Charity's seed rooted in 1926 'cane

The 1926 Miami hurricane turned this car
on its side and pushed it against a building.
Photo credit: floridamemory.com/items/show/153841

Street scene shows some of the damage
in Miami after the 1926 hurricane.
Photo credit: floridamemory.com/items/show/141460

This year--2026--marks the 100th anniversary of the 1926 Miami hurricane. The tragedy helped lead to what we know today as Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of Miami.

Internet and AI searches will give you details and photos about the destruction suffered in South Florida on Sept. 18,1926. This blog post includes actions taken by Catholic religious leaders and laity.

First, some quick facts about the Category 4 Great Miami Hurricane:

• Hundreds of people died and hundreds more went missing.
• Winds went from 19 mph at 8 p.m. Sept. 17 up to 145-150 mph at landfall less than 12 hours later, in the early morning of Sept. 18.
• Hurricane-force winds stretched along the South coast from the Keys to West Palm Beach.
• The storm's eye was between 30 and 40 miles wide.
• Two days later, on Sept. 20, 1926, the hurricane made a second Florida landfall in Pensacola, in the Panhandle, as a Category 3.

In South Florida, many new residents and others unfamiliar with hurricanes tried to leave beachside during the eye, thinking the storm had ended. Most lost their lives when the winds and rain roared in again.

That storm ended the Florida Boom and ushered in the Depression early in Florida, Things only got worse. From the Miami Archdiocese:

"The havoc caused by the hurricane, the poverty and desperation were aggravated by the Great Depression of 1929. Amid these circumstances, on March 8, 1931, the provision of assistance and social services to poor families was formalized."

Thus was Catholic Charities born in South Florida. But emergency relief had started right after the hurricane. A USA Today article (behind a paywall) notes how parishes immediately converted spaces into relief centers and housing centers right after the storm. Traumatized residents received food, supplies, housing and spiritual care.

Gesu Church in downtown Miami remained standing after the storm. It's believed the parish immediately opened as a shelter to house 200 children who'd been separated from their parents during the storm. 

Parishioners at the Miami beachside St. Patrick's Church turned to physical work to handle their shock. Their church and school housed in refurbished stables were flattened in the storm. Two weeks later, the parishioners had made enough repairs for the school to reopen. I assume they made even faster fixes to set up a space for Mass.

Half a year later, the world had moved on but South Floridians still suffered. A Facebook post tells how religious leaders joined for a community-wide Easter Sunday Service on Miami's beachfront in 1927. In the Facebook photo, you can hardly see the sand for all the people crowded there. 

A final note about the storm in Miami: Sept. 17,1926 was sunny, balmy and breezy. It was a typical beautiful Florida fall day. A Yale Climate Connections article says a hurricane warning wasn't issued until 11:30 that night. The storm came in fast after that.

That era's weather forecasting technology was more primitive than what we have today. Even we non-meteorologists can track storms from inception. I appreciate that. 

As on that day, hurricanes today can and do swell and blow in quickly. And change course. I remember having only a few hours to prepare when Hurricane Charley altered course and headed straight for my area in 2004. 

It's smart to always start with season with a plan and supplies in place.

Let's not grow complacent during this quiet hurricane season in Florida. 

Sorrow of the Scrub

Today's post is a big departure for me. That's because I didn't write it. Instead, I share, with permission, a post titled "Sorrow of the Scrub," by Rollins College Professor Lesley Kemp Poole. 

The post reflects on the harsh reality of childhood mortality in frontier Florida. One statistic cited says up to 50 percent of children died before age 5 in Florida in the late 1800s. Some women buried almost all their children.

The reasons for the deaths are many, but the grief such losses evoked spans time and place. The post discusses how burying so many children affected both real and fictional mothers in the Florida scrub. What makes the article so compelling are memories shared by descendants - including the author - of some of those pioneers.

Childhood death is a stark reminder of the harsher side to the pioneer experience, darker than what I usually write about. But important to know. 

The post first appeared on The Marjorie (https://themarjorie.org), a reporting outlet focused on Florida's deep human history and unique environment. The site's name channels the legacies of three important Marjories in Florida history: author Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, conservationist Marjorie Harris Carr and advocate and author Marjory Stoneman Douglas.

Enjoy.

Wild West copied frontier Florida

The living-history 2026 Great Florida
Cattle Drive continued rain or shine.
(Photo credit: USA Today 'The Florida
Pulse' documentary video.)

I often say pioneer Florida resembled the Wild West. Actually, the Wild West copied frontier Florida in a major way: cattle drives.

Florida cowmen and cow-women have been conducting cattle drives across the state for hundreds of years. The Spanish introduced what's called cracker cattle to the state in the early 1500s. Cattle drives in Texas and states farther West were latecomers. Yet, much historical lore plants such events firmly - and only - in those areas.

Wrong. Florida was a leading cattle-producing state by the mid-1800s, according to a University of Florida blog about the industry's history. We still rank among the top cattle-producing states in the nation.

Florida cattle drives of the past are no more, with one major exception: The Great Florida Cattle Drive. It's a living-history journey like no other. Using tools of the trade like those of 200 years ago, volunteers drive cattle across the state just as they did during the pioneer era. 

Organized by the all-volunteer Florida Cow Culture Preservation Committee, the reenactment takes place about once every five years. Florida's ongoing rapid development has hindered and altered the path of the trail, but the event's power and intent remain the same. The Great Florida Cattle Drive website says:

"This reenactment honors the state’s ranching heritage and educates attendees about the challenges and triumphs faced by early Florida cow hunters."

This year's seven-day drive covered 45 miles across 15 historic ranch lands in Okeechobee County. That's in the south central part of the state, which has a landscape that's alien to new coastal dwellers.

Cattle were driven as a herd, with cowmen and -women, horses and dogs making sure the cattle didn't wander into swamps, hammocks or sloughs. It was hard, hot, gritty work. It comes as close as a modern event can to what pioneers experienced so long ago. 

Maybe closer. I like to think that participants, come nighttime - seated around a campfire under a starry sky, relaxed after hours of intense outdoor labor, and surrounded by expanses of open land - made the leap between then and now. For a few minutes, maybe, minds and hearts stretched across time and touched.

Party like it's the 150th

I'd never heard of The American's Creed
until reading it in a 1926 issue of the South
Florida Developer newspaper.
(Credit: oldnews.com)

Independence Day celebrations had strong patriotic flair in 1926. The United States was observing the Sesquicentennial of the country's independence. Our nation's 150th anniversary was honored across the states and even in other countries. 

Floridians toasted independence at local gatherings, and the state's newspapers alerted readers about festivities taking place elsewhere. 

On June 10, 1926, the Key West Citizen had an article about the country's big Sesquicentennial International Exposition. It was staged in Philadelphia from May through November to celebrate the 150th anniversary of American independence and the 50th anniversary of the 1876 Centennial Exposition. The Central Florida Times (Ocala) reported there was a "heated controversary" about whether the Exposition should be open on Sundays. Its first Sunday opening was, appropriately, July 4, 1926, and 25,000 people attended that day.

On July 5, 1926, the Central Florida Times boasted that the 150th was honored in Paris, Buenos Aires, Prague, Warsaw and even London. In most of those places, locals joined the party on July 4 to support American ex-pats and diplomats. Polish newspapers ran editorials about the American Constitution, declaring that "although the shortest, it was the greatest in the world."

Reading that almost makes me sad, when I think how polarized our country is as we herald our 250th anniversary. How other countries probably won't note it with laudatory praise. How some of our own citizens will protest our country's very existence. 

Then I learned people were grumbling around the time of the 150th, too. On July 2, 1926, the South Florida Developer newspaper (Stuart) reported that some local residents declared that a Law Observance Rally needed to take place. The Declaration of Independence would be read, patriotic songs sung, speeches given, a picnic enjoyed by all, games and sports played. A parade would close the (long) day. 

No word on whether that took place. But something close did. Everyone was invited to the patriotic Independence Day celebration being organized by the American Legion in Stuart. A band was to play patriotic music from 3:30 to 4 p.m. Afterward, a special program would be read and veterans of the Civil War, Spanish-American War and World War I would be recognized. 

The program would end with everyone in attendance reciting what the newspaper article called America's creed. I've included a photo that shows the text.

I was unfamiliar with the creed, so I asked AI. It told me the text is The American's Creed and it was written in 1917 by William Tyler Page and adopted by the U.S. House of Representatives in 1918. Since AI is known to hallucinate, I double checked the link it gave me to the Congressional Record. AI was correct. The URL is really long but I've put the link at the bottom of this blog post. 

Interestingly, the same day's newspaper issue reported that bishops of the M.E. Church had asked pastors to observe Independence Day as Loyalty Day. The bishops' specific appeal made me take notice:

"Pastors are to hold special services in efforts to rally young people in open demonstration against attacks that are being made upon the constitution of the United States." 

Maybe the attacks had something to do with Prohibition? The newspaper noted a similar movement had already taken place in Atlanta, where thousands of people ages 14 to 35 participated in a Dry Parade. Many carried signs proclaiming, "Hold Fast America." City notables made "dry" speeches. (Prohibition was the focus of the 18th amendment to the Constitution. It was ratified in 1919 and in effect until repealed in 1933.) 

Back in Florida, in Homosassa, "all Citrus County" joined in celebrating the Sesquicentennial on July 4, reported the Central Florida Times on July 8, 1926. The county chamber of commerce staged a "monster picnic and get-together."

"The entire day was given to the patriotic celebration and to the various sports." Activities included community singing and a reading of the Declaration of Independence. Judges gave speeches about sacrifices made by those who fought for the country's freedom. Festivities concluded with a baseball game between two local teams. 

Not sure any community singings are on 2026 Independence Day agendas. Ditto for long speeches. And if you hear any readings of The American's Creed, let me know. I'm not sure the Declaration of Independence is even publicly read these days. The last time I heard it publicly read was during a visit to Fort Ticonderoga many years ago. And it wasn't July 4. 

There will, however, be plenty of fireworks. AI tells me that because of minimal fireworks safety regulations in 1926, people celebrated with pyrotechnics that are heavily regulated today. 

However you celebrate, may you enjoy your July 4th and our country's 250th. And remember we're still evolving. Our democratic republic is a never-ending experiment worth continuing, improving and honoring.

Learn more about The American's Creed here: https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/SERIALSET-08579_00_00-152-0416-0000/pdf/SERIALSET-08579_00_00-152-0416-0000.pdf

Sad irons a weighty topic

Antique sad irons make great doorstops.
(Photo: Gerri Bauer)

For some reason, sad irons intrigue me at the moment. No clue why. I have three I use as doorstops. I usually think about them only when moving them to vacuum.

The history of sad irons popped up instantly when I asked Google/AI. I asked myself whether to bother writing a blog post about them. 

But the AI overview neglected to say that sewists can buy fabric with sad-iron designs depicted on it. I found some on Spoonflower and Etsy. A while ago, Missouri Star Quilt Company released a fabric collection devoted to irons and pressing tools, both new and antique. 

I can't find that fabric line online any longer. That always happens with fabric collections released for quilters. The specific fabric is available for a short period of time. The collections aren't reprinted and are rarely reissued. Once they're gone, sewists hunt for needed pieces from second-market sellers. 

The fabric trail tells me other people are interested in antique irons, too. That's good, because this isn't a post about sewing. It's about those sad irons. 

The irons' "sad" moniker is believed to have evolved from an old English word that meant solid. And solid they are. All metal and of various weights - 4, 5, 6 pounds or so - depending on intended use. Lighter ones were for ironing thinner items such as delicate clothing; heavier ones for things like tablecloths. 

It's too easy to equate the word sad with the mood of people using the irons in pre-electricity Florida. We can't. Who knows what they were thinking. 

All we truly know is that ironing was a workout. Households usually had multiple sad irons because one or two would heat atop the stove while another was in use. They cooled fairly quickly and needed reheating. Their poundage seemed to increase the longer the ironing session continued. Arms and shoulders grew tired.

Many typical homesteaders did their own washing and ironing. Wealthier homesteaders often hired others to do those chores. I hope workers were paid a decent wage for the era, but suspect that wasn't always the case. I also suspect more than a few pioneers ironed only what was necessary. That's what I would have done.

Washing and ironing was such a big job it required two days. One for washing, one for ironing. The entire procedure sounds grueling - filling buckets, heating the water, scrubbing with harsh soap, rinsing in other buckets, drying - often atop shrubs - then ironing, ironing, ironing. 

Sad irons have become collectable now that nobody actually has to use them, at least not in Florida. What's really sad is that some people make and sell fake ones. 

After reading online how to discern a fake, I wonder if one or possibly two of mine fit the parameters. I'm fairly sure the one that somebody long ago painted green is the real deal.

Real or fake, they work well as doorstops. And as reminders of times so distant from today it can be hard to imagine them. 

Historic hotel deserves rescue

A trip through the lobby of historic
Edgewater Hotel is a
journey into Florida's past.
(Photo credit: Gerri Bauer)

Most small-town restaurant layouts don't guide patrons through history during a walk to the restroom. I'm glad Thai Blossom in Winter Garden does. 

No, this isn't a food post, although their food is excellent. And I wasn't paid in any way to say so. My husband and I stopped there for lunch a few times on computer-repair drop-off and pick-up journeys. That's how I discovered the history.

The restaurant is housed in what was and hopefully will again be an operating, historic facility - The Edgewater Hotel. Opened in 1927, the structure retains beautiful details including wood paneling, stained and etched glass, and other touches of the era such as glass doorknobs.

I discovered them on my trip to the restroom. The walk leads out of the restaurant, around the former lobby and into a small hallway. The photo at the top of this post shows you what I passed on the way.

The Edgewater started as a haven for fishermen headed for Lake Apopka. The lake was famous for its bass fishing. The 53-room hotel gained stature and operated for almost 40 years. It sheltered World War II troops, Walt Disney World construction workers, spring-training baseball players, regular folks and a few famous ones. A 90th-anniversary article in the West Orange Times & Observer said legend claims Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart were there and filming was done there.

But the hotel closed in1965, stayed closed for a couple of decades and was almost razed. Over its lifetime it has been sold and resold, rescued by local investors, renovated, reopened, and operated as a bed-and-breakfast. The most recent closing came in 2025 after a group hired to operate the B&B had serious internal problems.

It's clear that challenges aren't new for the Edgewater. Even from the start. Construction began during the Florida Boom. The builder when bankrupt when the boom busted in Florida a year later. Local investors rescued the project and opened the hotel in 1927.

Room rates upon opening were $2 to $2.50 per night. That's about $38 to $47 today. But remember, an open window was the only in-room air-conditioning. Modern amenities at the time included telephones in every room, a state-of-the-art fire prevention system and an Otis elevator.

Photos I've seen online show wood floors in guest rooms and the dining room, large windows, period-appropriate furniture and other touches such as beautiful quilts on the beds. 

The word from regional media is that local investors are again stepping in to save the structure and hotel operation. That's great, because the building not only houses the Thai Blossom, it also contains The Chef's Table, the Tasting Room at Chef's Table, Scoops Ice Cream Store, and Earl's Barbershop.

I hope the hotel will operate again as a B&B or other housing. It has character and a strong local identity, something so often lacking in Florida's modern structures. As we zoom into our techno future, these pieces of the past become even more important.

Time collapses in 1869 guidebook

In the 1970s, UF Press published the
Florida Bicentennial Commission's
reprint of an 1869 guidebook 

The reprint edition included a
new introduction and index.
(Photos by Gerri Bauer)

Do I laugh or wince at the "new disease" mentioned in an 1869 guidebook to Florida? The ailment is described as a state of "nerves and mental exhaustion." Its cause? "... the harassing strain of our American life, our over-active, excitable, national temperament," a result of "... our artificial, unquiet lives."

I'm not laughing. The condition plagues millions today. Yet the author, a medical doctor, wrote those words 157 years ago. That was long before the internet, smart phones, social media, 24/7 news, automobiles, electricity, television, computers. It's odd to realize people without those distractions were just as unsettled by ever-changing realities and a quickening pace of life as we are today. 

That's not the only commonality I discovered in A Guide-Book of Florida and the South (University Press of Florida, reprint 1978), by Daniel Garrison Brinton (1837-1899). Brinton was esteemed in his day. In addition to practicing medicine, he was a research scientist, author, scholar, professor and leader of national organizations.

He seems ahead of his time in many ways, not just in recognizing a new malady. His guidebook's chapter on Hints for Health Seekers showcases some practices we consider essential in the 21st century. 

In addition to suggesting travel to healthful climates, he shares these ideas that still hold merit: 

• An attempt at cheerfulness by valetudinarians, meaning persons unduly anxious about their health (yes, I had to look that up). A good traveling companion was essential, so that the anxious person wouldn't fall prey to "Giant Despair, who is still as ready as ever to pounce on unwary travelers, especially on wet days, alone in dull country taverns.''
• The valetudinarian should collect something. In other words, have a hobby. Collecting ideas included bugs, butterflies, mosses, fossils, flowers, minerals (rocks?) and the wrong-to-me "Indian curiosities, birds' eggs and skins." The pursuit would get the person outdoors, and the organization and arrangement of items would keep them busy indoors during bad weather.
• Deep breathing. Brinton gives step-by-step instructions and emphasizes the slow exhale that we know contributes to quieting of nerves.
• Free use of olive oil; and coffee and chocolate were permissible.
• No tobacco - "absolutely prohibited in every form."

Other recommendations are dated:

• Five or six glasses of milk daily for consumptives, occasionally spiked with "a trifle" of cognac or rum. 
• Three or four eggs daily, some taken "in the guise of a 'flip' with pale sherry."
• Free use of butter
• Tea sparingly; it being "barely permissible."
• Rye or whiskey, well diluted, allowed three times a day if tolerated.

The book was written before the discovery that mosquitoes carry yellow fever. Quinine's curative effect, however, was known. Brinton advised health seekers to always carry quinine pills and to take them if exposed to "marsh miasmas." 

He also recommended what we today call exfoliation, done then by salt and water scrubs or by dry rubbing.

Years separate us from this 1869 gem, which the Florida Bicentennial Commission reprinted in the 1970s. Yet, as I've discovered through my other avocational journeys through historical  material, time also collapses. That's when our common humanity shines through, no matter how many differences separate us.

A daylong party, 1892 style

The Tatler newspaper covered entertainment
and society news. (Photo credit:
St. Augustine Historical Society)

Presidents Day 2026 was basically a day off for some workers and a reason for stores and online sellers to advertise. I don't recall any celebrations even in my youth.

The scene was markedly different in 1892 St. Augustine. The Feb. 27, 1892, edition of the city-based entertainment newspaper, The Tatler of Society in Florida, gushed in its coverage of Feb. 22 Washington's Birthday events. 

Back then, one day wasn't dedicated to all presidents. Some states observed Lincoln's birthday, but Florida wasn't one of them. Florida had been part of the Confederacy. The big bash Feb. 22 was a Military Ball, but the newspaper in its commendations of service members couldn't bring itself to print the words Civil War or War Between the States. Instead, it noted an officer who served with distinction "in the late conflict." 

But the city lauded the military. Oil magnate and developer Henry Flagler sponsored the Military Ball at his posh Ponce de Leon Hotel. He staged the event in honor of officers of the Fifth United States Infantry. The infantry was stationed at the city's St. Francis Barracks.

The ball was the culmination of daylong special events. The Tatler devoted more than three pages of print to it. More than two of those pages focused on detailed descriptions of attendees' ball gowns. Really. On and on it went.

Coverage included recognition of the military officers, listed by name, and a full rundown on music provided by the Fifth Infantry Band and the Ponce de Leon Orchestra. The music was continuous as attendees danced, ate at midnight, danced some more and enjoyed fireworks after that.

The menu received one paragraph of coverage. After reading it, I'm glad. The first line spoke of "a pyramid of grouse and partridge patties, a pretty brown pig beneath it..." Capon and quail were also available. I'd have headed right to the tables of salads, sponge cake, chocolate and ice cream. No word about beverages but I'm sure there were plenty.

The Tatler gave some space to the day's other events. They included an afternoon Children's Ball that started with a Grand March. The event was attended by 275 youth who "were beautifully dressed" and danced to the waltz, polka and cotillion music performed by the Fifth Infantry Band.

That band had a seriously busy day. It started with morning performances at the Cordova Hotel, which was a step down from the Ponce in status. The band then performed at the Children's Ball and finally at the Military Ball. I hope everyone appreciated their efforts.

In addition to scheduling morning music, the Cordova offered its guests a special 6 p.m. dinner. Washington's portrait adorned the souvenir menu cover. Afterwards, an orchestral concert featured "patriotic airs in an artistic manner." Smaller musical gatherings in the hotel's parlors followed the orchestral performance.

That wasn't all. Throughout the day, the city residents and winter guests "visited the different entertainments about the city," including baseball games. 

All in all, a hearty celebration in honor of our nation's first president. The Tatler acknowledged in its editorial that some people felt daylong celebrations were time wasted. The editors pushed back and stated that, instead, much is gained. "Everyone is stronger and better and wiser for an enforced rest."  

Those words still hold true more than 130 years later.

America 250: Florida was loyalist British colony

The book, The 14th Colony,
explains what happened in Florida
during the Revolutionary War

I'm shifting the blog's time parameters for today's post. We're going all the way back to the Revolutionary War period. That's because 2026 marks the 250th observance of our country's founding.

Many people don't know that Florida remained a loyalist British colony during the war. The "original 13 colonies" on what is now continental U.S. soil were actually 15 colonies. Florida was considered two colonies at the time - West Florida and East Florida. 

George Washington ordered patriot invasions of East Florida five times. Yes, five times. He had his sights on St. Augustine, primarily. Washington wanted British East Florida's arms and ammunition, and control of the Castillo de San Marcos fort. 

The invasions failed for various reasons. They included misinformation, miscommunication, a daunting terrain and even political infighting. The vitriol between two top commanders of one of the planned invasions got so bad they ended up in a dual. One of them died.

I'm a fan of Florida domestic and social history, but not of war history. All this information was news to me. I first learned it from a 32-page book by Dr. Roger Smith, The 14th Colony, The American Revolution's Best Kept Secret, Colonial Research Associates, Inc., 2011. (He's also written other books about the time period. Find them all at https://www.colonialra.com)

I also discovered that Smith's doctoral dissertation about the 14th colony is available online and is 10 times longer than the book. I haven't yet read that.

According to the book, St. Augustine was so important that "George Washington mentions St. Augustine in over 80 letters to the Continental Congress or his general staff as either a military target or military concern." (Page 6) 

The patriots never secured St. Augustine. In fact, after the fall of Charleston in 1780, the British captured several prominent patriots and imprisoned them in St. Augustine. The prisoners included three signers of the Declaration of Independence. I learned that from the book, Patriots in Exile: Charleston Rebels in St. Augustine During the American Revolution, by James Waring McCrady and C.L. Bragg, University of South Carolina Press, 2024.

During the war, St. Augustine's population swelled with refugees. According to AI, the number jumped from a few thousand to more than 17,000 by the war's end. The St. Augustine Lighthouse's website breaks down the influx. Many were loyalists fleeing other colonies. A significant percentage were the enslaved people they brought with them. And about 600 were indentured Minorcans, Greeks and Italians who fled inhumane conditions on a New Smyrna Beach plantation. 

To me, one of the most interesting things about the entire population is how multicultural it was. In addition to the newcomers, some of the regular inhabitants were Spanish residents who had stayed when Spain ceded Florida to Britain in the 1760s. And local indigenous peoples regularly frequented the city.

Britain ceded Florida back to Spain after the war. (Spain had captured West Florida in 1781 as an ally of France and as part of their own campaign against Britain.) The loyalists melted away. St. Augustine's fascinating history remains.

Finding frontier joy

Citrus groves surrounded by pine forests
were a common sight in pioneer Florida.
Image credit: Florida Memory state archives,
https://www.floridamemory.com

Women in the 19th century had little legal or social recourse when husbands decided to move their families to frontier areas. Citrus fever caused more than a few such moves to Florida. 

Relocating from a settled, populated Northern or Midwestern state to a semi-tropical wilderness was a shock to many a newcomer. Many places have local history stories of a wife who spent her first months here crying. My own town has such a story. 

Prevailing attitudes at the time assumed that women who ended up here labored unwillingly and unceasingly and were unhappy and unfulfilled. The business of growing citrus empires and settling new towns was men's work. 

Or was it? Certainly, in some cases wives and daughters disliked living in Florida. But many women exhibited resilience, resourcefulness and joy in their new life. They discovered a freedom denied them by the social rules and structures "back home."

Even the woman in my town's history dried her tears and shook off her homesickness. She set out to find every settler she could in the vicinity. Why? She was fundraising. She wanted a church built. And she succeeded.

Come to my Sunland, the letters of pioneer Julia Daniels Moseley, likewise contains vivid accounts of how she first struggled, then came to love, the area near Tampa where she and her husband settled in the 1880s. It's a book worth reading.

These weren't outlier stories. Information in an article in the Summer 2012 (volume 91) issue of the Florida Historical Society Quarterly reinforces that. 

The main focus of the article by John T. Foster, Sarah Whitmer Foster, and Roscoe A. Turnquest is about a journalist named Ellen Augusta Morgan Hill. She expanded the depth and breadth of the women's page content she wrote for the Jacksonville-based Florida Dispatch in the 1880s. She engaged with her readers and shared her strong opinions. Among them:

• citrus-obsessed husbands needed to show more consideration, courtesy and affection to their wives.
• women shouldn't be limited to housekeeping and parenting (a radical thought at the time).
• men liked Florida much more than women did.

That last statement drew letters of disagreement from Florida transplants from the North and Midwest. "Rather than listing grievances many of the women along Florida's frontier described the simple pleasures of life," the article states.

Some of the comments are almost poetic. One woman wrote: "... to you who dwell among the pines of Florida I would ask ... Did you ever sit at dusk and listen to them, how they begin to whisper...?"  Did you ever, she asked, listen to them on a pleasant day "almost sing you a lullaby as you lazily swing to and fro in a hammock?"

I have listened to pines in the Ocala National Forest. I can indeed tell you the sound of wind through the boughs is beautiful and almost ethereal. 

Another woman wrote of loving how she found "... so much to occupy her time, from my little chicks to my little babe." She went on to list things she enjoyed, from vegetable gardening to tending all sorts of fruit trees. "I feel I am the happiest woman in the world," she wrote.

Even the ever-present Florida bugs and the famous Florida heat weren't problems for these pioneers. One transplant suggested readers head to Cincinnati if they wanted to feel oppressive summer heat. Others told how mosquito nets and screens repelled the insects. One reader offered a recipe for a boric acid mixture that took care of roaches. And more than a few shared tips for ensuring a safe water supply. 

If anything, these readers said they and their families were in better health in Florida than they had been elsewhere. Several had in fact relocated due to health. And yes, citrus factored into many, if not all, of these homesteaders' lives. 

Citrus in Florida has dwindled so much it's hard to remember when groves blanketed the state. Those days are history. But people still come here for their health. And a lot of women who relocate are happy here. This writer included.

Pre-Disney Florida hype

Screengrab from travelfilmarchive YouTube
channel's 1950 travelogue about Florida
Credit: https://www.youtube.com/@travelfilmarchive

Today's focus is a bit outside this blog's usual frontier parameters. But it's too classic to overlook: a 75-year-old travel film about Florida. 

The 1950 black-and-white Let’s Look at Florida film is about a half-hour long. It's an episode in a series named Pageant of the States. I found it on the travelfilmarchive channel on YouTube. Watch it at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6BO33VEt-gM

Even in that pre-Disney era, the hype was thick. There wasn't a word about mosquitoes. No mention of hurricanes or humidity. Miami is described as having a median temperature of 75. Ha. I doubt that was true even in those pre-climate-change days.

More truthful and obvious was the glut of high-rise buildings already evident in Miami in 1950. The narrator said the city was growing faster than any other metro area in the United States. 

I cringed at the treatment of animals at what passed for tourist attractions. Penned alligators were prodded and poked, pelicans had obviously had their wings clipped, and dolphins (and macaws and other birds) were trained to perform for humans. Yes, I realize we didn't know then what we do now about non-human species. But I wouldn't have liked it then, just as I don't now.

On a brighter note, I laughed at the clip showing crowded shuffleboard courts in St. Petersburg. The game was midcentury America's pickleball. It was also funny to hear that St. Petersburg, a city of 100,000 at the time, described as a "pensioner's paradise." And vintage car fans will delight in the now-classic vehicles that roll through many of the film's scenes. 

In case anyone was worried, the narrator assured viewers that “Florida is still growing.” What an understatement. AI tells me the state's population in 1950 was about 2.7 million. We're at 23 million and climbing today.  

I was intrigued by the numerous comments posted by viewers. Many were from people who grew up in that world - and who mentioned how hot the climate was. Most Floridians didn’t live in air-conditioned houses then. The residential air-conditioning boom was on the threshold, but it wasn't yet a thing in 1950. Yet these same commenters treasured their memories and felt a sense of loss for a world now gone. 

Many years ago, I endured one year of Florida living in an apartment without air conditioning. A large, wood-frame 1890s house had been carved into apartments, which destroyed the air flow those old houses were known for. My two-room, second-floor apartment was brutally hot in summer even with a fan running on high in the window. 

There are some people who say you aren’t really a Floridian until you’ve lived here a while without air conditioning. So, I qualify. Yet I will always be a hybrid Floridian-New Yorker with firmly attached Brooklyn roots. Just like I’ll always be a Sicilian-Slovenian-American. 

I couldn’t find a person of color or non-WASPish ethnicity in the 1950 travelogue. A sign of the times, for sure. It reminds me to appreciate and learn about the past while embracing the good that progress has brought. And to sort through and call out the negatives that come along with them both. 

Miami as you've never known it

Hard to recognize: Here's what the mouth
of the Miami River looked like in an 1869
sketch by Dr. Jeffries Wyman. 
Image credit: Harvard University, via a
2000 article in The Florida Anthropologist

It's hard to imagine Miami ever being as undeveloped as depicted in the sketch that accompanies this post. I don't need to feature a photo of the modern Miami skyline for readers to know what I mean. Yet this is how that corner of Florida appeared in 1869, when Dr. Jeffries Wyman made the sketch.

Wyman (1814-1874) was well known in his day. He was a noted pioneer anthropologist, Harvard professor and first director of that university's Peabody Museum. He visited Miami in 1869. That visit drew renewed attention more than a century later. A Miami-Dade County official named Christopher R. Eck was intrigued because the 1869 visit was likely the first time an academically trained archaeologist explored the area. 

Eck reviewed Wyman's diary and notes from the trip and wrote an article that appeared in the December 2000 issue of The Florida Anthropologist, Vol. 53. The information in this blog post is from that article. The article focused primarily on the scientific side of the visit. My interest, as usual, is on the day-to-day aspects of daily life.

Wyman traveled by boat, aboard a yacht owned by a friend. Water was the primary means of transportation in Miami at that time.

Here's some of what Wyman did and some things he had to say. His diary excerpts are in quotes:

March 4, 1869: "Day pleasant ... sailing most enjoyable. Caught two large fish... The cook made a chowder of one & the other ('Spanish mackerel' as the cook called it  & 'king fish' according to Capt.) was baked and was excellent eating." Wyman also saw "flying fish & Porpoises." Unfortunately, he was prone to seasickness. "I've not felt quite well on account of disagreeable motion in night."

March 5, 1869: The temperature at sunrise was 74 degrees in the cabin and 69 on deck. That's nice Florida spring weather today, too. It didn't stay that way, though. A rain squall sprang up at dusk and cut off the remaining daylight. It generated heavy seas and a brisk breeze, but the travelers dropped anchor in a sheltered spot just as daylight completely vanished. Before that, the group had spent most of the day looking for the Key Biscayne lighthouse. "Passed two wrecked vessels on the shore - did not see the lighthouse until 4 PM."

March 6, 1869: The lighthouse pilot boarded the yacht and guided the boat to the Miami River. The travelers rowed to a settlement on shore. "This village consists of a few houses built during Indian War - are in poor condition." Not sure which war he is referencing. Florida had three conflicts known as the First, Second and Third Seminole Wars between 1817 and 1858. While the houses were dilapidated, the scenery was picturesque. Wyman notes the "shores lined with mangroves, behind them cocoa-nuts..."

March 7, 1869: The group cruised up the Miami River for about 5 miles. They were joined by a few villagers including a Mr. Hunt and a person Wyman references simply as "a negro." Many thanks to writer Eck for including a detailed footnote that dignifies this person with a name: Andrew Price, an employee of Mr. Hunt listed in the 1870 census as a farm laborer and the 1880 one as a sailor. In other diary entries, Wyman mentions Price by his first name. 

March 8, 1869: "Passed the night at Mr Hunts - in a rickety house, with hogs underneath & goats running about the piazza but very tired slept well." Need we say anything more here? Welcome to pioneer Florida. Wyman went back onboard the boat for breakfast and the group sailed off, looking for archaeological mounds.

March 9, 1869: They found a large mound and spent the next couple of days making sample excavations. Wyman records the oval mound as being 60 feet long, 40 feet wide and 11 feet high. They found only stones. But those stones appear to have been placed in specific formations. Smaller stones were found atop large stones in the middle of the mound.

March 10, 1869: "Light rain, followed by great numbers of mosquitoes."

The footnotes in the article are as interesting as the main narrative. The large oval mound containing the stones likely was leveled by work crews clearing the land for Henry Flagler's Royal Palm Hotel in 1896.

I can't help but wonder what Wyman would think could he see Miami today. 

Against multiple odds

This photo of Lawrence B. Brown is
from the cover of the book
'From Slavery to Community Builder'

Born enslaved in North Florida in 1856. Died a prosperous builder and community leader in South Central Florida in 1941. We'd all do well to learn a bit more about Lawrence Bernard Brown. And you can, by visiting the website of the Historic L.B. Brown House:  https://www.lbbrown.com

Brown achieved his success and respect "at a time when it was dangerous to be a successful Black person." That quote is from the website dedicated to Brown and the large Victorian house he built. The house is now a Florida Historical Landmark. Brown himself is recognized as A Great Floridian by the Florida Department of State and Florida League of Cities.

I've been digging up Florida history for years, but it took a long time for the algorithms (current) or books, pamphlets and local histories (pre-internet) to bring Brown to my attention. He even lived for a while in the county of my residence, about which I thought I knew a lot. 

There is - or was - even a street named after him in my county (Volusia). The Brown house website says he named a Lawrence Street during his 19th century tenure in DeLeon Springs, known at the time as Spring Garden.

He'd "acquired a considerable amount of property" in Spring Garden, says the website, on which he built houses and then rented and sold them. To learn more, I plan to read the book From Slavery to Community Builder, The Story of Lawrence B. Brown. You can find more information about the book on the website.

Brown's time in Spring Garden was temporary but was a step on his journey to success. That journey began near Gainesville, where he grew up. As a free man, he applied for and received a homestead grant in Alachua County. From there, he bought land and built a subdivision in Volusia County. In the mid-1880s, the family moved to Bartow (Polk County) and that's where his legacy really took root.

Brown was a self-taught master carpenter. The beautiful Victorian family home he built in about 1892 is testament to that. But the house was abandoned and nearly lost to the elements before being restored in 2001. It's available for tours by appointment: an email, phone number and a contact form are all available on the website. You may watch a YouTube video tour linked at the bottom of this post. There's also an annual L.B. Brown Heritage Festival at the site. 

The L.B. Brown House. Photo credit: 
www.lbbrown.com

The house today is owned by the Neighborhood Improvement Corporation of Bartow Inc. If you can't get to Bartow, you can view many house photos on the website.

May Lawrence Brown's legacy continue to inspire. 

Novice life, with no AC

Vintage image of Benedictine sisters is from
the Instagram page of St. Leo University.
The post contains this and other photos
of the sisters. See it at:
https://www.instagram.com/p/DGvdNp7uNfV/

Misunderstandings abound in popular culture about Catholic religious sisters and their history. It's also true about the hidden lives of women in the novitiate, the period of time when an entrant lives in community as a hopeful but not yet fully professed member of a religious order.

This post shares some truths about the lives of Benedictine novices in the wilds of Florida a century ago. Despite the Florida boom that saw a burst of development in the early years of the 20th century, much of the land outside cities remained wilderness at that time.

The Benedictines established an academy and a convent, the Holy Name Monastery, in 1889 in the small town of San Antonio (Florida). That began their long association with what today is St. Leo University in the nearby town of St. Leo.

Insights shared here are from Chapter 2 of The Benedictine Sisters of Florida - The First Hundred Years. It covers their first 100 years at Holy Name in San Antonio/St. Leo. The undated, typewritten document likely dates to 1989 or the early 1990s. Chapter 2 is titled "Tales From the Novitiate." The introduction is worth quoting:

Novitiate memories often revolve around peals of laughter; buckets of tears; sinks full of dirty dishes; dreams realized; uninvited and inappropriate giggling; serious, even solemn, efforts at prayer; and, as a background for it all, the tension of beginning a search for God with all the professed, or as they once were called, the "big sisters", observing carefully from heights of proper religious decorum and holiness.

In other words, a lot like secular life in that it had ups and downs as all lives do. Along with moments of fun. A novice named Sister Therese illustrated that when the sisters had to physically have their convent house moved in 1911. During recreation period, she'd run the length of the building and physically jump out the front door and off the edge of the propped-up, mid-move building. Just for fun. 

The activity both entertained her seniors and earned her a reputation. 

She was also known for her singing voice. One song outlasted her novice days and became required during parties and talent shows into the 1960s. Accompanied by outlandish costumes, particularly hats, even in the days of full habits. 

The song was "I'm A Lonely Little Petunia in an Onion Patch." No, I've never heard of it either. Sister Therese was a novice in the early 1900s, so we're going back quite a while.

Sister Therese went on to serve as a school principal, registrar, novice mistress and in several other roles. Sometimes all at the same time.

The less rambunctious Sister Caroline remembered her 1920s novitiate and initiation into community living as "gentle, thoughtful, progressing week by week with the addition of more duties and supported by gradual instruction."

Squeezed in among her prayer, work, instructional and leisure time, Sister Caroline took a correspondence course in Geometry. She and the other novices were called candidates during the earliest stages of the novitiate. During her candidacy, Sister Caroline also taught Latin to primary school pupils.

Sister Rosaria recalled how all the sisters of the community came out to greet her and other postulants when they arrived in 1930. She also remembered how their instructional work about religion and religious life included an emphasis on the fine arts, particularly music. 

Echoes of today linger in Sister deChantal's memories. She was the lone postulant to enter in 1940, as are many women who enter religious life today. Sister deChantal used to take walks with an almost crippled older sister who would bend and pick up pecans Sister deChantal shook lose after climbing a tree.

To be sure, the abbess, prioress, novice mistress and longtime sisters could be strict and exacting in their instruction. Letters home were censored and returned for rewrite if they contained private community information. 

But there was also an abundance of care and understanding, love, fellowship, community and fun. That remained constant during the 100 years the document spanned. As did certain patterns of novitiate life: classes in scripture, the Rule of St. Benedict and Benedictine vows; daily prayer; domestic chores; spiritual formation; ministry work; choir practice and more. 

Interestingly, none of the novices mentioned the Florida heat and bugs. The women were focused on other things. Every day the novices came closer to their goal of divine service and consecration to God. Just as novices do today.

Keeping the lights on

The Ponce Inlet Lighthouse is the tallest
lighthouse in Florida. (Photo credit:
Gerri Bauer)

Lighthouse living has never been easy. Even before I learned about daily operations at lighthouse stations, I understood how challenging life could be for keepers and their families. Especially in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

You can learn the details by visiting Ponce Inlet Lighthouse, the tallest lighthouse in Florida and second tallest in the nation. The view from the top is amazing (I climbed it years ago when much younger!) and the stories on the ground are equally interesting.

During its early years, the lighthouse needed a keeper, first assistant and second assistant to handle the workload. Some duties were requirements I'd never have imagined - such as hanging up white linen curtains in the lantern room every day to prevent damage from sunlight. Then taking them down each night. Before electricity, the five wicks in the kerosene lantern had to be trimmed during the night. The next morning, the lamp and lens had to be cleaned. All of this, every single day.

Meanwhile, down on the ground, daily chores included station maintenance, tending a vegetable garden and hunting and fishing to supplement items received by supply ships. The keeper's and assistants' wives had their hands full doing laundry, sewing, cooking, cleaning and raising children. In the1890s, those children had to travel by boat to the nearest town, New Smyrna, to attend school. 

And everyone did everything accompanied by ever persistent mosquitos. Before Ponce Inlet gained its current name, it was called Mosquito Inlet. 

Today, you can tour the keeper and first assistant's house and see many day-to-day items that residents used throughout the decades. Educational displays are set up throughout both buildings. The second assistant's house is viewed from the outside in, to get an idea of what the living arrangements were like. Keep in mind that electricity and indoor plumbing didn't arrive at the station until the 1920s.

I haven't even touched on the subject of the lights that have made the lighthouse a beacon for  seafarers since 1887. There's an entire building dedicated to lighthouse lenses. Plus, there are maritime-related exhibits. And did I mention the gift shop? 

Well,  yes, it's easy to see I'm a fan of the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse complex. Last time my husband and I visited we joined as members. Consider doing the same!

Wilderness hospitality

Guest bedroom is furnished as it would have
been in the late 1800s. (Gerri Bauer photo)

Trading, fishing, guiding visitors - they were some of the ways pioneers in undeveloped parts of Florida made their living in the late 1800s. The Pacetti family of Ponce Inlet did so, and more, at a time when the area was a true wilderness.

Even the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse didn't exist at first. Bartolo and Martha Pacetti sold 10 acres to the U.S. government for use as a light station. The Ponce Inlet Lighthouse was constructed in 1887.

By that time, the Pacettis operated a thriving fishing resort and boarding house adjacent to the lighthouse grounds. They'd built the structure in 1881 using the $400 earned from the land sale. It was an upgrade from the wooden cottage that had already become known for Pacetti hospitality.

In a joyful moment for history seekers, the restored Pacetti Hotel re-opened in 2024 as a public museum owned by the Ponce DeLeon Inlet Lighthouse Preservation Association. I recently toured the hotel and enjoyed every minute.

The Pacetti Hotel is now a public museum.
(Gerri Bauer photo)

There's a lot of history packed into the building, now named the Constance D. Hunter Historic Pacetti Hotel. And several people worth noting, from modern times to the past:

• Constance Hunter, whose foundation partially funded the recent restoration
• The Gamble family of Procter & Gamble fame. Olive Gamble did the first restoration. She and subsequent relatives hosted family and friends there.
• Fishing and hunting guide and building caretaker Jesse Linzy, who lived at the hotel and worked for the Pacettis starting in 1907. In the 1930s, he married "Miss Ida," the personal cook and maid who arrived with Olive Gamble. In the short-sighted ways of the era, we don't know her surname before she became Ida Linzy.

Each person deserves a blog post but today's belongs to the Pacettis. 

Bartolomeu Clemente Pacetti was born about 1823. He was a descendent of the Pons and Pacetti families who were part of the ill-fated Turnbull Colony (1760s-1770s) in nearby New Smyrna Beach. The colonists arrived from Minorca, Greece and Italy as indentured servants. Most went north to St. Augustine when the colony collapsed, but others stayed nearby. Bartolo inherited some of the Pons family land.

Martha Jane Wickwire Pacetti was born in Florida in 1844 to pioneers from Vermont and Georgia. Her local roots also ran deep. Her ancestors included the Osteen family, whose name lives today in the Florida community of the same name in Volusia County. 

The Pacettis had five children. The family lived and ran their popular resort in a beautiful, bountiful waterfront location. But it was isolated. And the living wasn't easy in the 1880s, 1890s and early 1900s. It was nonstop work, as you learn from museum exhibits. 

Martha gained a reputation as an excellent cook of the fish and wild game the land and sea produced. One visitor said she set a "capital table" and was said to be the best fish cook in Florida. Bartolo, his sons Gomez and Bert (who later became a federal wildlife officer), along with Jesse, became renowned as guides. 

The Ponce Inlet Lighthouse
is seen through a window in
Pacetti Hotel. (Gerri Bauer photo)

As the years continued, notables such as businessman James Norris Gamble and artist William Aiken Walker found their way to the resort, along with many others. They included the lighthouse builders, its keepers and their families.

Today, visitors can tour the beautifully restored building and view bedrooms furnished as they were in the different time periods. They can immerse themselves in period details shown in exhibits and explained in wall board displays that include period photos. A short video acquaints guests with the property's history. You can even rent the facility for weddings and other events. Learn more at www.ponceinlet.org

Go see the hotel. And the lighthouse complex, which I'll write about next month. They are both so worth it.

Side view of the waterfront hotel.
(Gerri Bauer photo)

Arthritis: Horse chestnuts, melted wax

This 1927 article from
The Independent newspaper
in St. Petersburg, Florida,
talks about diet as a cure
for arthritis.

Arrgh, arthritis. It plagues me. I feel for the pioneers who suffered from it. They didn't have access to things like joint replacements and specific exercises that lessen symptoms.

They did, though, have access to pharmaceuticals. Like today, some were addictive and others were more benign. In the safer category, pioneers relied on aspirin's precursor willow bark and on aspirin itself as it became available.

As for the lethal drugs, they've always been a problem. Today, some people take addictive prescription opioids (I steer clear). In the late 19th and early 20th century, Floridians and others sometimes turned to laudanum, cocaine and even heroin. I couldn't believe that last one when I saw a photo of it in my research.

Holistic methods were popular. But science in frontier days hadn't yet advanced enough to fully understand arthritis. One 1880s study suggested it was caused by indigestion. Even the word arthritis itself wasn't always used in the literature I reviewed. The medical field sometimes called it rheumatism or gout. 

Indigestion was pinpointed after a doctor conducted studies in which patients fasted for four to eight days. Water and lemonade were allowed. Several patients achieved complete relief. Inflammation-causing foods aggravate my arthritis, so I'm guessing the cured people benefited from the same.

The researcher was Dr. Casey Wood, a professor of chemistry at a Montreal college. His study was included in C.E. Page, M.D.'s 1886 book, whose title begins with "The Natural Cure" and continues for another 23 words I won't bore you with.

The fasting news wasn't all good. Dr. Page tells readers, "In chronic rheumatism he [Dr. Wood] obtained less positive results..." Instead, Dr. Page suggests chronic sufferers do the following - and very modern it sounds: 

"Moreover, in chronic cases—cases of long standing—the best results may be hoped for—in fact the best possible results have invariably followed—from an abstemious (frugivorous) diet, together with simple bathing, as special symptoms may indicate,—and an improved general regimen, as to fresh air, exercise (inaugurated gradually), beginning, perhaps, with passive exercise, as rubbing, etc."

In other words, show some restraint when eating, lean toward natural foods including fruit, and do some exercise. Sound familiar?

Another tome, the 1913 book "Natural Cure," suggested arthritis sufferers were being poisoned. The author said exam of the eye's iris could determine if poison was in the patient's system. What shocked me were the substances that author Dr. Henry Lindlahr mentioned:

“We have treated many hundreds of cases of so-called chronic neuralgia, neuritis, rheumatism, neurasthenia, epilepsy and idiocy, due to the pernicious effects of quinine, iodine, arsenic, strychnine, coal-tar products and other virulent poisons taken under the guise of medicine.”

Sounds scary. I've always heard quinine was a lifesaver for combatting malaria.

I wonder if commercially available "cures" contained some of the above-mentioned items. Newspapers of the era advertised potions and pills whose ingredients weren't always disclosed.

The newspapers also reported on other types of cures. One small notice in a 1934 edition of the Key West Citizen said short lengths of radio waves were being used to treat "infectious arthritis" and other conditions. A 1915 issue of the Daytona Daily News claimed arthritis and other common diseases had practically been banished in the United States by use of distilled water. 

And a 1915 issue of the Ocala Evening Star issue reported on "a new cure for rheumatism" put forth by the Academy of Medicine in Paris. The cure was said to also work for arthritis and gout. Patients were to cover the afflicted body part with melted paraffin that formed a protective, warm shell. 

I'm old, and I remember my Sicilian immigrant grandmother doing exactly that - dipping her painful, arthritic hands in melted paraffin warmed to a certain temperature. I don't know if it helped. I do know I have arthritis in the same joints she did. Maybe I'll give it a try, for its soothing benefits if nothing else.

One thing I won't try is a practice Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. scorned in his Medical Essays book, a collection of essays he wrote from 1842 to 1882. (Dr. Holmes was a noted physician and father of the Supreme Court justice of the same name.)

One essay recounts a lecture he gave, at which he chided listeners who laughed at odd cures from the distant past. Are we any better today? he questioned. Then he asked how many were carrying horse chestnuts in their pockets.

Yes, horse chestnuts in pockets. Apparently, that was a thing for a while. People claimed the practice cured rheumatism. Holmes told the audience he encountered people of all classes proclaiming its benefits. Did they rub them and get some kind of relief that way? Today, horse chestnut seed extract is considered alternative medicine.

Horse chestnut trees don't grow well in Florida. Pioneers here who ascribed to the theory either brought them when moving here or had relatives or friends mail down a few of the shiny nuts. Anything to find relief. 

And the search for cures continues.