Around 1935, if you lived in Indian River County, Florida and you were dear to my mother, sooner or later, at Christmas or birthday, you would receive a very colorful American Indian doll.
The thousands of wetlands, then known as the “marsh”—west of Vero Beach in Indian River county—were the home of the proud Seminoles. These people could perform sartorial magic with hand-crank sewing machines, and were masters of balanced geometric design. They understood the natural fibers around them, particularly palmetto palm husk fiber. This bore a resemblance to the mane of a well-groomed, roan horse. Brightly-colored cotton cloth was expertly sewn by these artisans into intricately designed strips. From these materials, with the palmetto palm husk fiber forming the body, these talented women produced florid Seminole dolls, ranging in height from six to approximately 14 inches.
The author’s daughter received this Seminole doll in the early 1960s from her Dad on a trip to Miami, Florida.
On Saturdays, the Seminole women came into town from their wetland empire and sold these dolls, walking from one automobile to the next, as they were parked around the town square. These Native Americans soon learned that in the back seat of one of the most careworn automobiles would be my mother. While the scene for a sale was not always promising, they had long ago discovered that this lady, obviously of small means, would have discovered somewhere the coins with which to complete a purchase.
James B. Tippin, Jr., author of “Encouragement, Loyalty and Make-Do” remembers learning about pyrotechnics from the “King Orange.”
During the late 1970′s I began a thirteen year tour with the California Court system. A California Lawyer/citrus grower who knew of my childhood reliance on Florida citrus invited me to tour a modern citrus concentrate plant. The first interesting fact to greet me was the knowledge that our visit would take place in the sunshine as the plant operated only at night. This was the result of the extraordinary difference in electrical power cost between day and night, a difference calculated in thousands of dollar per week. As I proceeded through the huge plant each place of change in the consistency of the citrus was explained. I noted a small, solid, thick steel building located in a place of isolation. I asked its purpose. “Oh, the explosive part goes there.” was the response. Only then did I recall my early childhood experience with the charmless King Orange during the great Depression.
There were those harboring deep affection for the very large, swarthy, thick skinned, unsymmetrical fruit with an unusual though pleasant aroma and slightly unbalanced flavor, known as the “King Orange,” kingdom not specified. Their attraction for the fruit was certified in the New York markets by a willingness to spend during very difficult times. The problem was finding them, a very thin population.
The author’s son tests the theory – it works!
There were only a small group of king orange trees on Storm Grove in Vero Beach, Florida. Most likely it was July 5, around 1935. All the red, white and blue fireworks items, so carefully preserved and ogled for weeks, lay about the yard as burned out hulks. While I moped around, my older brother asked that I pick a King Orange while he recovered a box of kitchen matches. Later he instructed that after he struck a match I should squeeze the king orange skin near the flame. Eureka!…. Many Lilliputian sky rockets! That experience I recalled that day in California upon encountering the armored building. EXPLOSIVES from citrus.
James B. Tippin, Jr., author of “Encouragement, Loyalty and Make-Do” shares his memory of “shooters”, “bankers” and the innovations the game of marbles experienced during the Great Depression. The marbles shown in the images are treasured keepsakes of the family.
Gambling Hit Florida County schools about 1936. It was the time that “Knuckle Down” came into fashion, a phrase yet used at half time, during television interviews football coaches from major schools.
Usually there was a grandpa or uncle who provided the prize, a cigar box. Ever so carefully a hole the exact size of a standard glass marble was cut in the top. Now one found a “banker,” a kid a year or so older whose pockets bulged with marbles. “I’ll give you six for three.” was the offer. In other words the banker invested three marbles if your box looked promising, knowing that by afternoon he would have a 100% return without effort or risk.
Now you were in business but you faced a chilling risk for the first few customers. The object was for the customer to attempt to drop from belt buckle height, a single marble through the whole in the top of your cigar box. If successful, the player was handed his or her marble and one more, maybe two as a “come on,” if you were really into the “game.” If the player missed, the marble became the property of the cigar box owner. Misses prevailed by a significant margin. The notoriety of this cigar box gang grew over night. When the bell for recess tolled all the little gamblers running down the hall with cigar boxes half full of loose marbles sounded like Derby day at Churchill Downs. Aha! “Sharp eye Spade”, the Principle, was troubled by this noise. Boxes were collected. Threats were made. We assumed “Sharp eye” used the boxes for his fishing tackle.
The comparative peace of the game of marbles returned wherein a circle was drawn in the sand, marbles from each player were placed in the circle, and, in turn, players attempted to knock them out of the circle with their “shooter,” a favorite marble propelled by the thumb. Their hand could have only one knuckle touching the ground. Thus we have “knuckle down” as in, “I don’t know but we’ll sure have to ‘knuckle down’ in the second half!” In time, the game experienced certain escalation when some innovative sixth grader showed up with a “shooter” five times the size of a standard marble.
James B. Tippin, the author of “Encouragement, Loyalty and Make-Do” recounts hunting for survival with his oldest brother in Vero Beach, Florida.
It was a time of Great Depression groaning. My father sold his technical reference books so that my older brother, with the aid of groups of Lutheran Farmers, could enter pre-seminary study in a small town in Missouri. He would often arrive back home for a visit following closely behind my completion of the discing of summer fire guards around Storm Grove, 160 acres of citrus trees. Lush green plant tid- bits would again be poking up where I had so recently disced, This was an overwhelming temptation to the large population of rabbits of that day. A platter of fried rabbit would well feed our family of six.
We had a 1926 model T truck. One of my other brothers had boosted the head lamps. Ultimately my seminary brother would raise the money to by a box of 22 caliber ammunition. The sun would set. I would crank the old model T Ford. My seminary brother would climb up in the back with a wired together, single-shot, 22 cal. rifle and away to the fire guard we would go. I would drive and brother would shoot over my head as the head lights reflected from the rabbits’ eyes. We made so much noise that the shooting distance would be twenty to thirty yards. Many a platter of rabbit came from these forays, happy relief from Great Depression fare. At that time I told my father ” in cleaning those rabbits, I several times, encountered fully intact bunnies, minus eyes.
No one had ever known that the eldest brother had been awarded the bronze star.
WWII came down upon us all and my seminary brother enlisted in the navy. Soon he was a diesel engineer on a Destroyer Escort. They were part of the protection for convoys to North Africa, Italy and Sicily. My brother’s battle station was as a gunner on a 20mm deck gun. In one of the attacks from the air, in the Mediterranean, The Destroyer Escort was credited with shooting down two German JU 88 bombers.
Recently my brother, long retired from the ministry, died. His wife telephoned in an effort to learn if my brother had ever told me that he had been awarded the Bronze Star. She knew nothing about it. A veteran’s group had approached her to honor my brother for the bronze star award at the grave side services. I did not nor did any of the other living relatives.
I went back to walk that old fire guard. I couldn’t. It is full of houses and children’s laughter………….
This can of bronzing powder was transported to Florida nearly 100 years ago by the author’s father.
There was a can of silver colored powder and a can of very finely ground gold colored powder on a shelf in the barn where my Dad kept his sea chest of tools under lock and key. These had been acquired during his service in the “Emergency Fleet” throughout the world unpleasantness of 1917-18.
These powders were obviously intended to be mixed with some medium in order to produce metallic gold and silver paint. From experience I know that linseed oil was not the intended medium.
In first grade, during the 1934/35 school year, our class was chosen to present an operetta. My teacher made the mistake of assigning to me the part of the “Indian Chief.” My one line consisted of “Pale face mistress likes me best of ‘um bunch.” This alone should have alerted the Principal not to invite the school board. My mother attempted to piece together from burlap fertilizer sacks something that might pass for Indian clothing. My father accepted the high honor of decorating this ill-favored snarl. He resorted to great gobs of gold powder held together with Linseed oil.
The next morning I did notice that I left a patina of gold on the seat of the school bus. When time came to stand and move to the stage for the big show my small chair was attached permanently to my somewhat whiffy Indian Chief suit. The result was not pleasant.
In the second grade I applied the silver mix to a model plane cut and scraped from a hickory broom handle with a dull paring knife. It was placed on a table at the fair with a “Do not touch” warning. By the time I arrived at the fair to review my exhibit the area was covered with long ugly grey streaks of silver gray smears left by those who,having disregarding the no touch sign, searched for a surface on which to leave the gunk on their hands.
I never learned the truth, always convinced that ultimately the “gold” and “silver” would see the family through the Great Depression.
Curtiss SB2C Helldiver sitting in an airfield in the Philippines similar to the one that struck the stump in Vero Beach.
Photo taken by Edward Madden.
James B. Tippin, the author of “Encouragement, Loyalty and Make-Do” recounts the events of one evening during his senior year in high school when tragedy struck a Navy crew over Vero Beach, Florida.
The senior high school class had the soft drink concession at the local football games. Failure to recover the empties from the deserted playing field area would consume the anticipated profit of a five cent refund per bottle. Those dauntless high school seniors willing to bend and recover, long after the midnight hour, were few but dedicated. Hands full of sand spurs but empty bottles safe in storage, the polyglot but untainted crew left for home, me to the far outback.
Near home I could hear the cataclysmal scream and growl of an SB2C Curtis Helldiver in deep trouble. The intense light from flares fired by the Navy pilot bathed the woods in extremely bright and piercing light…a thunderous explosion…then flames twenty feet high filled the slash pine woods with reflecting ghouls. Even at a thousand feet distance I knew the eye-burning, radiating heat could not be penetrated without special gear. I cried. No help came. It was first light before the belly tank of aviation fuel had consumed itself. I suppose no location fix from the pilot had been possible since the Navy had not yet appeared. It was obvious that silk parachutes yet were used in training service… for smoldering closely packed silk produces a gag inducing odor. Add two humans now little more than chalk …a melted scout knife the only remains of the rear seat gunner.
As I ran from the scene the sun was winking over the horizon. The landscape for miles in every direction was covered with slash pine forest…in every direction save one. With his flares the pilot had located a bare strip where some farmer had cleared a twenty foot wide, several hundred foot long strip for tomato planting. What the pilot could not see was a first growth pine stump about 5 feet in diameter at the end of the former tomato field.
We might do well to insist that those who would declare war first spend a day in the smoke from burning silk….