Baseball and Heroes

     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.

       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!”

     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.

        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.

       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.

       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.

     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.

                

How Did That Street Get THAT Name?

Toney Penna

            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.

            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.

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^th 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.

            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.

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?

            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.

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.

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.

Accomplishments worthy of having a street named after him, I think.

This article first appeared in my column with Seabreeze Publications, Inc., "The Florida You Don't Know."

Paper Mache Christmas Dreams

                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.

                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.

                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.

                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.

                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.

                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.

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. 

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

History Geek Heaven

Lantana Public Library (lantanalibrary.org)

    Once upon a time, a little girl named Mary moved to Lantana, Florida. It was 1925. She grew up, became a teacher and then a librarian before "retiring" in 1976. But her idea of retirement did not involve shuffleboard and card games. She got involved with the Historical Society of Palm Beach County as it's first woman president.

     Mary also published two books on Florida history: "Early Lantana, Her Neighbors and More" in 1980 was followed by "Pioneer Days on the Shores of Lake Worth 1873-1893" which was co-authored with Marjorie Watts Nelson and published in 1994.  

     Mary still didn't totally retire, though. She kept involved and kept promoting local history until her death on July 19, 1998.

     And now, the photographs Mary Collar Linehan took as well as collected over her lifetime have been put together into a collection called the "Linehan Historic Lantana Photographs Collection." Even better, the collection is opening at the Lantana Public Library on October 3, 2012 at 7:00 p.m. I know this is late notice for the grand opening, but the collection will be on display for a while so if you don't make it there for the party on the 3rd, there's still plenty of time.

Myspace Photo

     Among some fascinating pictures of the area are some of the National Enquirer Christmas Tree. Area natives recall the first tree in 1971. It was 45 feet tall and became an attraction to the locals. As years went by, Generoso Pope, the owner of the National Enquirer, kept getting larger and larger trees. It was 1979 when he finally earned the "World's Largest Decorated Christmas Tree" designation in the Guiness World Book of Records when the tree was 117 feet. The last tree was installed and decorated in 1989. It was a 126 foot tall tree before it was cut down in Oregon for the Lantana display. By then, Pope was also decorating the grounds of the newspaper with Christmas displays. I remember walking through with my friends on a cool night. It helped make the season special and the snapshots in Ms. Linehan's collection bring back some wonderful memories.

     Mary Linehan's books and articles are well-researched, fascinating peeks at a world that no longer exists.  I found one book on e-bay (the bidding was over) and one on Amazon.com. The price? $69.00 and worth every penny in my opinion. Her pictures span the time from that world to the Palm Beach County that existed at her death. 

     The library is located at 205 West Ocean Avenue, Lantana, Florida. Phone is 561-540-5740.

     I'm looking forward to looking back. Heaven awaits! See you there?

Good Sam

State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory

            In 1964, Good Samaritan Hospital had a really spiffy lobby.  It had Naugahyde benches with silver metal legs that lined the wall where I sat—patient and long-suffering—the only member of my family not able to ride the elevator to the newborn ward to see my new baby brother.

My grandparents took turns going up the elevator to see my brother in the newborn nursery.   Those were the rules. Kids had germs. Newborns had to be protected. It was several more days before I got a glimpse of the red-faced, dark-haired boy who would become my greatest irritant and one of my greatest loves.

            Good Samaritan Hospital had been there a few decades by the fall of 1964. The Palm Beach Medical Society says West Palm Beach originally had a five bedroom cottage called the “Emergency Hospital”.  Built in 1914, the cottage was on a lot donated by Henry Flagler. The building on Third Street quickly became overcrowded and a bigger building was constructed on the current site on Flagler Drive. It opened in 1920 as Good Samaritan Hospital and has been growing and expanding ever since.  

At first, travel to the hospital wasn’t always easy and, at least with an impending childbirth, challenging to impossible. Consequently, like many additions to the population in those days, my father and two of his siblings were born in a house in Boynton Beach. My youngest uncle was born in what is now the Blue Seas Suite of the Historic Hartman House in Delray Beach.

Good Samaritan Hospital 1950s
Photo Courtesy of
The Historical Society of Palm Beach County

The Historical Society of Palm Beach County has a series of pictures showing the hospital over the years. One of them is from the 1950s and that one comes closest to my earliest memories. I had a friend who worked in the laboratory there when I was in high school in the late 1970s.My memories were updated then since I was able to go behind the scenes to view the lab with all its test tubes and paraphernalia. I even rode the elevator a few times, just for old times’ sake. The hospital had changed.

There’s a great quote from Dr. William Ernest Van Landingham, who served as one of the early Superintendents of Good Samaritan Hospital. On the Palm Beach County Medical Society’s webpage Dr. Van Landingham, said, “Little does the doctor of today realize how fortunate he is to walk into a complete hospital with miracle drugs to aid him... Unless a doctor has been fortunate enough to have had a glimpse of country practice before moving into an urban area, it must be admitted that he really has lost some of the experiences that were commonplace to the doctor of yesteryear and he is also deprived of that nostalgic feeling that we now enjoy for having lived in that age of hardship, sharing with each family the joy of a new baby’s cry, the sadness and tears of the loss of loved ones, and the wishful thinking of what or what we might have accomplished had we not been born thirty years to soon.” That statement appears to have been made in the sixties.

Dr. Van Landingham would have a hard time imaging the Good Samaritan of today. A lobby with soaring ceilings greets visitors who are signed in by volunteers and security guards sign who direct them where to find loved ones in the sprawling complex. I am, however, relieved that the Naugahyde benches are no more.

Copyright (c) 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

Hurricane Memories

Isabel Photo from Nasa.Gov

                As I drive through the remnants left in Palm Beach County by Isaac, I’ve been thinking  back over a lifetime of hurricane memories.  Yes, I am a life-long resident and no, I’m not going to subject you to every memory—just a few. Promise.

                During Hurricane Betsy (1965) I set up the wondrous Show and Tell to entertain my little brother with “shows.” (For those of you who have no clue what I’m talking about, here’s a LINK to the little television-looking box with a record player on top and a slot for the film. Basic, I know, but it was hot stuff back then.) With storm shutters installed, the house was as dark as any movie theatre I’ve ever been in.  An added bonus of our show was the sound of the scratchy records helped mask the eerie sound of the wind.

The Amyrillis in an advertisement for
Rutledge Inn. It actually was not quite as close.

                Betsy was also the year a freighter named Amyrillis ran aground on Singer Island.  The ship didn’t quite make the safety of the Port of Palm Beach. There were thirty souls on board and none were lost. For years (at least it seemed that way to me), the ship was wedged deep in the sand and became a tourist attraction for tourists and Florida natives alike. We swam right up to it and knocked on its sides. If anyone had ever knocked back, I think we would have fainted.  Amyrillis was not pulled back out to sea until 1968, when it became part of an artificial reef.

                Fast forward to 1979 and Hurricane David. By this time, I was a teenager and actively involved in hurricane preparations. I scrubbed bathtubs and filled them with water. Mom was in charge of dosing the water with Clorox to disinfect it. I helped Dad wrap the air conditioner wall unit with garbage bags and duct tape to keep the driving rain from seeping through. We threw the lawn furniture in the pool (not recommended anymore) and lowered awnings.  

                We hunkered down inside and stayed up as late as we could talking and listening to the radio, flashlights close at hand. Towels were jammed under the front door to keep the rain from pouring in.  The howling wind was constant until finally, blessedly, it just stopped. We were in the eye.  Dad opened the door and we peeked around him. He grabbed his car keys and headed toward the marina to re-tie his boat. We headed outside to walk the dog and play in the brief recess from the wind.

                Twenty minutes later, we noticed the far side of the eye wall moving toward us. A solid gray that looked like something was churning behind it, it slowly crept closer. Dad wasn’t back yet. My family knew Dad had been through hurricanes his entire life. Born in Boynton Beach and raised in Delray, he had loads of experience. That didn’t stop us from getting concerned, though. The wall slowly crept closer. No Dad. Mom made us come back in the house and start getting ready for the other side of the storm. No Dad.

                Just when we could see the eye wall practically at the end of our street, the screeching of tires heralded Dad’s return. The door had barely slammed shut behind him and he was still stuffing towels back into the door frame when the howling started. 

Katrina Eyewall
Photo Noaa.gov

When a hurricane first arrives, there’s a build up to the action. First, clouds move in and then start zipping by faster and faster. Then, the rain starts. , Finally, the storm starts to build in intensity. With an eye wall, there’s no build up. It’s peaceful and calm and then- wham! Back in the thick of it.

                Isaac was only a tropical storm when it passed through South Florida. Even so, he managed to dump up to fifteen inches of rain, cause flooding, power outages and even appears to have spawned a tornado in Vero Beach. Unfortunately, Isaac is now pounding into New Orleans. A not so nice anniversary present for those who survived Hurricane Katrina.

                Floridians tend to take our hurricanes matter-of-factly. We watch the news, stock up, board up, burrow in and wait for it to pass. Anyone who grew up along a Florida or Gulf coast understands that while some of the memories are fun ones, there is nothing fun about the whine and hiss of the wind and driving rain as it searches for a way in. There is nothing fun about what hurricanes leave behind.

What Happens to Old Feed Stores in Delray

Sundy House Photo from Yelp

            Tucked away on Swinton Avenue is a little house that was added to the U.S. National Register of Historic Places in 1992.  Built in 1902, three years after John Sundy moved to Delray, the John and Elizabeth Shaw Sundy House, originally home to the John Shaw Sundy family, is still welcoming guests.

            My dad, who grew up in Delray Beach, remembers going past the Sundy house and feed store to deliver newspapers to the Sundy family among others. He rode his bike the few blocks from his house (now the Historic Hartman House Bed & Breakfast) on N.W. 7th Avenue over Federal Highway to the neighborhood around Swinton where he slung papers at front doorsteps.  

            Mr. Sundy became the first mayor of Delray in 1911 and served as mayor a total of seven terms. There were no calls for term limits under his leadership.

            The Sundy family’s feed store was a thriving business in the 1940s when my dad was sent over to buy chicken feed for the family chickens, Henny and Rooty.  Sadly, Henny and Rooty ended up on the family table despite their status as family pets. My dad and his siblings couldn’t eat knowing who was on the serving platter. My Granddad, being the gruff, no non-sense German father raised on a farm and working hard to make ends meet, didn’t appreciate their hesitation. He made sure they knew they either ate the chickens or there would be trouble. I’m sure we can all imagine how that story ended.

            There were no chickens or chicken feed in sight when I had the pleasure of dining at the Sundy house on a beautiful Sunday morning recently. My friend knew I love old houses and history and thought I would enjoy the experience. He was so right. The lush, beautiful landscaping around the driveway was just an indication of what was hidden behind the screen of tropical green.

            We walked into what must have been the front parlor, through another room with a huge tree rising through the roof and into a side room.  Seated at a little table overlooking a pond where koi swam peacefully just beneath the surface as orange darts of color, we had a leisurely breakfast.

            The brunch buffet was excellent and had everything one could possibly hope to eat and then some. We enjoyed every bite. The waffle bar was a surprise and the smell of baking waffles insisted that a freshly baked one had to rest briefly on our plates before being devoured.



Pool at Sundy House from Yelp

            After brunch, we strolled through the gardens past gazebos, tropical flowers and plants. I was amazed at the dark pool. The gunite forming the sides and bottom of the pool is very dark and the pool is inhabited by little fish. The dark pool lining and sweetly swimming fish combine to make the entire area look natural, as if the little pool had always been there, tucked away behind the building just waiting for one to discover it.

            There’s no feed store on the Sundy property these days, but it’s a wonderful place to eat and just right for a special occasion.

            Located at 106 South Swinton Avenue, Delray Beach, the Sundy House is open for Sunday brunch 10:30 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Lunch is served Tuesday through Saturday 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. and dinner 6:00 to 10:00 p.m. It’s free to drive by and gawk out of your car window, but to really experience it, reservations are best. No fishing in those ponds or pool, though. Call 561-272-5678 or reserve on line.

          This article was published originally in Seabreeze Publications, Inc. as my monthly column "The Florida You Don't Know."

(c) Copyright 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

Just In Case

           When you were a kid, did you ever hold your breath when passing a cemetery?

           Why was that?

            I vaguely remember an older cousin telling me to hold my breath so I didn’t breathe in a ghost, but I couldn’t tell you if that’s why we did it. I do remember holding my breath every time we passed Woodlawn cemetery in West Palm Beach on our way to or from my grandparents' house in Delray Beach.  I made sure my brother did, too. If the car was slowed down by a car in front, we’d turn beautiful shades of pink, red, and then blue and almost pass out rather than give in and take a breath.

          I recently asked my mother if she remembered us doing that and she said.” Yes.” But then she shook her head and said, “You always did have a quite the imagination.”

            While driving down Lantana Road from Dixie on the way to I-95 a few weeks ago, I caught a glimpse of something I didn't expect to see along that busy road. Behind a high iron fence, one big banyan tree and some stones were sitting abandoned on a corner lot.

            "Wait!" I called out. "What was that?" But we were already past it and there was no time to turn back that day. 

            I've been up and down Lantana Road thousands of times from childhood on and never noticed that lot. The next time I drove through that area I slowed down a little and peered out the windshield trying to figure out what was there. It was a graveyard sitting beside the street. And I’d been driving past it all these years without once holding my breath.

            Since I can't stand driving by something unusual or old and not finding out about it, I did some research and eventually worked my way back again with my camera.

            The Evergreen Cemetery has been on the corner of Lantana Road and Arnold Road since 1892 when the Evergreen Cemetery Association was formed. Some of Lantana's early settler's are buried there and it continued to be was used for burials up until 1950.  The last person to be buried there was Dan McCarley, the Barefoot Mailman of the area who later served as the first police chief.

            “Pioneer Life on the Shores of Lake Worth” by Mary Lineham, now out of print, states there are around forty graves in this little cemetery and most of them are unmarked. The first burials were those of two sailors who washed ashore on a nearby beach after their ship wrecked. Only a few gravestones are left and the engraving on those is hard to read. Wind and weather have conspired to erase names and dates, leaving only eroded stones to indicate that someone’s loved one lies beneath the soil. The headstones try to stand up straight even as plants and bushes planted in remembrance try to shove them over. 

The lawn is mowed, but there is nothing fancy here. I drove by again on a recent rainy day and noticed that someone had placed flowers on several of the graves. The flowers were splashes of color against the grass and rainy day gray drizzle. It was nice to see that someone comes by to honor these people who could easily have been forgotten in the decades since they were laid to rest in Evergreen

            The Lantana Historical Society is working to complete iron fencing around the cemetery. For a small donation to this 501(c)3 organization, you’ll receive a certificate and the satisfaction of helping to preserve a part of local history. Their address is 1445 West Branch Street, Lantana, Florida 33462. Make sure you indicate your donation is for the fence project.

            Evergreen Cemetery is a peaceful place, even with cars zipping by on Lantana Road.  I parked on Arnold Road the day I went exploring and walked by the fence to get to some of the remaining headstones. I don’t think I need to hold my breath past a cemetery anymore, but I still think walking over a grave is not a good idea.

          Just in case.

This blog article was originally printed as my column titled "The Florida You Don't Know" in the papers distributed in Palm Beach and Martin Counties  by Seabreeze Publications, Inc. The blog article has slight revisions as more information came to light in between the newspaper publiation and now. But, wait! There's more! The full story which is way too long to post here will be one of the stories published in my book, "The Ghost of Sir Harry Oakes: Tales of Growing Up in Palm Beach County" which I continue to work on feverishly. (Ok, not feverishly. But I AM working hard on it!)

Copyright (c) 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

When Worlds Collide

In 1913, my great-grandfather, Frederick Hartmann, got a great deal on a couple of lots in Delray Beach. It was buy one, get one and he jumped at the offer to purchase his piece of paradise. The lots were surrounded by pineapple fields. Adolf Hoffmann, one of the movers and shakers of the day, lived to the north and a few blocks to the south was Atlantic Avenue, even then a main street. Fledgling Federal Highway sat a short block to the west.

It wasn’t until 1926 that the house that sits on the southernmost lot was built. A large two-story house, it was later inhabited by my grandparents, Gustav R. Hartman and Ione Hartman and their children, Marjorie Ann, Norman, Warren and Allen. Gustav was the Assistant Postmaster of Delray Beach. I only found out through research recently that my Dad was arguably one of the best athletes of his era at Seacrest High School. He was always too modest to talk much about it although he did ‘fess up to holding a high-game basketball score that stood for twenty years or so. He had no choice on that one. The story about the twenty-six year record being broken appeared in the newspaper my senior year of high school.

My father has shared stories of riding his bike across Federal Highway to deliver papers to the Sundy’s and other residents to the west. My Uncle Allen told me of the days when he crossed Federal all by himself to walk to school at what is now Old School Square.

Over the years, the warp and weave of Delray Beach has wandered through a pattern of its own design. The neighborhood around my grandparents house went from pineapple fields to homes. Federal Highway went from a little scraggly highway in name only, to an actual thoroughfare. When I was around ten, Bud’s Chicken went in directly behind the house. My cousins and I were often sent through the ficus hedge, money in hand, to pick up chicken dinners for the family on those days when everyone stayed too long in the pool and no one felt like leaving the cool water to rustle up a meal.

The neighborhood surrounding the house has had it’s bad days. After my grandmother sold the house in 1973, the house fell into disrepair and became a derelict relic of the past. Federal Highway slid into vacant lots, old buildings and car dealerships as Delray struggled. Decisions on what to allow to be built on Federal Highway appeared to be made haphazardly based on a criteria few understood and Federal became a shadow of the busy center of commerce it had been years ago.

Somewhere in the 1990s, a new spirit entered the city and renovation, restoration and revitalization grabbed hold of the imaginations of the residents. The now thriving Atlantic Avenue is an incredible testament to the power of positive thinking following by determined action.

The house my great-grandfather built was finally blessedly bought by Benita and Jordan Goldstein who brought Delray Beach’s first bed and breakfast to fruition. The Historic Hartman House opened its doors in 2011 representing a revitalization of the Palm Trails neighborhood.

I never knew my great-grandfather, he died while my Dad was a child, but I sure knew my grandparents, Gus and Ione Hartman. They’d get a kick out of the "Historic" designation, I’m sure. The bed and breakfast has a well-deserved international reputation as a beautiful, peaceful oasis a few blocks from the hub of town. The Goldsteins make every guest feel like they’ve arrived home in a place they’ve never been before.

On April 3, I attended the Delray Beach City Commission meeting. I was there to support the Goldsteins and their neighbors as they stated their opposition to the opening of a proposed detox center in the Delray Inn, an old motel on Federal Highway behind the Palm Trails neighborhood that sits catty-corner to the Historic Hartman House. My argument was that after all the work the town, the Goldsteins and the local historical groups did to restore and renovate the Historic Hartman House, a detox center would be a glaring neon light on a peaceful landscape. Disruptive to the natural ebb and flow of the neighborhood much as plopping a bunch of movie premiere spotlights on the beach one evening to light up the sand would be to the serenity of the beach. 

Current Delray Inn
(Photo from their website)

The Commission chambers were filled to overflowing with people who had variations of the same argument as well as some other pointed questions. I sat horrified as the attorney for the Delray Inn accused those speaking in opposition to the center of demonizing addicts in our quest to keep them out of the area. Far from it. Many who spoke knew all too well the personal toll addictions take. It’s just not possible to have the best of both worlds when we speak about a detox center abutting a neighborhood filled with historical homes. Which is more important? Which belongs there?

Don’t misunderstand me, I strongly believe that there is a need for detox centers. Addicts don’t choose anything but their very first hit. After that, they, their families and friends, are victims. They're controlled by other forces and breaking those chains are not only difficult, but dangerous. But does one belong at the back door of a neighborhood fighting to re-emerge from decades of struggling against the slide into decay?

The Delray Beach City Council voted no. Among other issues and concerns, the compatibility issue loomed large and added to the grounds to deny the center on the Delray Inn property.

History is that topic a lot of kids hated in high school. I had friends who’s eyes glazed over as they walked in the classroom door. But history IS important. We can’t tell where we’re going if we don’t have a clear picture of where we’ve been. Sometimes, it’s only by looking at the past and relishing the good things about way back when that give us courage to keep moving forward in a sometimes harsh and frightening world. There's a feeling of helplessness when economic collapse sits waiting to pounce on anyone and the future looks bleak.

Yes, a detox center is crucial. Perhaps Delray doesn’t need ALL of the rehab centers that make Delray Beach the "rehab capital of the world." I don’t know. What I do know is that there is another place for a detox center. A place where it would be welcome. A place near the hospital for those dangerous physical side-effects of detoxification. It didn’t have to be located at the Delray Inn.

From Wikipedia

I know that on April 3, the Delray Beach City Commissioners voted to permit the historical flavor of the city to continue to grow. It chose to continue on the path of restoration and renovation to keep pushing and pulling Delray Beach toward a reputation as a destination worth visting-worth moving to-worth living in. It chose to cherish and protect the remnants it has of those days when pineapples outnumbered people in Delray Beach.

Worlds collide. And this time, the past won.

(c) copywrite 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

Double Roads

Double Roads. Juno Beach.
View to North. 2012

             For most children growing up in Palm Beach County, the beach is a constant source of entertainment and enjoyment. As I was growing up in North Palm Beach, we had to travel south to Singer Island or north to Juno Beach and Jupiter to get to the ocean, but the destination was always worth the drive.

            In the 1960s and seventies, we had to jump and slide down big sand dunes to get to the sea in Juno Beach. It was an art to avoid the roots of seagrapes and random rocks to keep from falling head over heels.  Once on the beach, walking to the surf usually involved a lot of mincing steps in a futile attempt to run over the steaming sand, superheated by the glaring sun. My personal favorite was jumping from towel to towel until I reached the cooler wet sand. I still see people doing the towel dance.

            One of our favorite destinations was Double Roads. Literally, a double road for a block or two along A1A just north of Marcinski Road in Juno Beach, Double Roads was a dirt road to the east of two lane A1A. Rumor has it that beach erosion gradually required the dirt road be paved. I couldn’t tell you, but its certainly paved now and sturdy wooden stairways from the street level to the sand have been installed. No more tumbling down a dune.

            In those days, someone was always holding a bonfire on the beach in the evenings. Then, as now, teenagers liked to socialize without parents and parties around bonfires were frequent.  From the stories my Facebook friends have shared with me, some were much more exciting than most of the parties I attended. “Submarine races” were as popular then as they are now and spending the night cuddled in blankets under the open stars pure romance.

            Opposite Double Roads, where condominiums are now, boys used to practice their “Dukes of Hazzard” moves in the sand, driving in wild, wide circles over the scrub in their souped-up cars. Once, a van even went off the road, over the dune and onto the beach several feet below. No one seems to remember if it was occupied at the time.

            Crab walks were another evening delight. Crabs would leave the beach in huge numbers and attempt to cross Double Roads and A1A by the light of the moon. All those white bodies scrabbling over the road was enough to give anyone nightmares.  Unfortunately, cars kept driving and the trip became deadly for the crabs. Innocent travelers with their windows down to enjoy the salty seabreeze were treated to the crunch of crabs as pale bodies became easy prey to car tires. The smell of crab parts in the undercarriage the next few days was an unwelcome souvenir of the evening drive.

            When I was camping with the Girl Scouts at Camp Welaka, one of the best field trips was to the beach. The Camp would load campers into vans and drop us off at the beach to walk silently in the dark looking for nesting sea turtles. Once a turtle started laying her eggs, we could turn on flashlights and watch. As the cool, salty breeze blew stiffly off of the ocean, we’d stand mute and watch as nature provided the show both on the beach and in the starry sky.

Double Roads Looking South.
2012.

            Double Roads is right where it’s always been, on A1A just north of Marcinski Road. Still open to the public and a great place for a walk on a clear night, but I wouldn’t suggest a bonfire. I’m pretty sure you need a permit for that now.

(This column first appeared in seabreezepublications.com in The Florida You Don't Know.)

Copyright 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

The Dapper Dan Contest

My son just inherited the family albatross. A huge box of empty envelopes, a few letters and pictures and tons of stamps that my grandfather, Gustav Hartman, collected all of his adult years.

The big plastic container has been through several relatives who sifted endlessly through the contents looking for that one little piece of flotsam that would cause them to jump to their feet and scream "Eureka! We're rich!!"

Alas and alack, not one of them, including my son, got to experience that moment. We did, however, get lost in the postmarks, pictures and pages of stamps. My grandfather had been Assistant Postmaster and Superintendent of the Mails for Delray Beach back when Delray was so small the mail was sorted in his back room.

There were sheets of once newly issued stamps, now crisp and yellow with age. We excitedly opened every envelope hoping to find correspondence between him and my grandmother. They had courted and become engaged, by mail in 1928. I would have loved to have been able to write that story.

There was nothing. Nada. Zip and zilch.

BUT!! Among the pictures of people we didn't know in front of landscape that doesn't exist in Delray Beach anymore, we found the picture of Dapper Dan.

We actually have no idea who this dapper gentleman is, what he's holding, what he's standing in front of or why he posed for this picture. We certainly don't even know if his name is "Dan." It just seemed to go with the bowler. Which led me right to....

Another contest!!

We had so much fun with our Jones Creek contest last year, that I've been looking for another opportunity. Well, here it is. Let's try to figure out who this man is and what it is he's doing. As with the Jones Creek contest, your entry can be serious or funny, researched and based on something you've found, or it can be created out of your imagination. It's possible someone out there even knows who this man really is - wouldn't that be a kick?

Winners will be picked at random again from all entries because if your entries are anything like the last time, there's no way I can judge.

This time, the prize is a $10.00 gift card to Amazon.com for you to use for anything your little heart desires.

So, take a good look at the picture of our mysterious Dapper Dan and serious or silly, post your best guess as to who he is and what he's doing. I can't wait to read your entries!

Copyright 2012 Ruth Hartman Berge

Comeau and Clematis

Comeau Building (Yellow Building with Arches
at Street Level Behind Palms) 2012

            Before I started school in 1966, I frequently traveled to West Palm Beach with my mother to meet my father for lunch. We headed for his office in the Comeau Building which had that wonderful smell old buildings get, probably from decades of polish on wood trim and walls . We rode up to his floor in elevators that forty years before had been hailed as modern and swift and came complete with elevator operators. At age five, I didn’t notice them being particularly swift and there were no longer operators standing by in sharp uniforms, but the elevators were still impressive as elevators were few and far between in the North Palm Beach area in the mid-1960s. I was always fascinated with the mail chutes, too. One would put an envelope in the chute on say, the seventh floor, and it would disappear into the murky shadows. Heady stuff for a child and I used to beg my father for a piece of mail to contribute.

            The Comeau Building is still there on Clematis Street. It was built in a Classical Revival style from 1916 and was completed in 1925. The building withstood hurricanes (including the horrible one of 1928 which destroyed buildings all over South Florida) and a fire in the mid-1980s that gutted the 10^th floor. The building, named after Alfred J. Comeau, an early entrepreneur of the area, has been through foreclosures and several owners over its eighty-six year life span, yet it still stands. It was named to the U.S. National Register of Historic Places on September 6, 1996.

            At one time, a company was going to turn it into a hotel. That would have been something to see. I would have loved to stay there, but the hotel plans never materialized. The latest information in the May 4, 2011 South Florida Business Journal. AW Property “plans to completely renovate and modernize the 90,000 square foot icon with about $2 million in initial capital and tenant improvements. The building’s use will remain office, with ground-floor restaurants and retail storefronts.” I’m glad that building isn't being renovated out of existence.

            Being on Clematis Street itself is an odd feeling for me. In my mind, I have the pictures of how it looked when it was a big event to go downtown and fancy patent-leather shoes and socks with lace were required to go with a fancy dress to meet my dad. The buildings on Clematis are the same shape and size, but the facades are totally different. My memory takes me back and forth between what was and what is now. The last time I was on Clematis, 2010 or thereabouts, the old Woolworth store space was occupied by a design store. The lunch counter had disappeared as had the bins of ten and twenty-five cent knick-knacks that I loved to sort through while my Mom looked at more interesting things. 

            After dragging my dad out of his office in the 1960s, we’d head to the lunch counter there in Woolworth's to eat. I’d pester to sit in a booth by the front window so I could watch shoppers and businessmen walk by as I devoured lunch. I don’t think anyone in town made a grilled hotdog quite as good as the cook at Woolworth's and if I could find a way to time-travel, that would be one of the silly, little things I’d want to go back and try just one more time.

Never Found Anywhere Better!

Carlin Park's Loggerhead Cafe 2012

     The Loggerhead Café is in a two story building in Carlin Park in Jupiter, Florida. Located at 400 South SR A1A, it’s nothing fancy. An open window in the front so that the bathing suit crowd can order a hot dog to go, a covered patio in the back for those who enjoy the sea air while they dine or have a wet backside from swimming in the nearby ocean, and a simple, but good menu is more than enough for any diner.

     The building has been on that spot as long as I can remember. It looks old to the casual observer, although I believe it was built in the 1960s. If there was any doubt that it actually was older than most, the cement bathrooms outside at either end of the building, floors often covered with sand carried in by bathers in the seat of their suits, would be confirmation. The restrooms have been updated, but they’re still on the rustic side.

     If we weren’t grilling lunch ourselves at one of the picnic pavilions which spread out to the south of the main building like ducks following mama, I’d beg to be allowed to buy a hotdog and a soda at the window.

Sign Posted by Seminole Chapter
of the D.A.R.

     The beach at Carlin Park was one of my family’s favorites because of the lifeguards and the handy potties. Somewhere in my box of pictures is one of me in a swimsuit, sunglasses covering blue eyes, posing knee deep in the moat around a sand castle at age two.

     If one got to the park early enough on a weekend, coolers, towels and beach chairs would pile up on the cement picnic tables to signal possession. In 1970, there were only 3,136 people in residence in Jupiter, but hundreds more came from inland or north from nearby towns North Palm Beach and Palm Beach Gardens to enjoy the beach. Those pavilions provided a nice bit of shade during breaks from running across the steaming sand hot enough to burn bare feet and swimming in the ice cold ocean.

     Loggerhead Café’s building sits on the spot Capt. Charles Carlin ran a lifesaving station from 1885 to 1889. The lifesaving building had to be demolished, but the park still bears his name.

     After a life of adventure in the Navy and around the United States during which he came home to Jupiter several times, Capt. Carlin’s grandson, Carlin White, a Jupiter native, returned to serve as mayor and then to retire here. When I first started writing my column for Seabreeze Publications, Inc., I had the pleasure of being included with other Jupiter authors at an event with Mr. White. I didn’t want to bother him with all of the questions swirling around my brain as it was late in the evening and I was tired by then. I reasoned that since he had recently celebrated his 104^th birthday, he might be a little tired, too. I regretted that I had not fought my way through the crowd around him earlier.

     After all of the authors at the event posed for a picture, me standing behind Mr. White, I stood at my table behind his chair and watched as another Jupiter resident grilled him about life in Jupiter way back when. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but I distinctly remember Mr. Carlin’s response to the last question. Asked, "Why did you keep coming back to Jupiter?" He answered incredulously, "Why...because I never found anywhere better!"

     How about you? Was your hometown THE BEST place to live? Or have you moved and found a new favorite?

The Chillingworth Murders

Marjorie McKnight Chillingworth

(This story has been revised to remove the link to the Historic Hartman House Bed & Breakfast. Two reasons. First and foremost, someone replaced my link with an X-rated link. Second, the Historic Hartman House is no longer open as a bed and breakfast and is not open to the public. To the reader who reported the hacked link to me, thank you.)
 
         On September 22, I posted a little historical fiction piece in response to Rachel Harrie’s Second Campaign Challenge. If you haven’t seen it, or would like to re-read it before you go on, this LINK will take you right to it.  Several of the comments to my story asked for more information. Since the challenge ended on October 3, I felt it was now okay post the “rest of the story” as Paul Harvey says without defeating the 200 word limit. 

The disappearance and presumed murder of Judge Curtis E. Chillingworth and his wife, Marjorie McKnight Chillingworth was the most shocking event of its time in Palm Beach County, both for who the victims were and why they were murdered. The Birth of an Imago was based on what is known about the true last moments of Marjorie Chillingworth’s life.

            One of my dad’s favorite routes north from Delray Beach to North Palm Beach after a Sunday afternoon at my grandparents, was to travel north next to the ocean along A1A as far as possible. There was no super highway I-95 through Palm Beach County in those days and although the drive was slow-going, the ocean was always to our right and it was beautiful to smell and see as we meandered home.

            At one point in Manalapan, a small town tucked up next to the ocean south of Palm Beach, A1A takes a hard left turn away from the beach. As we approached the curve, a big house sat directly in front of us facing south.  Even before I knew whose house it had been, the house and the beach beside it always felt surrounded by a feeling of melancholy even to me as a child.  A beach is a hard thing to infuse with such a sad feeling, but there it was, dampening the sunshine. I don’t remember exactly when Dad told me about the Chillingworth murders, but I can tell you that from the moment he did, I understood that this place had earned its sadness.

When we approached the house, I’d stop my mindless chattering from the back seat and look out the window solemnly as we passed. I’d even go so far as to kneel silently on the back seat and stare out the back windshield as the car moved around the next curve and the house disappeared from sight.



Judge Curtis E. Chillingworth
Florida Archives Photo

            Around 10:00 p.m. on June 14, 1955, Judge Chillingworth and his wife, Marjorie, left a friend’s house for their “beach cottage” on the shoreline in Manalapan, Florida. The weather on the fourteenth was slightly rainy and it was a typical steamy summer Florida evening. The Chillingworths disappeared into the balmy night sometime after returning home and never reappeared.

            On June 15, a carpenter showed up at the house to build some playground equipment for the Chillingworth grandchildren. He found the door open and realized the house was empty.

            At 10:00 a.m., Court was ready to start in West Palm Beach, but Judge Chillingworth, habitually punctual, was nowhere in sight. No one answered the telephone at the Chillingworth home and his staff grew alarmed. The police were alerted and drove over to the house to investigate.

            The was no sign of the Chillingworths but the beds had been slept in and it appeared that only pajamas and slippers were missing. Concerns heightened when two rolls of tape were found-one in the house and one on the beach. When drops of blood were spotted on the walkway from the house to the beach, the investigation accelerated.

            At first, it was thought to be a kidnapping but no ransom note was ever found and the case grew cold.

Peel
PBC Sheriff's
Office Photo

            The crime was still unsolved when in November, 1958, a bootlegger named Lew Gene Harvey vanished overnight. His wife remembered that her husband had left the house that night with “John Lynch.”  Lynch was an alias used by a man named Floyd Albert “Lucky” Holzapfel. Floyd had a criminal past and had been arrested one time along with Joseph A. Peel, Jr.  At the time, Peel was a local attorney and West Palm Beach’s only municipal judge. Peel hired Floyd to beat Peel’s law partner to death for the proceeds of an insurance policy. The partner survived and fingered both men.

Holzapfel
PBC Sheriff's
Office Photo

            The police started digging and found that Peel had been reprimanded by Chillingworth, his supervisor, for representing both sides in a divorce. Peel had been told that one more breach of ethics like that and he’d face disbarment.  This terrified Peel as he had a nice little side income generated by alerting bootleggers and other criminals to impending search warrants and subpoenas. When police left his office with important documents in hand, Peel would be on the phone calling in a warning to the crooks. He was well paid for the inside information and by jeopardizing his secret stream of income, Chillingworth had unwittingly stepped into the gun sights.

The police set up a sting and pretending to be good ol' boy friends of his, got Holzapfel drunk one night, and encouraged him to confess to the Chillingworth murders. Of course, his “friends” taped the whole confession and the ugly truth about the Chillingworths’ mysterious disappearance finally emerged.

Lincoln
PBC Sheriff's
Office Photo

            We have only the words of the murderers as to what happened that night and no one but the two of them ever knew the whole story. According to them, Holzapfel and his friend George David “Bobby” Lincoln rowed their little skiff about four miles off of the coast and proceeded to wrap Mrs. Chillingworth in chains.  The Judge told Mrs. Chillingworth, “Remember, I love you.” And she replied, “I love you, too.” Holzapfel turned to Mrs. Chillingworth and saying, “Ladies first,” shoved her out of the boat and into the water.

            Some versions of the story say that Judge Chillingworth jumped in after her to attempt to save her, but she sank from sight. The Judge, having grown up on and in the ocean in Palm Beach County, was an excellent swimmer and almost escaped, even with his hands taped and lead weights on his feet. But one of the men hit him on the head with a gun. The two dragged him back on the boat, tied an anchor around his neck and pushed him overboard to drown also.

            The 200 word story I entered in the Challenge was actually the third story I wrote. The first two just didn’t speak to me the way the last moments of Marjorie Chillingworth did. By all accounts, she was an educated, gracious, loving wife and mother, active in the Garden Club and well respected and loved by all who knew her. She was the very model of a 1950s socialite wife. The majority of the story always seems to focus on the Judge and not much seems to be in the public domain about Marjorie and her life. In writing about the last moments of Mrs. Chillingworth, I put myself in that boat and tried to imagine what she was feeling–the confusion,  fear, anger, and the sadness.

          It’s no wonder that the house and beach beside it still resonate with the echoes. God rest their souls.