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Not Enough Historical Markers, I say…

This is a picture from the The Casual Historian Blog

I think every neighborhood needs an Aunt Clemmy.  I am not even sure why I thought of her this morning, but sure enough, big as life, she moved from the recesses of my mind to front and center.  There she is, old, graceful, and wearing a rainbow stained apron, soiled from the nectar of her business.  Women don’t wear aprons much anymore, but in Aunt Clemmy’s business it was essential wardrobe.

On most hot summer afternoons we would walk to her house and knock on her door with great anticipation.  We could always tell if she was awake by the shuffling sound of her feet.  She had no air conditioner and it was easy to hear her through the open screened door. 

“Just a minute,” she would say in her faint, weak voice.

We could hear the refrigerator door open, followed by the rattling of ice trays.  She would dump the ice in her apron and walk right past us to the snow cone stand attached to her house, and never say a word until she placed the ice in the machine.  Then she would reach for the cord, plug it in, and let it howl. 

It always seemed to take forever for the ice to grind but as soon as it finished, she would turn, spread both of her wrinkled arms wide on the counter and say, “What will it be today?” We would be in formation, one behind the other, according to the pecking order we carefully worked out over the summer.  The pecking order seemed to change each year depending on who grew the most over the winter or who could hit a ball the greatest distance.

Deciding what flavor to order was always an art form.  There was cherry, strawberry, banana, orange, lime, root beer (no one ever ordered root beer), blueberry and the rainbow.  The rainbow was always the favorite because it was a little bit of all the primary flavors (except root beer) carefully laid across the ice like a rainbow.  It was an honor thing or an unwritten rule, I think, to never order the same as the other kids unless you were at the back of the line. 

Black sugar ants crawled around on the counters and on the syrup bottles.  Most of the time, one or more of the ants would find their way into the snow cone, but it never mattered.  We simply picked them out and kept right on slurping the sweet ice. 

When she died we were devastated.  For months, we walked past her house hoping beyond hope that someone would take her place or that somehow she would reappear to once again please us with her frozen treats.  But after her death, the old unpainted house simply died with her.  It seemed within months, the roof began to sag and the screens around her snow cone stand were falling down.  A few years later it was all gone, replaced by a truck repair shop.  This was a very sad thing for all the kids in our Millville neighborhood.  There should have been an historic marker placed on her spot.  Now, as I write this, I still miss her.

That’s not the only place I would put a historic marker.  Ketchum’s store across from Daffin Park was an institution in our neighborhood.  It was one of the few buildings with air conditioning and the moment the door opened, you were hit with cool air and the smell of cigar smoke blended with the aroma of fresh bananas. 

O.C. Ketchum’s store became a casualty of corner convenience stores.  Neighborhood stores fell fast when quick marts and Jr. Food Stores opened.  Gone were the familiar faces of small businessmen and women who knew you by name.  Gone was a place to enjoy a small coke and casual conversation about the neighborhood happenings. Gone was an easy, interest free, credit account where people like Mr. Ketchum would extend credit for milk and bread on just a nod and a wink.  Such was the case for many families who lived paycheck to paycheck.  Many children might have spent a few nights hungry in Millville had it not been for Mr. Ketchum and other’s like him.  Yes, his store deserves a historic marker, too.

It doesn’t take long to drive around Panama City and realize that there aren’t many historic markers.  Maybe it’s because Panama City is barely a hundred years old.  Maybe it is because so few actually care about preserving our past. 

Some argue that the impending demise of the city’s train depot is ample evidence that city leaders lack the vision to see that the past can be the portal to the future.  Historic venues attract tourism.  Who would travel to New Orleans without the French Quarter, or to Savannah without River Street?  Defuniak Springs without Chautauqua, or St. Augustine without Castillo de San Marcos?  That 17th century fort is located on some of the most prime coastal real estate in Florida.  It was built to defend Spain’s claim in the new world.  It is a small wonder that it has withstood attack in Florida’s booming real estate market considering it would make a nice spot for waterfront condo!

Maybe the city’s train depot is no more worthy of preservation than Aunt Clemmy’s snow cone stand, or Mr. Ketchum’s store.  But we are not the judges of historic value.  All we can do is preserve it and let future generations determine the worth.

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Posted on Aug 20, 2007 - 12:28 PM by Larche Hardy
Page 1 of 1 pages

 

About Me

The life of any News Director is stressful most days... so, when the weekend rolls around I find myself on the back roads of our bountiful and beautiful part of the state looking for bluegrass music, interesting things to do, and, of course, fried chicken. I will try to share some of these "finds" with you. There are a thousand stories left to be told or simply remembered. Don't expect to find them all here; maybe just a little stroll down memory lane or maybe a little skewed insight into topical issues.
Larche Hardy,
News Director

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