http://www.sowal.com/bb/blogs/ en Sun, 21 Mar 2010 20:58:17 GMT vBulletin 10 http://sowal.com/bb/images/misc/rss.jpg http://www.sowal.com/bb/blogs/ http://www.sowal.com/bb/blogs/shallowsnole/69-my-daddys-camellias.html Wed, 19 Mar 2008 02:48:48 GMT It’s that time of year again. It’s almost spring. The camellias bloom first, then the azaleas take it from there. And every time I see a camellia, I can’t help but think of my father. My... It’s that time of year again.

It’s almost spring. The camellias bloom first, then the azaleas take it from there. And every time I see a camellia, I can’t help but think of my father.

My daddy was a tall, strong and extremely intelligent man, and he loved camellias. His birthday was February 21, and as a child, the camellias always bloomed just before and during his birthday. The two went hand in hand.

He planted camellias in our yard when I was in elementary school. The plants were small, and I remember his consternation when they did not bloom for several years. Finally, though, the one he planted between the wall of his shop and our pumphouse developed buds and, on his birthday, sprung into full bloom. A couple of the others in distant parts of the yard did as well. Dad was a man of few words, and fairly gruff a lot of the time. But he loved the camellias.

We lost several of the camellias in September 1975, when Hurricane Eloise filled our yard with salty water from the bay. However, the ones further away from the house and the bay still thrived.

In the summer of 1983, we began noticing that Dad’s speech was beginning to slur and that he didn’t seem to be thinking clearly. The onset wasn’t sudden, as with a stroke, but we suspected perhaps a series of strokes. Mom finally got him to a neurologist in Pensacola, under the pretense that it was her appointment. As his mind was slipping rapidly, we were anxious to learn what we could do to reverse this, and get him back on the road to good health. Unfortunately, the diagnosis was amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and the part of his body most affected was his respriratory system. Normally, this affliction weakens the body and often leaves the patient paralyzed, but does not affect the mind. While the tremors and weakness that characterize ALS were present, the more serious and sad symptom was the loss of his mental faculties. The reason behind this part of his illness was never diagnosed nor explained, and Alzheimer’s was ruled out. We reasoned that perhaps his brain wasn’t receiving enough oxygen. In any event, the doctor informed my mom that Dad only had about six months left. Though evident to everyone around him, Dad was blissfully unaware that anything was wrong, so Mom made the choice not to tell him.

By the time his birthday in February 1984 rolled around, there wasn’t much that he remembered clearly. The ladies of the Point Washington Methodist Church had a birthday party for him. It would obviously be his last. He went into our yard and picked a bouquet of camellias to take to the party. It made my mama cry.

By mid-March, the camellias gave way to the azaleas, and in the pre-dawn hours of March 26, 1984, Daddy gave way to respiratory failure and went to be with his Lord and Savior. He was barely 64 years old. I was not quite 21.

In the almost-24 years that have since passed, the time between February 21 and March 26 has always been somewhat melancholy for me. I’ve now been without my father for more years than I was with him, and it is true that time does help. Still, I see him in many ways around here. The rusty pipe marking the spot where he once had a company come in to drill for oil (that’s another blog in itself), the azalea bushes lining our driveway, the canal he had dredged during the days of the fish camp, and the road to our home, which bears his name, all remain even now as markers of various stages of his life. However, the one that hits closest to my heart is the lone remaining camellia bush, which blooms like clockwork every February.

There is still one bloom on the camellia. The azaleas are starting to bloom. New flowers were taken to the Point Washington Cemetery yesterday evening. It’s that time of year again. Time to remember - and miss - my daddy. :wub: ]]> ShallowsNole http://www.sowal.com/bb/blogs/shallowsnole/69-my-daddys-camellias.html http://www.sowal.com/bb/blogs/shallowsnole/40-christmas-eden-personal-history.html Mon, 24 Dec 2007 15:09:23 GMT My aunt, Ollie Sue Butler, was the tour guide at at Eden State Gardens for many years. Ollie Sue was the perfect fit for this position, being the great-niece of and having known W.H. and Katie... My aunt, Ollie Sue Butler, was the tour guide at at Eden State Gardens for many years. Ollie Sue was the perfect fit for this position, being the great-niece of and having known W.H. and Katie Wesley, and also having known Miss Lois Maxon, who restored the old, scary Wesley house and donated it all to the State of Florida.

In the late 1970s or early 1980s – not sure of the year – Ollie Sue had the idea of decorating the old house for the Christmas season and opening it to the public, illuminated by candlelight only, on Christmas Eve as a “gift to the community.”

That first year, Ollie Sue enlisted her sister, Peggy Bailer, to assist her with decorating and finding hosts and hostesses for the event. Naturally, being a young Point Washington belle, I (and most of my cousins, and some of our community friends) was asked to dress up, look pretty and take turns in the rooms to greet people that came by. We didn’t need to remember very much about the furnishings, but Ollie Sue would give us each a crash course immediately before the doors were opened so that we would know the basics.

Of course, our primary purpose was to monitor the candles and watch for problems, as the Eden house is constructed of heart pine – which is better known as “kindling.” Quite selfishly, I asked for duty in the parlor, thinking that if I was going to be in a long dress near candles in a house built of kindling, I wanted to be near the door.

The next year, we did it again on Christmas Eve, and even more people, mostly word-of-mouth, came by. At the end of the evening, it was understood that it would be an annual event. For me, it became the time for the mad holiday rush to end and to spend a peaceful, magical evening in what felt like another time and place, and greet old friends and new ones with “Thank you for coming, Merry Christmas!”

Over the next few years, word got out about the annual event and the little tour became chaotic. Traditionally, people could come in and wander around to their heart’s content, and talk/loiter for as long as they wanted to. That changed the year that 350 people showed up. The next year, people had to go through in groups and spend only just a moment in each room. Also about this time, the event had grown so that it became a function of the Coastal Heritage Foundation, and the tour was moved from Christmas Eve to a Saturday that would be more convenient for all. My heart broke just a little, as it was no longer my personal prelude to Christmas morning, but it was still acceptable. I was still the hostess in the parlor, and people still told me how much they enjoyed it.

1992 was the first year that I was unable to be a hostess – Wesley was only three weeks old and I hadn’t fully recovered yet. In 1993, it was business as usual, plus a few pounds. In 1994, I again agreed, as usual, to be a hostess in the great room. I thought it odd that they needed to ask. However, on the day of the event, my great-aunt in the nursing home at Sandestin fell and broke her hip. Fast-forward to 1995...

Granted, we had moved to Freeport. Granted, working and finishing my bachelor’s degree and having a preschooler kept me from attending many community service meetings. In early December 1995, the ad for the Christmas Tour at Eden came out in the newspaper, but no contact information was given. I’d been a host for 15 years, more or less, all in the great room, and I was certain they kept the information from year to year. I figured I would just get dressed and show up at Eden a few minutes early.

As I stepped into the mansion, I was met by a rather stern lady who ordered me to wait until 5:00. I replied that I was a hostess and was always in the great room. She looked at my semi-formal dress, wrinkled her nose and asked, “You’re with the group from Panama City?” “Panama City? No, I’m Joyce, Ollie Sue and Peggy’s niece!” The lady gave me the strangest look I have ever been given, and said “Ollie Sue? Ollie Sue who?”

A lady in long, confederate-era dress came to the door and asked the first lady what the matter was. A sense of alarm and panic began to overwhelm me. The snooty lady told the lady in the long dress that I claimed I was a hostess. The other lady looked me up and down and said “I don’t know her.” I said, “You’re with Coastal Heritage, right?” The lady in the long dress asked the other lady, “Coastal Heritage? What is she talking about?”

A line was beginning to form, and the people in the line began to stir around and stare at me, and I could feel tears and rage welling up. Had this been not so emotionally personal to me, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. I knew that I was the only original “Wesley” still participating each year, but I didn’t foresee being bumped in this fashion. I whirled around and ran off into the bushes.

Finally, I began to regain a little bit of composure. My makeup was shot, but I was almost calm enough to have a conversation. Many more people had arrived, including my husband and son, and I was glad to see that all the people who had seen me make a spectacle of myself were already inside. I meekly walked to the back of the line to meet Steve, who took one look at me and asked wth happened. I finally saw my dear aunt Peggy, and asked her who all these people were. She told me that the lady that was in charge of Coastal Heritage had passed away, that Friends of Eden had taken it over, and that the people conducting the tour were from a Confederate re-enactment group from Panama City. I asked why, and she replied that it had gotten so big that we just couldn’t do it anymore. My brain understood, but my heart didn’t.

Against Steve’s better judgment, I chose to take the tour. Things went well until we got to the children’s room. I was basically having an epiphany, as not only did I not know any of the hostesses, but I didn’t know anybody in line. The lady described the furnishings in the room as the type of furniture the Wesley children would have had. I became unglued again.

After embarrassing myself, the tour guides and my family with a spiel of how the Wesleys were just a large family with a sawmill and a couple of other corrections, Steve convinced me to leave. Before I walked out of the gates, I turned around and looked back at Eden by Candlelight. It was bad enough that I had lost my father, then my mother, and now the family tradition had been ripped away from me. I vowed never to go back.

Over the next few years, in every aspect of my life, the communities I grew up in began changing. Every organization I belonged to began to be taken over by “new people.” Nobody knew me anymore, and instead of taking the time to introduce myself to people, I would simply be offended and take the “you don’t know who I am?” attitude.

Slowly, the tides began to shift. I cannot put my finger on it exactly, but I know it had to do with Wesley entering school at Butler Elementary and becoming involved in community sports. I had also begun working for the county, where I was back in the public eye again, instead of being shut away in an office. I met a lot of new people – there were still folks who remembered me from childhood, but for the most part, people were new to the community. I began attending church again (I had left that too, because of the new people), and took an interest in learning who people were. At the same time, my new friends would ask me where I was from, and become totally fascinated when I told them I was from “here!” I was learning to appreciate, not resent, the population boom in South Walton.

Finally, the day came when we could move back to Point Washington. I had one more thing to do to reconcile my present with my past. In December 2005 – ten years since I had looked back at Eden by Candlelight – I decided to go on the tour.

The first year was hard, but I reminded myself that if Friends of Eden hadn’t taken it over, the annual event would have stopped, thus depriving the whole community of the joy I had felt every Christmas from my senior year of high school forward. I also reminded the really shallow (pun intended) part of myself that even if it was still a family event, 80 pounds and a few crows’ feet were standing between the current me and the pretty young lady who once wore formal dresses and welcomed people to Eden.

Yesterday, my fifteen-year-old son assisted with preparing the luminaries for Christmas at Eden. Later on, his father and I stumbled up through the darkness on Eden Gardens Road (we forgot the flashlight) and the three of us took the tour. While I’ve discreetly tried to correct the tour guides for the past two years, my family made me promise not to do that, even if they said (again) that Point Washington didn’t have electricity until 1963. And, I am proud that I didn’t – even when the hostess in the great room identified the portrait over the fireplace as Lois Maxon herself, and not her mother. :roll: I also realized that the tour was no longer candlelight – I don’t know if the new state people nixed that, but I can agree the liability would be tremendous, as we had some close calls with greenery and flames way back when. But, it was still beautiful - and, when we left, I was at peace. Not wistful, not melancholy, just happy. :wub:

But, it looked like they might have needed some more help in places last night. I wonder if...:cool: ]]> ShallowsNole http://www.sowal.com/bb/blogs/shallowsnole/40-christmas-eden-personal-history.html