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?

Of Birthdays

Remember that one special birthday? The one where you turned a certain age on the date that matched your age? I used to call it the "golden birthday" because it happens only once in a lifetime.

I remember turning eleven on the eleventh day of January. I also remember feeling sorry for those who would turn thirty on the thirtieth. I thought it was so much more fun having that one special birthday as a kid when every annual celebration was incredible. My grandfather and I shared the eleventh as a birthday which made it even more of an event than if the date had belonged to me alone. I was his first granddaughter (and only for another decade) and was delivered right on time with a bow on my head. (Okay. I'm joking about the bow.)

That year, as always, we had the party involving tons of kids, pizza, cake and ice cream. My favorite gift was a Camelot costume for my Barbie doll. (Does anyone even remember Camelot? Robert Goulet in a crown crooning "If Ever I Would Leave You"?) My friends and I, party hats askew, ran amok in the backyard (no snow on the ground here in Florida in January) as every single girl pretended to be the pretty blonde star of the Mod Squad. My cousin delighted in saying "The devil made me do it!" just like Flip Wilson. And that night when I went to bed, exhausted, full of cake with a well-dressed Barbie under my arm, I fell asleep smiling.

This year, I have to admit I'm way past eleven. No matter how much I offer to pay them, not even my dearest friends can swear I don't look a day over twenty-one. I have to tell you, though, I was wrong about the whole "special birthday being more fun when you're a kid" thing. It's different now, but still a celebration . This year, there'll be less cake, not as many guests at the birthday dinner and definitely no running amok in the back yard (the raccoons living back there scare my entire family), but I'll be celebrating a nice dinner with most of those I hold close in my heart. Not all can attend--Some are traveling for work, some live too far away, some have schedules crazier than mine and some have passed on.  I'm grateful for those still a phone call away and thankful that those who are gone that were once a part of this crazy, fabulous tapestry I call my life.

I'm curious, dear readers. What was your golden birthday? Or that one gift that just blew your socks off? I'm heading out for cake and ice cream (don't tell Eileen at Weight Watchers - she'll be dogging me next Saturday!) but I'll be checking in to see what you have to say. Happy birthday to all whenever your birthday may be and to all - celebrate each and every birthday to the fullest!

The Dairy Belle

First posted on Facebook, "I Love Lake Park, Florida" Facebook page.

On a Sunday evening after dinner, when we ate at home and not at my grandparent's house in Delray Beach, occasionally, the talk would turn to dessert.

"Let's go to the Dairy Belle for some ice cream," my dad would say.

"But I made some jello," Mom protested half-heartedly.

"Let the jello wait. Let's go get ice cream." He'd turn to me, all of three, to enlist my opinion which of course, was always, "Ice cream!"

We'd head out of the house to my father's convertible MG Midget and wait patiently while he put the top down. Big hands picked me up and deposited me in the carpeted well behind the only two seats in the vehicle. No car seats or seat belts in those days. As we drove off, I spent the fifteen minutes to the Dairy Belle with my face poking out beside the passenger seat. If I'd have been a dog, my ears would have been flapping in the wind. No flapping ears, but no dog ever had a grin as big as mine as the wind hit my face and messed with my hair.

The Dairy Belle (never just "Dairy Belle") was in Riviera Beach near the intersection of Federal Highway and Blue Heron Boulevard. Just a little building, it was covered with square tile in bright colors. We'd mosey up to the window and order our cones. I almost always got a vanilla soft serve and pleaded for a chocolate, cherry or butterscotch dip.

Cones in hand, we headed for the concrete picnic tables where we sat and dueled with the balmy summer evening. It was always a race to see if we were able to get more ice cream in our mouths than down our arms as the cones melted.

I was always washed down after finishing in those days and was placed back in the carpeted well for the trip home. I can still remember lying down in the well, slightly sticky despite the vigorous washing in the restroom. I could listen to the sound of my parents' voices and could feel the car as my dad put it through the gears to drive us home. It's odd the things that stick in your mind. The feel of that carpet is just as vivid today as it was then.

Good news for you, my faithful readers, for once I'm not telling you about a place that's disappeared. The Dairy Bell is still there and still serving ice cream. The concrete tables have been replaced, but there are still places to sit and enjoy your dessert. I can't guarantee that the cones taste as yummy as they did in 1962, but I'm sure they're just as cold and just as nice on a warm evening, which Florida has plenty of even in the winter.

Christmas in Dixie



Picture Courtesy of David Joyce

           Although versions of the Christmas in Dixie parade were happening as far back as the 1920s, the parade became an institution in northern Palm Beach County during its run from 1954 until the early 1990s. Spectators had to get to the parade route an hour before it started to claim space on the curb.

          My family settled in for the long wait along the parade route reeking of sunscreen because in Florida, despite the calendar saying December, it’s often hot and sunny.  When cars trickled to a stop, my brother would dash into the four-lane street along with twenty other little boys looking for the start of the parade.

When we could hear faint music, everyone would stand up and elbowing each other, crane our necks around and over each other in order to see the very beginning of the parade. The American flag appeared down the street first in the hands of the color guard, the local R.O.T.C. or the Veterans of Foreign Wars. Everyone lining the parade route would stand quietly, hand over heart in respect. The dad hand would be attempting to reach and smack anyone under age ten who wouldn’t stand still or dared to speak.

          The first modern Christmas in Dixie parade was organized in 1954 in Riviera Beach by Jerry Kelly. By 1969, the Palm Beach Post was calling the Christmas in Dixie Parade the “Biggest Florida parade outside of the Orange Bowl spectacle.” That year, the Christmas in Dixie parade included “clowns, twirlers, motorcycles, floats, fire engines, horses, dogs, six bands and a lion.” Also on board was the “Miami Mummer’s Band.” It may not have been televised like the Orange Bowl which went out over the airwaves to TV sets all over the country live from the streets of Miami, but we sat in awe on the curbs and danced in excitement anyway.

          We did our part as spectators, waving at the kids on the floats and anyone in the parade who glanced our way. We danced when the marching bands came by and we ooed and ah’d where expected. We bought souvenirs from the vendors who walked up and down the street selling cotton candy and other things we tried to convince our parents were necessary to life.

          The Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts marched in uniform, waving at the crowd. Local gymnastics schools had participants flipping down the street. Hordes of baton twirlers twirled as they marched. The local fire departments had their oldest trucks decorated and in the parade. Local celebrities and a Grand Marshall sat with sashes and flowers in the backs of convertibles. All the high school bands performed. They would march by with sweat beading on their faces, proudly playing “Jingle Bells” or their school fight song.

          The luckiest participants were those that rode on floats. Church groups would spend weeks building elaborate nativities and holiday displays on flat bed trailers covered with chicken wire. The children of the church would ride clinging on for dear life while singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs in order to be heard. For some unknown reason, they were usually put right in front or behind one of the high school bands.

There was a Miss Christmas in Dixie and she and her court had a float all to themselves. The queen and her court were required to wave regally when they weren’t tossing candy to the kids along the route. By the time they reached the end, arms were aching and Christmas cheer was in short supply.

          The very last entry in the parade was always Santa Clause. When kids saw his flat bed trailer decked out with a huge gold throne and eight tiny reindeer mysteriously hovering in the air coming down the street, sheer ecstasy and pandemonium would erupt. It meant that it was finally, officially, Christmas season. We only had a few more weeks to keep trying to be good.

Behind Santa’s float, the real world came back and people who had finished watching the parade at the beginning had lined up in their cars and patiently followed Santa’s float across town. More than one kid riding in the back of their parent’s station wagon would wave at the spectators like they were a big shot in the parade themselves.

          In the early 1990s the much loved Christmas in Dixie parade met its sad end when, in a fit of jealousy over a boy, a teenage girl near the end of the parade route threw a bottle at her rival who was marching in the parade. During the riot that followed, it was estimated that 750 to 1,000 people were arrested. That, along with rising costs, led to the demise of the best small-town spectacle I can remember.