PART VI
Jacksonville, Fla.
Wed., Feb. 3, 1926
At the inn in Fitzgerald two girls who had just driven up from Palm Beach through Waycross said the road was practically impassable, that on the way up, they had spent $150 on repairs to their Ford. About twenty miles along what we hope to be a better route, passing through a colored section, someone yelled, “Look behind,” and when we saw the stand dragging, the tent hanging by a thread, and the blankets gone, a dismal pall settled on us! Our funds were low, seven army blankets would cost a pretty penny to replace, the nights would be unbearable without them and there seemed little hope of finding them.
However, we retraced our steps, asking at every cabin, sopping every car, and spreading the rumor that there would be a reward if the blankets were delivered to Clark’s Garage in Ocilla. At this garage where we last saw the blankets on the machine, we left our name and address and then despondently resumed our journey. About halfway to where we had noted our loss, spying a cabin off the road, Bill had an immediate hunch that we would find the blankets there. Upon inquiring, the negros had at first “seen nothing’.”
Persisting, he heard a couple of old folks in a rear room mentioning a large bundle, and after repeated questioning one of them finally said she had seen “two low-down niggers” stop their car to pick up something in the road, and she “reckoned they was agoin’ to meeting’.” The half-mile trail to the meeting house was so rough Bill had to hike in. While the hallelujahing enchanted him with its rhythm and harmony, he searched each of the dozen or so parked jalopies, and in the very last one found the blankets. My, but we were thankful!
Soon we came to another bad spot in the road where four mired cars were helping each other push through. They hung around to see if we needed aid too--but we fooled them. Carefully picking his route, when Bill gave the engine the gas, how the dirt did fly, to the admiration of the onlookers. Sometimes the old boat does do us proud.
After spending the night in the little town of Nashville, Georgia, we found mail waiting for us at Valdosta, just before crossing into Florida. Hardly believing we were in the famous state at last. We expected to have at least decent roads; instead we bumped over washboard, crawling in low gear for nearly twenty miles. Not only the monotony of mile after endless mile of poor road, through tall pine swamps, depressed us, but the fact that this type of terrain was staked out for building lots.
However, the picturesque and well-equipped tourist camp at White Springs on the Swanee River was a pleasant antidote, and the other campers congenial. The gray spanish moss draping the pines lends mystery to the woods. Being an air-plant it hangs on all kinds of trees, on telegraph wires and fence rails, but is said to kill the fruit trees.
Bill was determined to find what made the machine run so inconsistently, so it was late the next day before we got underway. The time and energy spent on the motorcycle is tremendous. While we were eating a snack beside the road an old black hog tried to join the party. We have not seen a white pig since leaving the north; those here are either brown, black or spotted black and tan, like the Hottentot man in the limerick.
Animals appear in the strangest places here, cows, hogs and goats running wild through woods and swamps. On the road you never know when a so-called domestic animal will pop out in front of you. The wretched, sorry-looking cows are used for meat, not milk.
A fine cement road leads into Jacksonville, but the tourist camp is miserable, crowded with all sorts of harem-scarem people so that nothing left outside is safe. Many people live here from week to week, some with jobs, but most of them, having no money, can neither go home nor travel south, and like Mr. Micawber, are waiting for something to turn up.
A little girl died in camp and, as the family was very poor, other tourists chipped in for her burial. One man’s tent burned down and the campers joined forces to buy him a better one than he had before. Much kindness is here, too.
A young fellow from New Jersey, who in October rode down in his Indian motorcycle with a dog in the sidecar, said his machine was so shattered that he sold it for $20, and has lived on the money ever since. Although a carpenter, he has no tools so he can’t get a job, and is trying to scrape up a stake somehow, to return to the north. Our Harley-Davidson has not shaken apart, but it definitely needs repair. Our young friend offered to fix it, and Bill let him try--but to no avail.