Amish pioneered in Florida

Road sign is in the North, a traditional
 location of Amish settlements. But
an Amish community in Florida dates
 to pioneer years. Creative Commons
photo credit: Daniel Schwen

The word Amish makes me think of rolling farmland and horse-and-buggy transportation on rural roads in the North and Midwest. Not fun in the sun in Florida.

That, despite my knowing that Pinecraft in Sarasota is a popular vacation destination for many Amish. The surprise, for me, is learning that Pinecraft was established in the 1920s by an Amish man who had a celery farm.

Suddenly the Amish are part of Florida pioneer history.

The Anabaptist community's roots in Florida are traced to a farmer named Daniel Kurtz, according to the website Amish America. The website cites a book titled The History of Pinecraft, 1925-1960, by Noah Gingerich. I can't find a copy anywhere except online for $90+ dollars  - not an option! -  and in Sarasota-area libraries - a good three- to four-hour drive from me.

There appears to be no in-depth history within my reach. I did find a 28-year-old news item in the Tampa Bay Times. It mentions that two of the earliest residents were of the Yoder and Miller families, and that streets are named after them. Sorry I can't link to the article, as I had to log in to read it via the duPont-Ball research library at Stetson University. The March 7, 1989 item is bylined Pat Fenner.

According to the article, Daniel Kurtz was Old Order Amish, and he and his family moved farther south in 1925 after finding Tampa too worldly. He and his family settled "a long horse ride away" from Sarasota.

Others must have soon followed suit. The multi-author book The Amish (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013) notes that a "handful of farmers" (location 4424 in Kindle) bought land for celery farming on the outskirts of Sarasota in the late 1920s.

Florida land prices skyrocketed in the early 1920s during the Florida boom, which collapsed in 1926. Either Kurtz started his farm at the height of the boom, or he and the others scooped up acreage at reasonable prices after the market crashed. Both Amish America and Wikipedia mention that Pinecraft had previously been the site of the Sarasota National Tourist Camp. Perhaps the camp was a victim of the crash.

Word of Florida seems to have traveled quickly. In Amish Society (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993, 4th Edition), author John A. Hostetler says elderly Amish began vacationing in Florida "as early as 1927" (page 358) for health reasons. Pinecraft became kind of a resort for them.

It remains so today. Thousands of Amish travel to Pinecraft by bus each year and, once in town, get around on bicycles. A resource about the modern-day scene is the blog Pinecraft-Saraosta by resident Katie Troyer. She writes about the regular goings-on in town and seems to know just about everybody.

So there you have the extent of my knowledge of early Pinecraft. Many questions, few answers. I'll keep digging. My husband and I have traveled throughout most of Florida, but not yet to the Sarasota region. Time to plan a mini-getaway. History awaits.

From Google Maps

Nothing counterfeit about Florida

Samuel C. Upham wrote this in 1881.
Source: Project Gutenberg

Frontiers attract many kinds of people, including the flamboyant. One who fits that category was Samuel C. Upham. I discovered him via his 1881 Notes from Sunland,  his self-published booklet about the climate, soil, and crops of his Florida home near the Manatee River. His wit in his Q&A section still sparkles, so I Googled him to learn more about him.

Surprise! Upham was, among other things, a counterfeiter of Confederate currency during the Civil War. Conspiracy theorists debate whether he was simply an opportunist, or a Union agent trying to make Confederate currency unstable by flooding the market.

To learn more about his wartime endeavors, check his Wikipedia profile and this 2012 New York Times blog post. An engraving of his face can be seen there.

In Florida, Upham used his promotional skills to publicize the Manatee River region. His booklet comprised several pages of text, a section of meteorological tables, and another section of ads.

He noted that, at first, he cheerfully replied to questions he received via letters. But he got tired of people making the same inquiries: "... the novelty has worn off, and the task has become slightly monotonous." So he included a Q&A section to address common concerns.

That didn't stop him from playing with correspondents, particularly those he many not have deemed worthy. One man wrote and said the 1880 U.S. Census recorded no deaths in the Manatee area. Do people ever die there, the correspondent from Utah asked. Upham's reply: "I wrote immediately, 'Hardly ever. We want to start a grave-yard, we kill a man.' " That might be humorous in its ridiculousness. But Upham had an unethical agenda. He wrote that he believed, after reading the answer,  the Mormon correspondent wouldn't consider settling in Florida.

He provides serious answers to most of the questions, which address things such as the number of lightning strikes, prevalence of venomous reptiles, cost of land, cost of labor, health benefits of the climate, etc. On some, he can't help himself:

• Nearest town of importance: "Have no towns of 'importance' "
• On whether the summer heat is enervating: "That depends on a man's constitution. If born tired, yes."
• On whether insects are more troublesome than in the North: "Fleas sometimes make it lively with us."

Like every other Florida promoter, Upham vigorously extolled the region's virtues and, in my opinion, stretched the truth at times. In his Q&A, he claimed he'd never seen a day too hot to work outdoors. We're already deep into Florida summer weather as a I write this, so I cheerfully disagree. 

Pioneer Florida was a land of extremes, in people as well as in climate. Upham was spot on in his answer to a question about the character of people in the area. It was mixed, he replied. He could have been speaking about himself.

Persimmon Hollow: What's in a name?

The Wild West? No, early DeLand. This view from 1882
shows the corner of Indiana Avenue and Woodland Boulevard.
(Credit: Volusia: The West Side)

Before saleratus manufacturer Henry A. DeLand arrived from New York in 1876 to create an "Athens of Florida," and before his settlement became the City of DeLand in 1882, the area was known as Persimmon Hollow. 

The name has a quaint quality that appeals. My Catholic historical romance series, Persimmon Hollow Legacy (https://frontier-florida.blogspot.com/p/my-books.html), is built around a fictional town of that name. A DeLand-based craft brewer, Persimmon Hollow Brewing Co., adopted the moniker and is well-known.

Otherwise, vestiges of the early name are slim to none except in local history material. There used to be a Persimmon Hollow Village venue in Oklahoma, but Google says it's permanently closed. Its former website described it as a collection of stores grouped together to resemble an 1880s Western village.

DeLand once looked like an 1880s Western village, a real one. You need only view the West Volusia Historical Society (https://www.delandhouse.com) photo that accompanies this post to get the idea. The 1882 view of DeLand shows the downtown corner of Indiana Avenue and Woodland Boulevard, looking west. The image appears on page 243 of the historical society's 1986 book about local history, Volusia: The West Side, edited by William J. Dreggors, John Stephen Hess, and S. Dick Johnston.

One of the book's chapters is titled Persimmon Hollow. However, the clue to the origin of the region's early name is found in the previous chapter. It's the best explanation I've yet come across. The book's authors attribute the history to a man named "Hugh Vernon Bracey, who came to Beresford with his father in 1870" (page 237). Hugh reportedly explained Persimmon Hollow as:

...a place where the spring water caused wild persimmons to grow in abundance. When the fruit ripened, deer, quail and other wild animals would gather there to feed ... It was one of the prime hunting spots of the few adventurous souls who had settled here at that time ... (237)

What an idyllic verbal portrait, marred for my 21st century sensitivities by the mention of hunting. I do understand that homesteaders in 1870s Florida hunted as a means of survival, not for sport. That would come closer to the turn of the 20th century, when tourists slaughtered our wildlife just because they could, and locals decimated bird rookeries so society matrons could decorate their hats with feathers.

I digress. DeLand today doesn't have a spring and wild persimmons aren't common here - at least not in my part of town. Natural springs bubble to the north of me -  DeLeon Springs in the eponymous town - and to the south - Blue Spring in Orange City, Green Springs in Enterprise, and Gemini Springs in DeBary. The closest is eight miles from my home, the farthest is 19 miles away. They're all beautiful. I've put links to each at the bottom of this post.

That doesn't mean an equally jewel-like pool of water never existed in or near the heart of DeLand. Perhaps one did 150 years ago. Maybe it was closer to Lake Beresford, out by the St. Johns River about five miles from downtown. In the mid-1800s, settlers homesteaded in the Beresford area because the river was the main highway at the time. 

The allure of the name Persimmon Hollow lingers, despite the coldness of the trail. As with some mythical Shangri-La, we cling to what we can of a place none of us has ever seen.

Faith, stronger than greed

Historic St. Paul's AME Church building of Garfield may
be part of this Iglesia Cristiana de Deltona church complex.
Source: Google Images

I tend to favor historical tidbits that showcase tolerance, acceptance, and understanding among people struggling to settle a frontier. They're hard to find in the history of the lost African-American community of Garfield. 

Hard, because many Garfield homesteads were lost due to back tax issues in the first half of the 20th century. The seized land was later sold to the corporation that created Deltona, now the largest city in Volusia County.

A group of formerly enslaved people settled Garfield after the Civil War. I once saw one of the Homestead Act documents that granted 88 acres to a Washington Ferguson in 1888 "to have and to hold, he and his heirs forever."*

Forever lasted until the Great Depression in the segregated South, when descendants of the original owners starting having trouble meeting tax bills. In the 1980s, a then-elderly former Garfield resident told me the land was lost at tax sales in the 1930s and 1940s. 

He and about 60 other descendants of the original homesteaders were later taken to court in order to clear title to the land, so it could be sold to developers. Sad story, to be sure. 

The glimmer of light, if there is one, is in how the tight-knit faith community of Garfield held together even after the neighborhood fragmented. 

They had organized a church in 1880, according to WPA records online at Florida Memory.  In 1887, Arthur Benson of Brooklyn, N.Y., sold two acres of land for $1 or $2 to some of the original settlers of Garfield, including a man named July Jenkins. The land was near a pond that still bears the name Jenkins Pond. 

The  property was to be used for religious and educational purposes by members of the local African Methodist Episcopal Church.

But by the 1940s, community members had lost their land and many had scattered. No one lived near the church anymore. Trustees worried about fire threats to the now-aged building. So in 1948 they moved the small wood-frame structure, board by board, to a parcel they bought for $112 on Lakeshore Drive. 

Worship continued for decades there, long after Garfield ceased to exist. The St. Paul AME Church members had praised God for 100 years by the time I met the last-surviving church trustee, Robert Poole, in 1989. The congregation that once numbered about 200 had dwindled to nothing. He worried about what would happen to the historic building after he died. 

Another faith community stepped in. Within a few years, the building housed an active, Spanish-speaking Christian congregation, Iglesia Cristiana de Deltona. And, as far as I can tell from Google Images, the church's complex still incorporates the original Garfield church structure - allowing the spirit of Garfield to live on.

In the early 2000s, Garfield was in the news** when the church's original cemetery was rediscovered. I haven't heard anything in recent years about next steps, and the Internet turns up only the original stories. 

I close with a question that nags at me, a non-attorney. Church property isn't taxed. So how could it be lost to back taxes? Doesn't the original church site, that sliver of the larger parcel sold for a couple of dollars to five Garfield settlers in 1887, still belong to their descendants or to the church conference? 

Just a thought.

*Note about the quoted item in the second paragraph: The source is a 1989 article I wrote for the Daytona Beach News-Journal. It appeared in the newspaper's western Volusia regional edition called The Volusian. 

**This GenWeb item includes text from one of the news articles: http://www.africanaheritage.com/uploads/256/GarfieldSettlementCemeteryfromBilluploaded.txt. And this archived Orlando Sentinel article explains how a property owner discovered land he'd just purchased contained part of the Garfield cemetery: https://www.orlandosentinel.com/2001/04/26/long-lost-graveyard-foils-deltona-dream-2/