the decisions made are far more important than who to sit next to at lunch or play with at recess.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I suppose at some time in the
future, voting will involve a touch video screen and candidate’s faces. As for
me, I’ll head to the polls this year, same as every year since I was eligible.
Regardless of your party affiliation or who you support, I hope you do, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wonder if they’ll let us bring our own curtains?<o:p></o:p></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-28263450970138672842014-10-26T12:49:00.000-04:002014-10-26T13:06:07.049-04:00A Haunted Tale for Halloween<div style="text-align: justify;">
I wrote this little tale for a critique group meeting. After searching for something to write, my eyes fell on my old typewriter. Ah ha! I could write a haunted typewriter tale. But, no. It's been done and done well by masters of horror. I could, however, write one with my own spin. So what follows is my take on the haunted typewriter story. Hope you enjoy this tale of a typewriter inhabited by a dead soul with a sense of humor...</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWB2YvsvEVZJeIgX3ceHQjR5Yc_MOccD0xY-gTjXZtCI1VhUbFmTq1tiZi-FoqdcllYK4qCRaFGPdUGxLpU20g6zHZInvEHbfDjJ3zfB3MlRz2rFtUIBe56YkZrxOTKwLKq7fniVvsOGg/s1600/typewriter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWB2YvsvEVZJeIgX3ceHQjR5Yc_MOccD0xY-gTjXZtCI1VhUbFmTq1tiZi-FoqdcllYK4qCRaFGPdUGxLpU20g6zHZInvEHbfDjJ3zfB3MlRz2rFtUIBe56YkZrxOTKwLKq7fniVvsOGg/s1600/typewriter.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The Perils of an Antique Typewriter</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tuesday
(Mac Journal)</span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tomorrow’s the day I get to pick up
the old typewriter from the repair shop! It was a bargain on e-bay. I paid
fifty bucks for a beat-up beauty from 1888. At least, that’s the date on the
metal plate barely hanging on the front of it. The repairman’s been working on
it for a couple of weeks and it’s finally finished! Tomorrow, I’m going to
start working on my next horror novel. It’s the sixth one based in merry
old England of Jack the Ripper days and I’ve been getting e-mails from fans for
months asking when the next one’s coming out. Life is good!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Wednesday
morning (Mac Journal)<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My newly restored Bar-Lock is
sitting on my desk with my computer. It looks like a black mechanical spider
next to my sleek Mac. I know it’s crazy to write a novel on a typewriter,
especially an antique one, but I think I can really immerse myself in the
period this way. Can’t wait to start writing about the evil lurking in the dark
alleys of London!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">First
paragraph (Bar Lock)</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">He watched from the shadow,
lamplight a dull flicker on the cobblestone street as the carriage picked up
the young woman he had been following. The disappointment at losing his prey at
the last minute…</span></b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Oh, how I love the meadow in the morning!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The delicate filigree of yellow and white arrayed in
splendor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">above and through the towering green grasses that
part <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">as I wander through golden bolts of sunlight.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>(What
the hell? I’ll just keep going…)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>The echo of his boots resounded on
the stone walls of the damp, narrow alley as…</b></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The cherry lips of my love smile as she rises from
slumber<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">her golden hair a nimbus of curls that slip through
my fingers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ah love, I doth live to see you awaken in<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the cool chill of morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Thou art my world.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Wednesday
afternoon (Mac Journal)</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m not quite sure what the problem
is with typing my novel on this typewriter. I keep trying to type the novel and
when I look up, it’s spouting poetry. POETRY! I DON’T WRITE POETRY! I write
gritty horror novels. I just don’t understand. I’m taking a break. I called
Jessie and I’m heading out for a beer. Maybe tomorrow my fingers, or this
typewriter, will cooperate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thursday
morning (Mac Journal)<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve been sitting here studying the
Bar Lock while sipping my steaming coffee. The smell rising from the mug makes
everything seem normal. Even the Bar Lock. It sits there on my desk, ivory keys
gleaming, metal framework reflecting the bright morning sun pouring through the
office window. Next to it, paper sits in a neat stack and my newly sharpened
pencils fill the lopsided pot from my niece’s last art class. I’ve had three
cups as I debate whether to try again. I just can’t figure out what’s going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tuesday
morning (Bar lock)<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The fiend towered above his victim,
her tattered, dirty blue skirt spread on the pavement crushed beneath his
knees. He wished she were still conscious. It was so much more interesting when
they were….</span></b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There once was a fine lady from Paris<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Whose mirror claimed she was the fairest<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Her hair in curls rose above<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">with two sparrows and a dove<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">‘til the cat leapt and she fell off a terrace.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> (Oh
my god!)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">…aware of what they were about to
experience. The</span></b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There once was a man from London<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">who tried to eat a whole hot cross bun<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">but it broke in two<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and fell on his shoe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and the poor, hungry man left a’grumblin’.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thursday
morning (Mac Journal)</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I can’t do it. I can’t write on that
damn machine! Now it’s limericks. LIMERICKS! There are NO limericks in horror
stories. NONE. It’s NOT DONE! I know I’ve got a prescription for valium in the
kitchen. Where the hell is it??<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thursday
afternoon (Mac Journal)<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ok. Much calmer now. I must have
been dreaming or something. Did I write that stuff myself? Did the Bar Lock do
it? Am I going nuts? Is it me or the machine? I’m going to try the Bar Lock one
more time. If it does it again, it’s going to just sit there or maybe I’ll put
some flowers in it or maybe I’ll just take it down to the pawn shop before it
infects the Mac with whatever’s going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thursday
afternoon (Bar Lock)</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">His hands covered with blood, he
stood up from his evil handiwork and…</span></b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There once was a man from Nantucket..</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">-The End-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-38383570165943183822014-10-15T18:40:00.000-04:002014-10-15T18:41:01.147-04:00Have I Got a Deal for You!Part of the fun of being a relatively new author is finding out just how much fun stuff there is to do! For example, I've been on <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/">Goodreads</a> for quite some time. I first joined to get information on books I'd heard about. Then I discovered the "History is Not Boring" group. Conversations about all aspects of history and discussions about history books. Ahhh! History geek heaven!<br />
<br />
I listed my first book on Goodreads and thought that was pretty much all there was to do. When my new book was published, I listed that, too. But, wait! Not so fast, little one...<br />
<br />
This week, I stepped up and offered my new book, "Growing Up in Northern Palm Beach County: Boomer Memories from Diary Belle to Doubleroads" as a giveaway. Yes, YOU can join Goodreads and enter giveaways to your heart's delight - for my book as well as several other offerings! FREE!<br />
<br />
So, come on over. Sign up and start entering--for my book as well as the others. The life of a book addict just got better! Pass the word!<br />
<br />
<br />
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<h2 style="margin: 0 0 10px !important; padding: 0 !important; font-style: italic; font-size: 20px; line-height: 20px; font-weight: normal; text-align: center; color: #555;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com" target="_new">Goodreads</a> Book Giveaway<br />
</h2><br />
<div style="float: left;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21930030"><img alt="Growing Up in Northern Palm Beach County by Ruth Hartman Berge" src="https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1405296637l/21930030.jpg" title="Growing Up in Northern Palm Beach County by Ruth Hartman Berge" width="100" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<div style="margin: 0 0 0 110px !important; padding: 0 0 0 0 !important;"><h3 style="margin: 0; padding: 0; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21930030">Growing Up in Northern Palm Beach County</a><br />
</h3><h4 style="margin: 0 0 10px; padding: 0; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6454092.Ruth_Hartman_Berge" style="text-decoration: none;">Ruth Hartman Berge</a><br />
</h4><br />
<div class="giveaway_details"><p>Giveaway ends November 01, 2014.<br />
</p><p>See the <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/110914" style="text-decoration: none;">giveaway details</a><br />
at Goodreads.<br />
</p></div></div><div style="clear: both;"></div><br />
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_choose_address/110914" class="goodreadsGiveawayWidgetEnterLink">Enter to win</a><br />
<br />
</div></div><script src="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/widget/110914" type="text/javascript" charset="utf-8"></script><br />
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-24851562112436318292014-10-08T18:27:00.003-04:002014-10-08T18:27:50.274-04:00When the Palm Beach Mall was King<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48kiIGiv8L0Jfy-kJUvxdI-yhCGMoMGkpYIfPdoc2tf5pTBjrUyB8Mn2OwoAhXK4urNtnKxfwV1V8pAhr-TrB31hIRfmeUl3BLkblSs4yO_CfvkqsmvCMUJJfetnHrMwZOQVHm1LpHxfs/s1600/www.africa-usa.com.jpg" height="200" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <i>Wonderfall</i>! http://www.africa-usa.com/pbmall/</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before 1967, we shopped in the little
stores along Northlake Avenue or downtown in West Palm Beach. I remember how
exciting it was as a child to head to the Burdines store downtown. Originally opened in West Palm Beach in 1925,
the store closed in the 1930s and re-opened in the location I remembered in
1941. Nothing was as fun as going to dine in the Burdines restaurant with my
mom. There were fashion shows where
models walked among the tables modeling the newest fashions while we ate meals
that could have been served in any four-star restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> But in 1967,
the shopping habits of Palm Beach County residents changed for good. That’s the
year the Palm Beach Mall opened on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard next to I-95. It was the largest mall in the Southeast
United States. Burdines followed in
1979. The restaurant was moved, too, but it was never the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Palm Beach
Mall became the “in” place to shop. We always saw someone we knew as we
strolled on terrazzo floors in the air conditioning. In the very center of the mall was one of the
most unusual fountains I have ever seen. Called <i>The Wonderfall</i>, it was made of strands of string. Standing proudly
in front of Jordan Marsh between two bridges, the strands ran from the ceiling
to a fountain where the strands disappeared. Drops of water slid down the strands,
sparkling in the spotlights. We often chose that spot to sit with a soda just
so we could watch in fascination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The Mall was
still going strong when I was in high school in the late 1970s. It was still
the social magnet for the county. Once we had our drivers’ licenses, we found
every excuse possible to head there. It was the JCPenney diner that became our
favorite place to eat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Every Christmas season, the Mall was
decorated beautifully and Santa sat in splendor. Bleachers were erected on the
terrazzo outside the mall entrance to Jordan Marsh where high school choirs
from all over the county took turns performing songs of the season. After the
North Shore High School choir was finished performing, we raced down to Orange
Julius for a slice of pizza and a soda.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> It was in
the Mall theaters that we saw <i>Chitty
Chitty Bang Bang</i>, <i>Close Encounters of
the Third Kind</i> and <i>Saturday Night
Fever</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> It was at
the JCPenney jewelry counter that my wedding rings were purchased on what truly
was one of the most exciting and fun days of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The last
time I was at the Mall was in the late 1990s. No longer lined with
an array of fun shops, it seemed a shadow of its former glorious self. Dillards was the
first major store to close in 2008. In the years since, stores closed and were
replaced, but it just never seemed to regain the panache it had in the early
decades. It was 2010 when it was announced that everything but JCPenney,
Firestone and George’s Music would close. The Mall would become a ghost town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Now everything has been demolished to make way for the Palm Beach Outlets. The newest experience in outlet shopping opened in February, 2014. I have yet to go, but I will. I expect it to be an odd feeling--much like walking Clematis has been.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Those of us
who grew up thinking heading to the Mall was a big deal have been missing it
since the renovations started in 1980.
For us, it was a tragedy when that incredible fountain was removed in 2000.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I wonder how hard it would be to construct a <i>Wonderfall</i> in my living room?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-89524652163482310862014-09-22T21:09:00.000-04:002014-09-22T21:09:55.533-04:00Macadamia<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZjYoX7vqJTrdY7sO34beZAs_lPxbGqWT9mAPSayVAuDWdSYrPcBd5JXEBzCtm07u876_UceExa513TfGTGR41QYx5qCaFCMTsZY50t01Vr95xmXQbDiRzaM7ogfKuBy7wCIwH1nXYuGI/s1600/photo+(26).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZjYoX7vqJTrdY7sO34beZAs_lPxbGqWT9mAPSayVAuDWdSYrPcBd5JXEBzCtm07u876_UceExa513TfGTGR41QYx5qCaFCMTsZY50t01Vr95xmXQbDiRzaM7ogfKuBy7wCIwH1nXYuGI/s1600/photo+(26).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
I had a very odd dream recently and decided it was a sign. Today, you're getting a story about a dog. It doesn't have much to do with Florida, but since it's my blog, I can wander off the path from time to time. I'm sure you've noticed me doing so, but have been too polite to point it out.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The first dog in my life came to my family as the proclaimed ugliest puppy in the litter. I'd heard no one wanted her. Here's a picture of me at about 5 years of age with the supposedly "ugly" puppy. She was the smartest dog I've ever known and lived to the ripe old age of seventeen. I was an only child until I was almost 7 and Buffy was almost more like a sibling than a pet--a small, furry sibling. I would swear even today that she communicated better than a lot of humans I've known. When we traveled back to Florida from California by car the summer after we brought her into the family, my dad would point out interesting things for me to see along the way. I'd pop up from the back seat where I lounged on a pillow, take a look, and recline again, or should I say TRY to recline again. The dog threw herself over the pillow every time I looked out the window and wouldn't give up the pillow without a fight. It was a long trip.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As the person nominally in charge of my household for the past couple of decades, I've made sure we've adopted several animals over the years--including a dwarf hamster my son named Thor the Assassin. I was told it was a chinchilla. Much to my embarrassment, I believed him only finding out Thor's hamster status after his death when my son owned up to the joke. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Right now, there are three rescue cats, one disabled, in the house. If you're thinking of getting a pet, check into local rescues and animal shelters. And don't be afraid to take a good look at the disabled pets. Betty, our disabled cat who has a condition called cerebellar hypoplasia, has proven to be an inspiration to our family as well as thousands of others through the book I wrote about her, "<a href="http://bettytales.com/">Betty Tales: The True Story of a Brave Bobblehead Cat</a>." She's a funny, feisty, fierce cat with more determination that I would have ever thought possible from a little thing not much bigger than a loaf of bread.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So I supposed you'd like to read about that dream...</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I found myself at a pet adoption event. One of those where local rescues bring loads of animals to a local pet store and hope that some of them find homes. In my dream, I saw an adorable tan short-haired chihuahua named Peanut. I decided that little male chihuahua was meant to become part of my family. I ran all over the store and made hundreds of calls until I got the manager of the rescue. She told me that Peanut wouldn't be ready to be adopted for another couple of months, but they had a female dog, about 35 pounds, who could go home with me today. I wailed, "But I want Peanut. I want to take him home and name him 'Macadamia'." </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Don't ask me. I don't know. Dreams are weird.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
So now I'm thinking the cats might like the company. I'm keeping an eye out for a chihuahua temporarily named Peanut... I know he's out there somewhere.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(c) 2014 Ruth Hartman Berge</span></div>
<br />
<br />ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-76171359843816964582014-09-07T18:41:00.000-04:002014-09-07T18:41:10.330-04:00Florida Air Combat<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqK4UIf5Uxi28_682btdp3oOHOG0BA-VXZFeyE0aYcaySxY_0y4kma47hMdUv6kwkgq3Cg1YBBkjo39dNroy8ZE1eA6RzUdIczvZ50F62Ep5ekQdlh-PaH52Uk0SODn3vIa1LdqKyYmAmY/s1600/nortern-mockingbird-bird-animal-mimus-polyglottos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqK4UIf5Uxi28_682btdp3oOHOG0BA-VXZFeyE0aYcaySxY_0y4kma47hMdUv6kwkgq3Cg1YBBkjo39dNroy8ZE1eA6RzUdIczvZ50F62Ep5ekQdlh-PaH52Uk0SODn3vIa1LdqKyYmAmY/s1600/nortern-mockingbird-bird-animal-mimus-polyglottos.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.public-domain-image.com/full-image/fauna-animals-public-domain-images-pictures/birds-public-domain-images-pictures/nortern-mockingbird-bird-animal-mimus-polyglottos.jpg-royalty-free-stock-photograph.html%22%20title=%22Nortern%20mockingbird%20bird%20animal%20mimus%20polyglottos%22%3ENortern%20mockingbird%20bird%20animal%20mimus%20polyglottos%3C/a%3E%20by%20Karney%20Lee,%20U.S.%20Fish%20and%20Wildlife%20Service">Northern Mockingbird </a>By Karney Lee U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Connecticut has
the Robin. Indiana and Illinois share the Cardinal. Florida? We have the
Mockingbird. We get to share our state bird with Alabama, Mississippi,
Tennessee and Texas. To read James Audubon’s description of this small gray
bird, one would think it was a delightful addition to the bird kingdom. “They
are not the soft sounds of the flute or of the hautboy that I hear, but the
sweeter notes of Nature's own music. The mellowness of the song, the varied
modulations and gradations, the extent of its compass, the great brilliancy of
execution, are unrivalled.” See <a href="http://www.50states.com/bird/mock.htm#.U_vFMMVdXLM">LINK</a>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The bird Audubon was describing is
not the bird I remember as a child. Most
of the year, we’d see them flitting harmlessly through the trees. But heaven
help the unaware pedestrian during mockingbird mating season. Around April of
every year, the birds pair up, build a nest and begin to aggressively attack
anything or anyone that dares to come within range.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> As a child, it was my chore to walk
the dog. I’d grab the leash, the dog, and a piece of rope. We’d ease out the
front door and stand on the stoop, the dog anxious to get about her business. I
peered around the air potato vine that circled the porch to see if I could spot
the gray birds or their bright white flash of wings. As an aside, the air
potato vine was introduced in 1905 and unknown to us in the early 1970s, would be
considered an invasive plant by the state of Florida by the end of the 1990s. My granddad called it a billabong. Back to my mockingbird tale…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I could hear the squawking in the
tree growing in the middle of the front yard, but there were no birds to be
seen. I stepped off the porch and raised the hand holding the rope over my head
and began swirling it in a circle over my head as the dog and I cautiously took
a step out from under the vine. I heard the angry shriek and the furious
beating of wings over my head and ducked lower. With my body now as twisted as
a contortionist in a circus side show, bent over with my arm swinging the rope
over my head, the dog and I raced down the driveway toward the sidewalk. Still
not safe, we continued past two houses before the bird gave up and returned to
the nest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The dog and I could walk down the
street and back in relative peace. But as we approached the house, the rope
went into the air and the dance began again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My father would mow the lawn with a
hat anchoring a towel draped over his head and falling past his shoulders.
Except for the yard gloves protecting his hands and the grass stains on his
sneakers, he looked a lot like a Bedouin traversing the desert, the
mockingbirds screaming, circling and diving at his head like miniature Egyptian
vultures fighting over particularly interesting carrion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Neighborhood cats seemed to wise up
pretty quickly when it came to hunting mockingbirds. From the front porch, I
could see the great hunters stalking their prey, confidently slinking across the
lawn toward the tree in our front yard and out of my sight. They usually
re-appeared within moments, a slash of terrified tabby running low to the ground
as fast as their little legs could carry them. The mockingbirds dive bombed relentlessly until the poor cats dashed under a nearby car and sit there, eyes
wide in fright. Cats usually didn’t make that mistake twice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> In the last few years, sitting in the
safety of my screened porch I've listened to the birds sing from the trees in
the backyard. From my living room, I can open the front windows wide and listen and with my ever-hopeful
cats, watch as all kinds of birds splash in sheer joy in the birdbath. I now
have an appreciation for the songs they sing—even the mockingbird.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> But come April, I’ll still have a
rope handy.</span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-31141099616810909152014-08-20T19:53:00.006-04:002020-03-01T20:17:24.314-05:00What's New?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvSsDxbKMecGzxFRU5mUDUMu-rkVBeyIEIc1SisQqJ4v6BLxx8JIssxwFUWHcCRm885inIXr_ctifjTBLpkW6_QRYUulIUcZ02EOWfdtzhdjPhRLHKvqj9PWMfOHsZ9Ztzny2l_5Jy7uc/s1600/Cover2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvSsDxbKMecGzxFRU5mUDUMu-rkVBeyIEIc1SisQqJ4v6BLxx8JIssxwFUWHcCRm885inIXr_ctifjTBLpkW6_QRYUulIUcZ02EOWfdtzhdjPhRLHKvqj9PWMfOHsZ9Ztzny2l_5Jy7uc/s1600/Cover2.jpg" width="212" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>We have nothing on the schedule at the moment. Do YOU have a group that might be interested in a more in depth discussion of one of my books?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Contact me and let's see what we can set up!</b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxc0p0-mMiTHZS_w2ABFwlWDaCxCO1XYfwLnt80NDSk4pkhupEgQOnvRkUGR9_00M9iCpaKCYlWyuDkxOrIjYH9WQuEntg6nNEGjprlPDk3KFyA0MDCdiAzJ5SeTYI9Peamj9jfFPqF7Xw/s1600/FZH_5830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxc0p0-mMiTHZS_w2ABFwlWDaCxCO1XYfwLnt80NDSk4pkhupEgQOnvRkUGR9_00M9iCpaKCYlWyuDkxOrIjYH9WQuEntg6nNEGjprlPDk3KFyA0MDCdiAzJ5SeTYI9Peamj9jfFPqF7Xw/s1600/FZH_5830.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-87758839998273382732014-08-17T18:49:00.000-04:002014-08-17T18:49:01.883-04:00The Vanishing Fireflies<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBC1P84_ANbas5qFcHbb9aR8SdOUu4PCb7EuB8HOMTDfk90hpGMHkc_Ls0rCqaX6GxHYgR4QAZBb56OF7ZU2eQ7NctW9ZBV3wyDs7whyprb9dRI3e6XqjgKeWDxLuSB5TtnGoU0phEJl6/s1600/photo+(22).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBC1P84_ANbas5qFcHbb9aR8SdOUu4PCb7EuB8HOMTDfk90hpGMHkc_Ls0rCqaX6GxHYgR4QAZBb56OF7ZU2eQ7NctW9ZBV3wyDs7whyprb9dRI3e6XqjgKeWDxLuSB5TtnGoU0phEJl6/s1600/photo+(22).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My fake firefly jar...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I was
a child, there were a lot of things about summers here in the tropics that made
growing up in Palm Beach County spectacular. We spent days on the beach or
boat. We built forts out of Brazilian pepper trees (don’t do this – they’ll
make you itch). We rode our bikes across the village of North Palm Beach to the
country club where we flung our sweaty bodies into the icy waters of the
Olympic-size pool. We tromped barefoot through freshly-mowed grass and sat in
damp bathing suits in the shade on the ground next to our parents who, also in
damp bathing suits, relaxed in aluminum lawn chairs with nylon webbing. We
sipped Coca Cola ® and ate watermelon while they drank ice-cold beer.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At dusk,
we chased fireflies with big, glass mayonnaise jars—jar in one hand and metal
lid with holes poked in it in the other. When we weren’t trying to catch them,
we danced with swarms of fireflies in the backyard. Yes, danced. We were fairy
princesses surrounded by flickering, flying candlelight. It was magical.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Recently,
I realized the fireflies are gone. I haven’t seen them in a long time, perhaps
decades. My children never got to dance in a cloud of light like I did. I went
looking for answers and discovered that fireflies have disappeared from all of
South Florida.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Where
did they go? Why did they leave?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
There’s a wonderful website called <a href="http://www.firefly.org/why-are-fireflies-disappearing.html">www.firefly.org</a> that has one
reasonable, and very sad, explanation. They say that most species of fireflies
are “found in field, forests and marshes. Their environment of choice is warm,
humid and near standing water of some kind.” And there’s the problem. As South
Florida has grown exponentially, a lot of those lovely “fields, forests and
marshes” have been paved over in order to accommodate the hordes of people. The
United States Census states that the estimated population of Florida in 2013
was 19,552,860. In 1969 when I was ten, it was reported to be a quarter of that,
only 4,951,560. That amount of growth requires a lot of pavement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Is there anywhere one can see
fireflies in Florida at all? Yes, there is. Central Florida and locations north
still have them.<a href="http://www.floridarambler.com/central-florida-getaways/firefly-season-blue-spring-florida/"> FloridaRambler.com</a> suggests that Blue Springs State Park,
about 30 miles north of Orlando, is reported to be a great place to spot them.
It’s only a few short weeks in April, but they’re still swarming there. Best
bet is to camp overnight or arrange to stay an hour after the park closes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And for
those of who might complain that I’m anti-development, don’t bother. I’m not.
But I have always been in favor of balanced development. I’ve always thought
the need of humankind need to be weighed against the needs of the environment
and the wild animals that were here before us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m not
sure if there’s a way to re-create marshes and forests, but I hope there’s
someone working on how to bring back the environment the fireflies need. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It would be a shame if future generations of
barefoot Florida children didn’t get the chance to dance in that magical flying
candlelight.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(copyright 2014 Ruth Hartman Berge)</span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-44745194578573532382014-07-27T20:54:00.000-04:002014-07-27T20:54:39.688-04:00At Last!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been away from this blog for a while and some of you may have wondered where I've been. If you look closely at the name of the author of the book posted above, you can figure it out pretty easily. My second book has been published by <a href="https://historypress.net/catalogue/bookstore/books/Growing-Up-in-Northern-Palm-Beach-County/9781626195912" target="_blank">The History Press</a>. It's been a whirlwind the last few months. The publisher told me they wanted the book in February of this year. I thought, terrific, I'm done! Well, no, not quite...</div>
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I've spent the last six months learning the intricacies of today's modern traditional publishing world. The manuscript was edited once again (for the third time) and had to be formatted a specific way. The pictures had to be in a specific form and captions and credits coordinated. Last minute corrections in a photo credit resulted in hysteria (on my part) and calm comments and action (on the publisher's part).</div>
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The book was formally published on June 22 and we had the book launch last night at the wonderful <a href="http://www.murderonthebeach.com/">Murder on the Beach Mystery Bookstore</a> in Delray Beach. Why Delray when the stories are from Northern Palm Beach County? Because it's one of two independent bookstores left in Palm Beach County and as far as I know, the only one of the two that welcomes author signings and launch parties! </div>
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I first entered this great book shop to meet the incredible Prudy Taylor Board at one of HER author signings and my writing career accelerated faster than I thought possible thanks to her guidance. The book launch for my first book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Betty-Tales-Story-Brave-Bobblehead/dp/147744730X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1406507851&sr=1-2&keywords=ruth+hartman+berge" style="font-style: italic;">Betty Tales: The True Story of a Brave Bobblehead Cat</a><i> </i>was held there, too, so the store has a sentimental pull for me--not to mention I love browsing and buying books! </div>
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The launch ended up standing room only as friends, family, friends of friends, and teachers from my past and present all mingled in a wonderful crowd. The cookies and the 1960s candy disappeared (as did the wine) and everyone had a terrific time!<br />
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The beach pail with the big blue bow to the right of the picture below was the door prize and Larry Rule's name was drawn as the winner. I think he'll be passing the glitter flip flops and pink sunglasses on...<br />
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I'm grateful for all of the encouragement and support I've received from you, my readers, as well as my family and friends. Thank you.<br />
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If you missed the launch party, there are still several opportunities to join the Florida fun. I have several public speaking engagements lined up over the next few months and will share them here as the dates get closer. If you've enjoyed my little stories of Florida past, I hope to meet you at one of the events. If you've read the book, I'd greatly appreciate if you'd mosey on over to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Growing-Northern-Palm-Beach-County-ebook/dp/B00L89IX8I/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1406507600&sr=1-1&keywords=ruth+hartman+berge">Amazon.com</a> and leave a review.<br />
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Now that the hoopla is over, it's back to business. I'll be posting more often. If you have anything about South Florida you'd like me to research and write about, please let me know by commenting.<br />
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Who knows? Your story could end up in the next book!<br />
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<br />ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-87468410472097706752014-02-05T21:06:00.002-05:002014-02-05T21:09:09.232-05:00Friendship and How to Live Your Dream<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Becky Young, Author, Debbie Huffman, Mimi Waddell</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the 17th of January, amazing things happened. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The roots of that evening started way back in 1975. Yep. Back in the days of the BeeGees and disco dancing. I was in high school then and immersed in music. My teenage life at North Shore High School in West Palm Beach revolved around the choir and a smaller group called "The Choraleers."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was in my sophomore year that a young man joined the choir. Normally, students had to spend a year in choir to be eligible to try out for Choraleers, a smaller group of more advanced singers who performed while dancing. We had to sight read the music, too. This kid went straight into Choraleers. He had so much talent bursting out of his 14-year old body that there was no stopping him. Our director, Sandy Connelly, liked to end our concerts with "I Believe in Music"--an appropriate song for students who breathed melody and talked in harmony. The newest member was invited out front to do the improvisation called for at the end. He'd dance and sing like his feet were on fire. Gives me goosebumps to remember even now, almost forty years later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Flash forward to 2014. Now known as Kye Brackett, the remarkable kid we once knew has grown into a self-assured entertainer who has been performing professionally for decades. Who does he perform with these days? Barry Manilow. The man who wrote the musical score for our lives--a living legend. When a concert was scheduled in Sunrise in South Florida, the phone lines and facebook heated up. It was an opportunity to see Kye perform on stage with someone we all idolized.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the 17th, we headed down to the BB&T center. There were seven of us sitting together, but we knew there were others spread out in the darkness throughout the huge audience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The show was everything we could have hoped for, and more. Manilow's voice was just as we remembered. I closed my eyes from time to time and just listened to the beautiful words and even got tears in my eyes watching Kye perform. It's an odd feeling to see someone you performed with once upon a time succeed beyond teenage hopes and dreams. Every time Kye showed up on the jumbotrons set up on either side of the stage, we turned to each other and yelled (it was loud in there) "Look! It's Kye!" We jumped to our feet and sang along to those beautiful songs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When the concert ended, we met with all of the other North Shore alumnae at the edge of the stage. When Kye came out from behind the curtains, there were hugs and teary eyes all around. He hurried all 17 of us around the corner. We thought we were getting out of the way of the stagehands, but Kye had a bigger surprise in store. He had arranged for us to meet and have our picture taken with Barry Manilow! The evening became surreal as we grouped together for the photo. It was a once in a lifetime moment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the days since, photos and postings have flown on facebook. One of the best posts I've seen was one by Allan Hendricks, a former Choraleer and now a successful landscape architect. Allan posted, "Take what you will from this but it's lifted me up. I had the chance to see some old high school friends Friday. They are still the rock star people I knew back then. Smart, funny, easy going, talented, happy, successful, generous, charming, handsome, beautiful people. Young people, choose your friends wisely. Feeling blessed."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Allan's right. The people you chose as friends all through your life are the people who define who you become. Choose the ones who push you to be bigger and better than you think you can be. The ones who give you no slack and demand that you live up to potential are the ones you want in your life. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They're the ones you remember long after life scatters everyone in different directions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And yes, amazing things happened on the 17th. We saw someone we first met as a very young man living his dream--and ours, too. I'm so glad we were there to encourage him way back in the 70s and so glad that we were there to celebrate with him as he danced among the stars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: x-small;">(c) 2014, Ruth Hartman Berge</span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-27987676624483498352013-06-18T19:06:00.002-04:002013-06-18T19:06:22.252-04:00North Shore High School 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There was an impromptu mini-reunion of North Shore High School graduates recently. We're an anchorless group of people inasmuch as our high school was torn down to make way for the new Bak Middle School of the Performing Arts in West Palm Beach. Several of us also attended North Palm Beach Elementary--also recently demolished.<br />
We met at a restaurant along the water in North Palm Beach. Memories flew around the table and laughter was fierce as teenage mis-deeds were recounted. Who knew shooting a flaming arrow at a balloon of gas could cause a problem? And the imaginative uses of Ex-lax? And what happens to a boat when no one's steering? I had no idea...<br />
While it was a small group of ten plus two wonderfully patient spouses who were able to make it due to the short notice and spontaneity of the event, I'm so glad I went.<br />
There's something so inherently right about touching base with friends who knew you when--those people who knew you when you were still trying to figure out who you were and what you were going to do with your life. One of the men present was a playmate of mine from high chair days--our mothers were friends. Another, I started kindergarten with and he was among those marching to <i>Pomp and Circumstance</i> with me in 1977.<br />
In this season of graduations, it seems fitting that some of us who once graced the halls of North Shore met again, shared pictures of spouses and children, and spoke of accomplishments and memories. And laughed until we cried. <br />
Like children on a playground who run back to Mom sitting on the park bench for a quick hug of reassurance before tackling the mighty Jungle Gym, from time to time over the years I think most people seem to need to run back to those who knew us best and longest for our own dose of reassurance. The confirmation of our worth as human beings that only old, dear friends can give pushes us to set sail again to tackle the lives we've created.<br />
For the graduates of 2013, I hope that when you sit down to a table of your fellow graduates sometime in the far-off future, the laughter is fierce, memories fly fast and furious, and the hugs of your friends as you say good-night sends you back out into the world with the same intensity and passion that you experience this year as you graduate with your youth, your passion for life and your courage to conquer the world.<br />
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ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-81214777629460324672013-01-22T19:09:00.000-05:002013-01-23T08:15:50.322-05:00How Did That Street Get THAT Name?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toney Penna</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Florida
has always been a magnet for golfers. The mild year-round weather coupled with
beautifully designed courses has been bringing them in for decades. The
Breakers Hotel claims to have built the first eighteen hole golf course in
Florida. According to Golf.com, the Breakers links opened in 1896. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Quite a bit north of the Breakers, there’s a little road
in Jupiter named “Toney Penna.” Not everyone knows who Toney Penna was or how
he ended up with a street in Jupiter named after him. I’ve been told bits and
pieces of the Toney Penna story by my parents, but this month, I decided to
learn more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Toney
Penna, who became a well-known golfer beginning with his 1937 win of the
Pennsylvania Open Championship, moved to Delray Beach in 1946. The Pennas
moved right next door to my Aunt Eleanor’s house along the Intracoastal
Waterway, a few blocks from my grandparents’ house on N.E. 7<sup>th</sup>
Avenue. Penna’s son, Jerry, was a year or so younger than my father. I’ve been
told that Jerry, Dad and my Uncle Warren ended up getting into mischief
together. There’s a hush-hush tale about
an abandoned building, the three boys and police… but that’s a story for
another time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Penna used to take a small duffel bag filled to the brim
with golf balls to a field to practice his drives. After Penna dumped out the
golf balls, Dad and Warren would take the empty bag far down the field and
chase after balls, gradually filling the bag back up. I’d heard that Dad
caddied for him once upon a time, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As
a local celebrity, Penna lived peacefully along the water in Delray, but it
seems he had some famous friends. He played golf often with Perry Como who had
a house along the Jupiter Inlet. Back in Delray Beach, Penna’s visitors caused
quite the sensation. According to Dad,
Hollywood luminaries showed up at Penna’s house from time to time--Dean Martin
and Jerry Lewis among them. Wouldn’t you have loved to sit in on that party?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> So how did a street in Jupiter, forty-five minutes away
from Delray, end up named Toney Penna? Penna worked as a representative for MacGregor
Golf Company designing clubs until 1967. It was the early 1970s when he went
out on his own, opening a little facility where he designed and manufactured
golf clubs. The building is still there, located on the south side of Toney Penna Drive, just east of
Military Trail, but it’s been renovated and its
now impossible to tell that once upon a time golfing royalty worked there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If
you’d like to get your hands on a Toney Penna club, be prepared to pay. The MacGregor
Toney Penna Clubs are extremely rare collectibles. A collector’s guide on E-bay
says, “An all original, excellent condition set of
WWs (white woods) should be worth $1000 or more.” And as for irons, the Penna
VIP irons (1963-1967) are considered one of those items so rare, it’s hard to
set a value.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m sure that when Dad and Warren were cutting through Aunt
Eleanor’s hedge to get Jerry for yet another adventure, Dad had no idea that Jerry’s
dad, and later Jerry, would make golf clubs so well designed that devoted golfers
still search for and collect them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Accomplishments worthy of having a street named after him, I
think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This article first appeared in my column with Seabreeze Publications, Inc., "The Florida You Don't Know."</span></span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-51972280741618456682013-01-16T07:46:00.000-05:002013-01-16T07:46:00.740-05:00My Favorite Birthday Present<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19SSvv2WlEecXHggrpKrfNDyAA0KeGCyAiYDu6MkcOuJzdrWd6E4lUqUCgVAiGVjbDXGsflmGxC6r0MZK65nX23SihOSvLEj6O_u1HF6oCE0NhhY5r27K38voN5InkQniN-K6LYcVAulR/s1600/MM900297044.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19SSvv2WlEecXHggrpKrfNDyAA0KeGCyAiYDu6MkcOuJzdrWd6E4lUqUCgVAiGVjbDXGsflmGxC6r0MZK65nX23SihOSvLEj6O_u1HF6oCE0NhhY5r27K38voN5InkQniN-K6LYcVAulR/s1600/MM900297044.GIF" /></a></div>
Admit it. Y'all knew it was my birthday Friday, January 11, didn't you?<br />
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When I was seven, my favorite birthday present was a Camelot costume for my Barbie doll. In a box somewhere in my closet, I still have that gown (minus one sleeve) and the beat up Barbie who used to wear it. </div>
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Since that time, some birthdays have been more eventful than others, but this birthday, you all delivered a doozy of a gift!</div>
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Sometime between 11:30 pm January 11 and waking up on Saturday, January 12, this blog rolled over 10,000 hits. I'm amazed!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn44tFXTojgvFJBy6C4y0TfraRFk0sQ3go28n6bJcKad8PIUoL-afBDc09EENEy1LB8q8UvQzJuk3QYckPfAzM_FaBbzGBcvTnYt7KVOfNpppW-6U3Eg3jxdi1CLo5H5scYCDDk2uAS8dl/s1600/IMG_0626+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn44tFXTojgvFJBy6C4y0TfraRFk0sQ3go28n6bJcKad8PIUoL-afBDc09EENEy1LB8q8UvQzJuk3QYckPfAzM_FaBbzGBcvTnYt7KVOfNpppW-6U3Eg3jxdi1CLo5H5scYCDDk2uAS8dl/s1600/IMG_0626+c.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earman River East from<br />
Prosperity Farms Road</td></tr>
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My first article was a post of my very first column for Seabreeze Publications, Inc., a publisher of neighborhood newspapers distributed throughout Martin and Palm Beach Counties. It appeared in my blog on July 11, 2011 and had the simple title, "<a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2011/07/my-first-column.html" target="_blank">Earman River</a>'." A story about a man-made river in North Palm Beach, it doesn't even appear on my top ten now. (My column still appears every month and is re-posted here after the monthly paper is published. Next week, we'll find out who Toney Penna was and why a street in Jupiter is named after him.)</div>
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The post that received the most attention is the "Addendum to Jones" post. A follow up to "<a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2011/08/just-who-is-this-jones-guy.html" target="_blank">Just Who is This Jones Guy</a>?" a contest I ran the week before about Jones Creek in Jupiter, there was really nothing to it. Why this one? I have no idea... Perhaps people were Googling "Jones"?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSUi5ILsKibAh0RCTy_vhyphenhyphenro23tbfdFj2kRKREq3sUKNVzFOwB2knnxtXn-iBXa-TItJQh1EhR6RfW0LYHp-DPOgxpSh8S9zeMwktmkVyT-B1WDvrpqXHjsWggi2fNFT1yQwQLxHRTuTp/s1600/From+Flash+022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSUi5ILsKibAh0RCTy_vhyphenhyphenro23tbfdFj2kRKREq3sUKNVzFOwB2knnxtXn-iBXa-TItJQh1EhR6RfW0LYHp-DPOgxpSh8S9zeMwktmkVyT-B1WDvrpqXHjsWggi2fNFT1yQwQLxHRTuTp/s1600/From+Flash+022.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Presidential Bunker</td></tr>
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Second, was "<a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2011/11/president-and-peanut-island.html" target="_blank">The President and Peanut Island.</a>" This was the first time I felt like an official writer-type person. My friend and I headed over to Peanut Island and toured the Kennedy bunker. I identified myself as a writer and asked for permission to run my digital voice recorder. It's a lot easier than scribbling notes I can't see without my glasses. I snapped a hundred pictures (ok, so I exaggerate a little) and was in awe to finally be standing in something that had been off limits my entire childhood.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg253jIV6WnKd6KiHNw2njKotbOQlt6AtyPPPHQ5BdYa062QIoY99zHhucvI21CNBxvo1YIlU5c-bc9ugVLwkWOsO_6icUQyh6PV9flRPLlbRpTLbZVLzfz8YBQl8LdSmR7U9nPq26xVEu3/s1600/16870428_129403086300%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg253jIV6WnKd6KiHNw2njKotbOQlt6AtyPPPHQ5BdYa062QIoY99zHhucvI21CNBxvo1YIlU5c-bc9ugVLwkWOsO_6icUQyh6PV9flRPLlbRpTLbZVLzfz8YBQl8LdSmR7U9nPq26xVEu3/s1600/16870428_129403086300%5B1%5D.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monument to the Chillingworths</td></tr>
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Third? "<a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2011/09/birth-of-imago.html" target="_blank">Birth of an Imago</a>." This was posted for a contest I entered in Rachael Harrie's Writers' Platform Building Campaign. Given some impossible words, we were supposed to write a flash fiction piece that contained them. I think there were over a hundred entries and each one met the challenge differently. My entry managed to tie in Palm Beach County history. People who didn't know the story of the Chillingworth murders in Palm Beach County bombarded my e-mail asking for more so I posted "<a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2011/10/chillingworth-murders.html" target="_blank">The Chillingworth Murders</a>" in October.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-zyvhwlGdwcxSomhoDVxGtBuSLamU7BGB5dI0myyZvUOkwb81xsHZ6QTp28JM8wWMiPuIG96Ck9STv03bMZ0uwbVn4k0Yf480bWq16p0ec2giFMSdGvOKHo39lFyPQA4YBktoIDHzRz9/s1600/From+Flash+033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-zyvhwlGdwcxSomhoDVxGtBuSLamU7BGB5dI0myyZvUOkwb81xsHZ6QTp28JM8wWMiPuIG96Ck9STv03bMZ0uwbVn4k0Yf480bWq16p0ec2giFMSdGvOKHo39lFyPQA4YBktoIDHzRz9/s1600/From+Flash+033.JPG" height="200" width="129" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Dapper Dan"</td></tr>
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My favorite post so far has to be the "<a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2012/03/dapper-dan-contest.html" target="_blank">Dapper Dan Contes</a>t" and the follow-up "<a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2012/03/twist-in-road.html" target="_blank">A Twist in the Road</a>." A picture found in a box of stamps my grandfather had collected led to an ending I couldn't imagine. Still gives me the chills. These two combined were picked up and published by the <i>Glen Ullin Times</i>, the local newspaper in Glen Ullin, North Dakota where our Dapper Dan actually lived.</div>
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I've continued to edit, revise and hone the research on most of these stories for the collection of short stories that I'm working on getting published later this year, "The Ghost of Sir Harry Oakes and Other Tales of Growing Up in Palm Beach County." You'll hear about publication dates before anyone else.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLf67F_90JOCpShCQdS8ntFPKbsBTQWYJqJRuQiOL1tEs_rmjhzv8fjRf5vcyDfpxL0Ny75mKF5fpWAg7BBnZIkIM77RKWwZs0MhzKHRDUU76U_0CogD610Natl_TuZesMI-__Wuk0hO5/s1600/41H7SbslJNL._SS400_%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLf67F_90JOCpShCQdS8ntFPKbsBTQWYJqJRuQiOL1tEs_rmjhzv8fjRf5vcyDfpxL0Ny75mKF5fpWAg7BBnZIkIM77RKWwZs0MhzKHRDUU76U_0CogD610Natl_TuZesMI-__Wuk0hO5/s1600/41H7SbslJNL._SS400_%5B1%5D.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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You all gave me a terrific present for my birthday, so I'd like to return the favor. Simply comment to this article with the title of YOUR favorite of my posts so far and tell me what it was about that post that made it your favorite. I'll use random.org to find the winner and send an autographed copy of "<a href="http://bettytales.com/" target="_blank">Betty Tales The True Story of a Brave Bobblehead Cat</a>" OR a $10.00 Amazon gift card. Easy peasy, right?</div>
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Thank you, one and all, for your visits here and spending some of your busy day to read my little stories. You helped make this a birthday to remember!</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Picture at beginning of post is from Microsoft. </span></div>
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ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-77460639700443414872013-01-09T07:43:00.001-05:002013-01-09T07:43:35.839-05:00Flotsam<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80SoMe0txyAzpCONIgczJMPQlN9F-9mNf6oevT22cC2PoLhttRIzEvEizceGi-nI791nD0q0sj8g1SJ4u2cbC5ZhUY_iA2LAaG0T5m0FYLLj3hMQIt11TP3xTQIvXVINQwHXkwGWYJWby/s1600/MP900440954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80SoMe0txyAzpCONIgczJMPQlN9F-9mNf6oevT22cC2PoLhttRIzEvEizceGi-nI791nD0q0sj8g1SJ4u2cbC5ZhUY_iA2LAaG0T5m0FYLLj3hMQIt11TP3xTQIvXVINQwHXkwGWYJWby/s1600/MP900440954.JPG" height="133" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://office.microsoft.com/en-us/images/results.aspx?qu=new+year&ex=1#ai:MP900440954|" target="_blank">Microsoft Office</a></td></tr>
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This time of year is one that sends most people back though memories of the past year as we try to determine what we're going to do better in the future. We all share memories of big events--the space shuttles, elections, the fiscal cliff, graduations, birthdays and on and on. But I think it's more than just the "big" memories that matter. </div>
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Anyone remember the way the sun looked as it slipped into the sea off of Mallory Square in Key West before the cruise ships started docking there? The street musicians, jugglers and crowd of tourists and residents alike who stood in the dirt next to the docks, drinks in hand, socializing until the sun dipped closer to the horizon? And the cheers and clapping that erupted when the last sliver of golden orange disappeared?</div>
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How about walking through the halls of your elementary school? Having orange-belted safety patrols yell at you to stop running? How exciting it was to head to the library to agonize over which book to check out to read? (Okay. I admit it. I was an unrestrained book lover even then...)</div>
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I have a theory. "Big" memories serve as the anchors as we look back over our lives. They keep us grounded in time and space and provide framework. But the fullness and richness, the warp and weave of the tapestry of our lives, is made up of flotsam and jetsam. The discarded bits and pieces of memories that we normally race through or past as we zip from appointment to appointment, to work, to pick up or drop off kids. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ppx0427I_kVN-RNYmf_tMg1Ft12311gOL060RnqlfzqjUTam1oyjpPiPNlMPTUdeF-2W9LPM8UozYqhzZuk6sui1LAjNcqdmSVojypE1BOmFSLD1QkCugcemKe3jDPRoaqdBr5ms7krm/s1600/iphone+Apr+2012+122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ppx0427I_kVN-RNYmf_tMg1Ft12311gOL060RnqlfzqjUTam1oyjpPiPNlMPTUdeF-2W9LPM8UozYqhzZuk6sui1LAjNcqdmSVojypE1BOmFSLD1QkCugcemKe3jDPRoaqdBr5ms7krm/s1600/iphone+Apr+2012+122.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
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Some of my favorite flotsam and jetsam memories include remembering how really cool <a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2012/02/back-roads-to-cross-creek.html" target="_blank">Marjorie Keenan Rawlings</a>' writing tabled looked and how the old wooden porch slanted away from the house and the hollow echoe as I walked on it. I remember how it felt to sit beneath the <a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2011/07/my-first-column.html" target="_blank">Earman River Bridge</a> and talk the afternoon away with a close friend while we munched on penny candy. I remember glancing out of the corner of my eye at Bryant Park in Lake Worth and seeing a <a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2012/06/is-there-mini-stonehenge-in-lake-worth.html" target="_blank">couple of stones </a>and wondering just what the heck they were. It's signing up for the <a href="http://ruththewriter.blogspot.com/2012/10/walking-in-west-palm.html" target="_blank">Worldwide Photo Walk</a> just to wander around downtown West Palm Beach by foot with a camera.</div>
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My New Year's challenge to you is to try to catch those pieces of flotsam and jetsam and hold on to them. Don't let them drift away on the tide.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioflvLheG7DFLFKta3P2m12wY13Wy-YWVqkqEvpga4bnLw8nrIWUIDG9f4dZ5CF8zliaoZlFndohfyy6oBVxOebmNnVRRiIHT1kJBlaTdft_sKnXTSETGDctHYwCwu8q5w7zkX9zwSlSL-/s1600/iphone+Apr+2012+027+b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioflvLheG7DFLFKta3P2m12wY13Wy-YWVqkqEvpga4bnLw8nrIWUIDG9f4dZ5CF8zliaoZlFndohfyy6oBVxOebmNnVRRiIHT1kJBlaTdft_sKnXTSETGDctHYwCwu8q5w7zkX9zwSlSL-/s1600/iphone+Apr+2012+027+b.jpg" height="218" width="320" /></a></div>
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For example, next time you're sitting at a traffic light, really look around at what surrounds you. One of my favorite corners that brings back a forgotten memory is U.S. Highway One and 10th Avenue North in Lake Worth. Tuppen's marine supply store is on the northeast corner. Sitting there waiting for the light to change looking at their painted sign, I can remember walking around the store with my dad. My brother and I were allowed to dig through the bin of brightly colored rubber bait worms. We could each choose <u>one</u> to purchase. I have no idea where any of those worms ended up, but we sure enjoyed flicking through the little slightly sticky pieces as we searched.</div>
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I suppose in the overall scheme of things, little rubber worms and Rawlings' wooden porch are not all that big of a deal. But as part of the tapestry of my life, it's these types of memories that add the deep, rich colors.</div>
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I'd love to hear from you from time to time this year. Let me know what pieces of flotsam and jetsam you manage to salvage from your busy life. My bet is it won't take long for you to have a shipyard of sparkling bits and pieces to take out and smile over when tough times come along. </div>
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<br />ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-85815618761548697612013-01-06T16:53:00.001-05:002013-01-06T16:53:04.163-05:00Paper Mache Christmas Dreams<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggvhKkM-5q7vU_CMw89TkbU0zh7jiMg_tqRWmIWQWLN0XFVuZThxoIZRzS3GvxzKAKwGLxnsTtZ9tzuiaeNqlCXW5Mv3SioR4UiXqoMY7gzf2nmc9022OIPDJ4kPO7tbIq9YpsCq8hBoUS/s1600/HetzelBrosXmasPag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggvhKkM-5q7vU_CMw89TkbU0zh7jiMg_tqRWmIWQWLN0XFVuZThxoIZRzS3GvxzKAKwGLxnsTtZ9tzuiaeNqlCXW5Mv3SioR4UiXqoMY7gzf2nmc9022OIPDJ4kPO7tbIq9YpsCq8hBoUS/s1600/HetzelBrosXmasPag.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
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If
you have ever spent a Christmas in Florida, you know it’s not like Christmas
spent anywhere north. In St. Louis, for example, while there may or may not be
snow on the ground, it’s always cold enough for a roaring fire in the
fireplace.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not
so in Florida. As a child, I didn't have a clue as to what I was missing. Sure, it
sometimes got cold, but often as not, Christmas Day dawned a balmy seventy
degrees with bright sunshine. No sledding. No snowmen. But before anyone from
north of the Mason Dixon Line feels sympathy for us, let me remind you that
there were advantages, too. Chief among them, the ability to take a new
skateboard out for a test drive or head over to the beach for a couple of hours
to soak in the sun—on December 25.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One
of my favorite Christmas memories began before my bare feet ever hit the
Florida sand. The Hetzel Brothers Christmas Pageant became an annual tradition
for my family as well as many other families in Palm Beach County. Originating
in Nashville, North Carolina in 1933, the display of paper mache figures was arranged
to tell the story of the Biblical story of the Nativity. The brothers moved
south to Palm Beach County where they first settled in Curry Park next to the
water in West Palm Beach. It was the late
1960s when the annual event moved to the corner of Northlake Boulevard and
MacArthur Boulevard in Palm Beach Gardens. John D. MacArthur himself gave the
brothers permission to arrange the scenes among the rocks on the south end of
the big fields there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I
remember it as always chilly the night we headed over to join the crowds
walking through the production. We
parked in the fields behind the rocks and walked up to the entrance. All
Floridians were bundled up as if it were the dead of winter in the South Pole
instead of the actual temperature of perhaps fifty degrees. Northerners were
easy to spot as they were the ones in shirtsleeves. We always put a dollar or
two in the donation box—there was never an entrance fee—and joined the line
moving slowly past the dramatically lit figures depicting several scenes of the
Biblical birth of Christ story. Over the years, the recordings became
scratchier and even skipped from time to time, but we would patiently and
faithfully listen anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fourteen
years after arriving in Palm Beach Gardens, Bob Hetzel closed the gates and
turned out the lights. He had suffered a heart attack, the pageant was in
financial trouble, and the City, responding to complaints from residents, had
been pressuring Hetzel to correct electrical problems. Hetzel had been directed
to move the buildings on the site after this year’s Christmas display. It was
time. There was no fourteenth production and the pageant folded in 1983.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These
days, when you drive by that intersection, you’ll see nothing unusual. No rocks piled high. No paper mache’ angels
lit up against the night sky and palm trees. No faint Christmas carols on the
winter breeze. Nothing remains to suggest that it was once the site of an
endearing Christmas—and Easter—tradition for families in the area. There’s
nothing left of the costumed figures. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thanks to the
generosity of fellow history enthusiast, Don Kiselewski, I spent an evening
lost in memories as I viewed the cd presentation Don and his granddaughter,
Kelly Chase, prepared for a presentation to The Palm Beach Gardens Historical
Society. If you grew up visiting Hetzel Brothers Pageants, make a point of
seeing this if it’s ever presented again. You can even pretend you’re standing in the
field listening to the scratchy version of old if it makes you happy. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">This was originally published as the December column, The Florida You Don't Know, with Seabreeze Publications. It was intended to be posted on December 10, 2012, but illness kept me away from the computer and I lost track of my posts. Yikes! I'm back on track now and the posts will start showing up again every Wednesday. Thanks for your support! Ruth</span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-75906021496024369862012-12-05T09:04:00.001-05:002012-12-10T16:17:21.325-05:00West Palm Beach Does It Again!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4hvOvebX5E-yNs3CA6SQoBGmvIFMjguUpAi4xjf5BlcDuhnOtvfKesvuzbEVsEYMMHogTcNi4danyolqyEiWxDg8OZWdI6yq053SDIanN7kAD55vjiM6dVYpMIciA0RHRj3-OTfmSp8z-/s1600/iphone+12+01+12+044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4hvOvebX5E-yNs3CA6SQoBGmvIFMjguUpAi4xjf5BlcDuhnOtvfKesvuzbEVsEYMMHogTcNi4danyolqyEiWxDg8OZWdI6yq053SDIanN7kAD55vjiM6dVYpMIciA0RHRj3-OTfmSp8z-/s1600/iphone+12+01+12+044.JPG" height="320" width="303" /></a></div>
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Well, once again, the story is out of the Palm Beaches--West Palm Beach to be specific.<br />
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This time, however, the story is not about a flubbed election, hanging chads, butterfly ballot, or squabbling candidates. This time, the story is holiday history. Palm Beach County, in addition to the odd election snafu, has a history of unusual Christmas trees. Here's a picture of this year's contender:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3SNJJWyuFUBMFD9i8y8DORmVwjYRXSI0E6mvTwLJFwWC4TAhtEkJBoVf4gCQdZybJl7CcteU4NRynDpeepdiTZ-7JA_kVlH1ZlQKvklvWCBOTE3wlZNq5q4f8EvXIz_OUv0DV4xA4tnj/s1600/iphone+12+01+12+049+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3SNJJWyuFUBMFD9i8y8DORmVwjYRXSI0E6mvTwLJFwWC4TAhtEkJBoVf4gCQdZybJl7CcteU4NRynDpeepdiTZ-7JA_kVlH1ZlQKvklvWCBOTE3wlZNq5q4f8EvXIz_OUv0DV4xA4tnj/s1600/iphone+12+01+12+049+2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Constructed in downtown West Palm Beach along Flagler Drive, this 35 foot Christmas tree is breathtaking. The day I was there, camera in hand, people were walking around it in awe. How did they do that? Built by Team Sandtastic, a professional sand sculpture company, the tree took 400 tons of sand. And on December 6, they're even going to light it up in a tree lighting ceremony. How's that for ringing in the holiday season?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Gmcfl3ZN79zAgZ0FfUPjYjrP4bBWdMJXqFnHPNSIQ74nOjsUOZTBq1b0rJm3eZpGOxtfNCt1EBZsH282-rWUC66EcfgyolHOyOhXPI3Xv1YlRnLpoUarE0IsVTEXej-9YMpTiWE7iV8U/s1600/iphone+12+01+12+062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Gmcfl3ZN79zAgZ0FfUPjYjrP4bBWdMJXqFnHPNSIQ74nOjsUOZTBq1b0rJm3eZpGOxtfNCt1EBZsH282-rWUC66EcfgyolHOyOhXPI3Xv1YlRnLpoUarE0IsVTEXej-9YMpTiWE7iV8U/s1600/iphone+12+01+12+062.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
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Part of <a href="http://wpb.org/citycalendar/event.php?id=15396" target="_blank">Sand and Sea-son's Greetings</a> holiday celebration sponsored by the City of West Palm Beach, the big tree is only part of the story. Spread out around downtown are several smaller sculptures. Maps are available on the fencing surrounding the tree. There's also an "aqua trolley" available to help people get around to see everything, including a sand Santa's workshop in front of City Hall.</div>
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The Sand and Sea-son display is running through the month of December.<br />
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Of course, this is only the latest in local Christmas tree lore. </div>
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Still going strong is the 100 foot tree constructed on Old School Square along Atlantic Avenue in Delray Beach. This behemoth has been going up every November for twenty years. While it's man made, it's still impressive. The tree literally towers over the school and every building nearby. It's hollow and for a small donation, one can walk inside to see holiday displays.</div>
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The <a href="http://www.downtowndelraybeach.com/holiday-festivities" target="_blank">Delray Beach Downtown Development Authority</a> has added a holiday carousel and an ice skating rink to the fun. Ice skating! In Florida!</div>
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You can enjoy this tree until the beginning of 2013.<br />
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Neither of these two fantastic trees were the first in Palm Beach County holiday history, though.</div>
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In 1971, Generoso Pope, founder of the <i>National Enquirer</i>, along with his wife, Lois, erected a huge living (or recently living) tree on the property of the newspaper for the employees. When Pope noticed that people were slowing down as they drove by the newspaper's headquarters on Federal Highway in Lantana, a tradition was born.</div>
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The tree always came by rail from the northwest and every year a larger tree was chosen. </div>
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It entered the Guiness Book of World Records in 1979 as the "World's Largest Decorated Christmas Tree" when it hit 117 feet. The Christmas displays gradually took over the grounds of the newspaper and grew to include toy trains, faux gingerbread houses and traditional holiday displays. It became THE display that just couldn't be missed and became a highlight of the holiday season for thousands of residents and tourists alike. </div>
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By 1987, the tree was 126 feet tall, and over 1 and a half million people toured the grounds that year alone. The last tree was erected in 1988. Pope passed away that year and the paper was later sold.</div>
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If you get a chance this December, head over and take a look at the two fantastic trees still standing in the Florida sun. Make sure you get your picture taken next to the tree or trees of your choice. We thought the National Enquirer tree would always pop up every December and never bothered to have our picture taken by it. The Delray Beach tree has a good start, but who knows how long these two will be around? <br />
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UPDATE: Wellington's own Cassadee Pope, now a contestant on The Voice, performed at the tree lightning held at Clematis by Night December 6. All reports are that she was fantastic, as usual. Congrats to Cassadee on her continuing success on The Voice and good luck heading into the finals! </div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-30818923615596601422012-11-28T08:15:00.000-05:002012-11-28T08:15:52.449-05:00Who Slept at Seminole Inn?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRYyACDsYXXRy0Zc9fDE5wsi4Wbc_ShuKaZiMgZUVD4mUTzOKMp32h1xH7yi4PbNqAfxU6jM4JMgkHO16tyKLosChqWEpJ6WpllBb-GlSnaO9CD2YDocbU_UWQpnlr742kUDZP0RidvJs/s1600/2012-07-12+iphone+July+12+102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRYyACDsYXXRy0Zc9fDE5wsi4Wbc_ShuKaZiMgZUVD4mUTzOKMp32h1xH7yi4PbNqAfxU6jM4JMgkHO16tyKLosChqWEpJ6WpllBb-GlSnaO9CD2YDocbU_UWQpnlr742kUDZP0RidvJs/s1600/2012-07-12+iphone+July+12+102.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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On a recent trip to Indiantown, I drove past a building I remember passing several times over the years. As my Dad usually wouldn't stop unless it was a dire personal emergency requiring a restroom, I was never able to get more than a glimpse of the hotel as we rolled past on our way to the west coast.</div>
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This time, I stopped for a couple of pictures and a closer look. (It's so nice being the driver instead of the passenger sometimes.) </div>
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The Seminole Inn is one of the hotels built back in those glorious days of the Florida real estate boom of the early 1920s. I've wanted to stay the night there since I was a child, but it always seemed to be on the way to another destination. But one of these days, I'm going to make it my destination. I'm adding it to my Florida Bucket List.</div>
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It was 1926 when the Inn was built on the side of Beeline Highway at Warfield Boulevard in Indiantown, Florida. The brainchild of S. Davies Warfield, President of the Seaboard Coast Line Railroad in the 1920's, it was intended as a luxurious stop for railway visitors as they made their way through Florida. Warfield had big plans for little Indiantown and since Warfield had the say-so, he said the railway would make a stop at Indiantown, and so it did.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQv_v5p1Z30yrOOyAKIJT_bywwZ47H5D0bKy6IeRmGrvyig3udlDB10nYCCZSzhH7NWVDVQAQI67vB7gMkru8B5uiyEcyRsoL7kXqIVDHiLqzilu6PO-U0wInmFbeM8dqx2U2Wb3n7_BE/s1600/2012-07-12+iphone+July+12+106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQv_v5p1Z30yrOOyAKIJT_bywwZ47H5D0bKy6IeRmGrvyig3udlDB10nYCCZSzhH7NWVDVQAQI67vB7gMkru8B5uiyEcyRsoL7kXqIVDHiLqzilu6PO-U0wInmFbeM8dqx2U2Wb3n7_BE/s1600/2012-07-12+iphone+July+12+106.JPG" height="250" width="400" /></a></div>
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Warfield was actually the uncle of Wallis Warfield Simpson. You may have heard of her. A king of England abdicated his throne rather than give up Wallis. Rumor had it that Wallis and her princely husband, the former King Edward VIII, honeymooned at the hotel, but <a href="http://www.historicpalmbeach.com/eliot-kleinberg/2010/12/seminole-inn-not-site-of-royal-honeymoon/" target="_blank">Palm Beach Post </a>columnist Eliot Kleinberg tracked down the truth. The couple honeymooned in Australia.</div>
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S. Davies Warfield died in 1927 shortly before the hurricane of 1928 wreaked havoc on the railway line and the stock market crash of 1929 took the wind out of the tourism industry in Florida for a while. The railroad continued to stop in Indiantown until 1971 and the depo was demolished sometime later. </div>
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Personally, it's ok with me if royalty didn't trod the wood floors and gaze upon the pecky cypress ceilings at the Inn. I'd still like to stay there and let my imagination run wild. Anyone up for a road trip?</div>
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The Seminole Inn is located at 1585 S.W. Warfield Boulevard, Indiantown, Florida 34956. That's in Martin County. Telephone: 772-597-2777 and e-mail is seminolein@aol.com.</div>
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ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-79158186651676992202012-11-21T07:21:00.001-05:002012-11-21T07:21:53.435-05:00The Gratitudes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I got in the habit of gratitude a couple of years ago. Before then, from time to time I'd think about how grateful I was for one blessing or another, but it wasn't a habit.</div>
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These days, before my feet hit the floor every morning, I think of three--and only three--things for which I'm grateful. I call these "The Gratitudes." There's no rhyme or reason to what pops into my head on any given morning and just like the three below, they don't often go together. I have to tell you, sometimes I wonder why a particular gratitude shows up, but I take the first three and offer thanks for them and try not to question it too much.<br />
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This week, in honor of the Thanksgiving holiday, I'm sharing today's three gratitudes with you.</div>
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1. I'm grateful that I was talked into participating in the World Wide Photo Walk by my friend, Karen Bain. (See photo above.) There's nothing like walking through one of the cities I love, cell phone in hand, snapping pictures. I'm STILL looking at things differently. I can't think of a better way for a writer, or anyone else, to start noticing things we usually race past. </div>
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2. I'm grateful I've been able to speak to quite a few elementary school students about <i><a href="http://www.bettytales.com/" target="_blank">Betty Tales</a>: The True Story of a Brave Bobblehead Cat</i> and get them yelling "climb those stairs!" as they learn about my bobblehead cat, goals, obstacles, and determination. There were goosebumps on my arms and tears in my eyes when a teacher told me about one of her students who had faced what was, for him, a huge obstacle. He was in the middle of trying to learn a part for a school production when I showed up with videos of Miss Betty and her message of persistence. When he nailed his part in the production, he turned to his teacher and said, "I really climbed those stairs, didn't I?" </div>
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3. I'm grateful Sir Harry Oakes bought the Winter Golf Club from Harry Kelsey in the early history of Palm Beach County thereby becoming part of my childhood memories and nightmares. I'm not sure what I would be writing about if I hadn't grown up studying the upstairs windows of the mansion for signs of his ghost. Talk about lighting up an imagination!</div>
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I could go on naming gratitudes quite a while--my wonderful friends and family, for example--but my rules keep me at the first three that pop in my head on any given morning. It's hard to stop when I start counting blessings instead of disasters. I'd be willing to bet you'd have a hard time stopping, too.</div>
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This Thanksgiving, I hope you and yours have a wonderful, peaceful holiday loaded with gratitudes. </div>
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And for those of you who follow my blog from foreign lands where this uniquely American holiday isn't celebrated, I'm grateful for you and your support of this blog and hope your week is a great one, too.</div>
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Oops! Another gratitude! There's no stopping!</div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1044871296266283992.post-60633861360334651852012-11-14T07:29:00.001-05:002012-11-14T07:29:29.901-05:00Elementary Echos<br />
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One windy day in
October, I visited what had been my elementary school. As I walked through the
halls I raced through as a child, my footsteps echoed and the wind pushed
something around just out of sight. I
was surprised to find the school still standing. North Palm Beach Elementary is scheduled to
be demolished so that a new technologically advanced school can rise out of the
ashes by 2014.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I walked down
halls and peered in windows, I tried to remember what it had been like. What I
had been like before life accelerated way past worrying about who I would sit
next to at lunch. I had spent several years of my life here. The graduates I
know are doctors, lawyers, magistrates, homemakers, secretaries, policeman, teachers, parents, artists and writers.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFZDSoaAZ32GuM270YmbZfItRYb4aox4bc_Rj3nlv2DtSmaJhMsBrqSdvdyuGLLbBcyrR7ZFACyjI_aDX6hh2PNpzz8WaWVxBiXOX6N_sh60AHr8nORFafyKvxujwGB4sX3e_rQBVtbRg/s1600/iphone+oct+11+2012+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFZDSoaAZ32GuM270YmbZfItRYb4aox4bc_Rj3nlv2DtSmaJhMsBrqSdvdyuGLLbBcyrR7ZFACyjI_aDX6hh2PNpzz8WaWVxBiXOX6N_sh60AHr8nORFafyKvxujwGB4sX3e_rQBVtbRg/s1600/iphone+oct+11+2012+011.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cafetorium Extraordinarium</td></tr>
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It was 1965. Toward
the end of the summer, children all over North Palm Beach met in the combination
cafeteria/auditorium known as a “cafetorium,” to buy large paper sacks of
school supplies from the Parent Teacher Association. The PTA charged $5.00 per
sack to provide everything we’d need and it was heavenly looking at all the
interesting things I’d be using in the coming year. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My memories
start at first grade—Mrs. Atherton was my teacher. We sat in wooden chairs at
tables and wrote furiously in workbooks that told the story of Dick and Jane
and their dog, Spot. We took their lives seriously as we labored over each
letter. “Run, Spot, run. See Spot run. Dick and Jane see Spot run.<br />
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Physical Education was held on sprawling
fields that stretched to the north and west of the school in the days before
any of us knew about s.p.f. “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Tommy right over!” With
aching arms, sweaty bodies, pink noses and shoulders, we trudged exhausted back
to the classrooms with our bobby socks colored gray by Florida sand around stickers
that we invariably picked up from the weeds in the fields. </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><br />
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We had orchestra
and I attempted to learn how to play the cello. I have no idea why I didn’t choose
a flute or something small, but I was very grateful that my friend Chip helped
haul the cello to the curb when I had to take it home to practice. We’d wait for
our rides under the melaleuca trees that lined Anchorage Drive, peeling the papery
bark of the trees as we talked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was at
North Palm Elementary, Spring Carnival was held on the front lawn where the
library was later built. We wore colored poster board cut in the shape of
tulips, roses or daisies on our heads like masks with holes cut for our faces
and ribbons holding them in place. We sang songs about spring and danced. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqiSFDLH2dXoBK4OU6A23Zc4U7ukb2xOs9hv7n98O9BVdb_Oc8v5OKm1myu_SYy7qROnapk_HDxOaE-CID1yDBaoXCsAleZg2YfJ34UbS14-L9N7p-i3uBh56eMsYKH-ReQtvv21ohsWx/s1600/iphone+oct+11+2012+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqiSFDLH2dXoBK4OU6A23Zc4U7ukb2xOs9hv7n98O9BVdb_Oc8v5OKm1myu_SYy7qROnapk_HDxOaE-CID1yDBaoXCsAleZg2YfJ34UbS14-L9N7p-i3uBh56eMsYKH-ReQtvv21ohsWx/s1600/iphone+oct+11+2012+015.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portions of the hanging ceiling<br />
removed showing the high ceilings of old.</td></tr>
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North Palm Beach
Elementary went up in stages from the late 1950s until the 1970s. Gradually,
portable classrooms started taking up the play fields to the north and then the
portables themselves were replaced with buildings. The school is going to disappear much more
quickly. Plans are to pull down almost all of the buildings and remodel the two
that will remain standing. They’re
replacing the cafetorium with a better facility—nicer cafeteria, more
impressive stage. I remember it as a big room with high ceilings where suspiciously, cafeteria ladies always served spinach
on days the lawn was mowed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I really do
understand that the old school is out-of-date. Technology has raced ahead and
the old buildings were built way before computers became small enough to fit in
a phone. The price to retrofit must be way more than the cost to just tear down
and re-build. Part of me, though, regrets that one day soon, I won’t be able to
drive by and see how it’s changed. Unlike my father, whose school still stands
as part of Old School Square in Delray Beach, mine will disappear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bittersweet, to
be sure. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you’re a
graduate of North Palm Beach Elementary, it might be too late for one last
visit by the time you read this. Demolition and clearing was scheduled to start
in October. I’d driven by one last time to say goodbye. As I walked out of the school for the last
time, the sun slowly set over what was left of the play fields and the shadows
crept further and further down the halls. The sound of my footsteps echoed against
those walls I last touched at eleven years of age. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This column originally appeared in Seabreeze Publications, Inc. as "North Palm Beach Elementary Echoes" on November, 2012.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">UPDATE: I was by the school on November 3, 2012, and it was still standing. You may still have a chan</span><span style="font-size: x-small; text-indent: 0.5in;">ce to say goodbye.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Copyright (c) 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge</span></span></div>
ruth.the.writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09854940988819225116noreply@blogger.com21