True Tales From Sulphur Springs: Remembering The Little Museum

NOTE: I learned yesterday of the passing, in 2002, of Mike Mayfield, former director of the Hillsborough County Museum, the forerunner of the institution now known as Tampa's Museum Of Science & Industry, or MOSI. In some ways Mike was a tragic figure, and I'll devote a post to him and his ill-starred tenure as museum director at a later date. This reminiscence describes how I came to work at the little museum by the river, and what I found there.

1974 I applied for work at the Hillsborough County Museum in Tampa. My girlfriend preceded me there; she had a summer job teaching art to innercity kids. One day she mentioned that the Exhibits Department needed a temporary laborer, preferably one that could swing a hammer. I didn’t know beans about carpentry, but I was sick of driving a cab, so I gave it a shot.

For reasons I don’t recall, my interview took place on the museum grounds around midnight. It was pitch dark, and although we couldn’t actually see each other, the Exhibits Coordinator said I had an “amicable aura”, and I got the job. I kind of liked my title: “Journeyman Helper”.

The museum was on the north bank of the Hillsborough River in Sulphur Springs, a site now occupied by the county's Parks and Recreation Department. At that time there were ten buildings. Three had once been homes; the rest were portables, storage sheds, or renovated garages. About half had recently been converted to exhibit space. Appalachian quilts, antique toys, Native American artwork, and duck decoys from the Louisiana bayou were among the shows slated for the coming year, to be rented or borrowed from other museums or private collectors. For the next several months the staff struggled to meet a rigorous schedule of openings. When not building pedestals and display cases I policed the grounds, picking up trash with a pointed stick.

Just as my temporary job was ending, the Museum’s “Acting Curator of Collections” -the Property Control Clerk- resigned. I took a Civil Service exam, and took his place.

As the new Property Control Clerk/Acting Curator, my first task was to conduct a museum-wide inventory, to see what we had and how we were handling it.

Boxes of artifacts and ephemera were stashed in attics, in closets, and under buildings, exposed to the elements. Some of the most interesting, and oddest, pieces were on display, but most were stockpiled at another location, on the top floor of an old warehouse in what’s now the Channel District. Only a few items had been catalogued, by someone to whom English was at best a second language.

Most of the collections had no reliable provenance, only rumors and hearsay. A beaded buckskin wedding dress was purported to have belonged to a friend of Annie Oakley’s. My ornately carved desk was said to have once been John Ringling’s. Underneath my office in Building 7 were several grocery bags full of human bones, said to have been “salvaged” (plundered) from an Indian burial mound.

Conditions were worse -much worse- in our downtown warehouse. Objects were stacked on rickety shelves, or heaped on the floor. The place was an oven; a recording thermometer read 95 degrees at 6:00 AM. The relative humidity hovered at an arid 50 per cent, good for preserving dried fruit or beef jerky, but injurious to sensitive artifacts of wood, cloth, bone, and paper.

The inventory revealed an eclectic assemblage of thousands upon thousands of THINGS- fossils, curios, rocks, relics, antiques, and assorted objets d’art. There were stuffed animals, model trains, fake shrunken heads, handpainted Ukranian Easter eggs, old tools, a medieval Spanish breastplate, a massive amethyst geode, a matched pair of mastodon tusks. There were the original plans for the presidential palace of Nicaragua, ca. 1915, and boxes of butterflies collected in South America in the 1920s. There was a rich trove of American Indian artifacts, woven baskets, ceramic bowls, bows and arrows, lacrosse sticks, cradleboards, kachina dolls, and delicately stitched leather goods decorated with porcupine quills and tiny glass beads.

And there were other surprises -some of them downright alarming. Rummaging around, I found a liter of mercury, and a rusty can full of highly explosive ether. Next to that was some fused sand wrapped in a bit of lead foil. A scribbled note said it was from ground zero at an atomic bomb test site. I disposed of the ether, and stored the rest as safely I could.

I was acutely aware that I was embarassingly ignorant, and lacked the skills and education needed to manage such a potpourri. I requested training, and the museum obliged, sending me to the Smithsonian for classes in collections conservation, and the Florida State Museum for a lengthy seminar on the preservation of fossils. Most importantly, I was encouraged to network with other museum professionals across the country. Then we obtained a grant for a team of college students, from various disciplines, to catalogue and conserve the bulk of the permanent collections. Carolyn Byers, Peter Owens, Robert Peterson, Loretta Hennessey, Bruce Bollman, Bertram Crawford, and Robert Soler toiled diligently for a year, documenting tens of thousands of items, preserving arcane and puzzling bits and pieces of Tampa’s legacy. If not for their combined efforts, which largely went unrecognized, many irreplaceable objects would surely have been lost.

It was understood from the beginning that our work at the Hillsborough County Museum was in preparation for a bigger, more modern facility. In 1977 the new museum was finally approved. More personnel were added, and Mike Mayfield was replaced, without forewarning, with a new director. We broke ground on MOSI in 1979, and I was privileged to work -and play- there for many years.

But it’s my time at the little museum that holds meaning for me now. Recently I went back, after almost three decades, and strolled around the grounds. Three of the original buildings are gone, and the rest are mostly office space. Still, it looked much the same. How odd to think that an institution like MOSI could have its roots here, on this shaded riverbank, in a decaying neighborhood the city has forgotten.

A Florida Keys Album, pg. 5, Parting Shots

TOP: This sign, depicting an unusually affectionate octopus, graces the front of a keys camera store.

This mural, on the side of a bait shop/gas station, shows Calusa Indian maidens playing Show and Tell.

Back in the early 60's this was a private museum called "Art Mckee's Sunken Treasure Fortress." Dad and I were members of Art's "Treasure Diver's Club." While neither dad nor I ever went "treasure diving", we attended some lectures and slide shows, along with about a dozen other folks, including Mickey Spillane and his pnuematic blonde girlfriend, who could upstage any lecturer just by showing up. The original Fortress still stands, complete with hokey ramparts and parapets, but the museum it once housed is long gone, replaced by a Montessori School. The giant spiney lobster out front is a new addition.

BOTTOM: For those lacking families of their own, Key West's Southernmost Point marker sports a ready-made black family on one side, and a Japanese family on the other.

A Florida Keys Album, pg. 4, the Funky Charms of the Conch Republic

TOP: This primitive one-man human powered minisubmarine sits in the parking lot of Herbie's Diner, in Marathon. It was designed and built by retired naval submarine commander George Kittredge about 40 years ago. You can still find these little deathtraps for sale on the internet, but you'd have to be nuts to go down in one. The happy minnow on a fishhook was also at Herbie's.

MIDDLE: The Conch Republic sign was alongside a trailer in Marathon. Guess the owner got tired of being asked directions.

BOTTOM: When I saw the robot gorilla at Freds Beds I had to check the place out. Co-owner and Lonely Guy Ed Heeney gave me a tour, which included this wonderfully funky shark rotting away on a boat trailer in the back yard. But the real star of the place was Ed's little dog Maggie, who Ed claimed was an irresistible "chick magnet." While we were talking, a girl walked by on the street, and Maggie made a beeline for her, licking her feet until she stopped. This gave Ed the opportunity to strike up a conversation. "See what I mean?" he said later. "Man I love that dog."

A Florida Keys Album, pg. 3, Indian Key

On day two I rented a kayak at a funky patchwork of businesses referred to collectively as Robbie's Marina, and paddled out to Indian Key, about three-quarters of a mile off Islamorada. It's a State Historic Site, and although ranger-guided tours are no longer given there, it's open to the public.

As keys go, this one's pretty small, about 10 acres. It was settled in the early 1830's. The little community thrived, and was soon designated the seat of Dade County, which at that time included much of southern Florida. Around a town square roughly the size of a football field the 40 to 50 permanent residents constructed streets, a hotel, a hospital, a general store, a blacksmith shop, a warehouse and several dwellings. In 1840 the town was attacked by a band of about 100 Seminoles, who killed a few islanders, including the respected physician and botanist Dr. Henry Perrine, and burned every structure to the ground. All that remains now are the streets, some stone building foundations, a few cisterns, and the original grave of Jacob Housman, who founded the community in 1831, and died ten years later, crushed between two boat hulls during a storm.

Humans quit the key for good about a century ago, leaving it to the tender mercies of the mangroves, poisonwood trees, and hermit crabs.

A Florida Keys Album, pg. 2

Here are some shots from the Hemingway House. Located in the heart of Key West's Old Town District, it's well worth a visit, despite the nightmarish quest for a parking space within walking distance.

The middle shot was taken from the second floor, looking north. The Key West Lighthouse is in the upper right corner.

Admission is $11, for which you can join a tour or just roam the grounds. Keep an eye out for the polydactyl (6 toed) cats. This one's name is Spanky.

A Florida Keys Album

Just back from an all-to-brief working vacation in the keys, shooting for a pictorial book called "Florida's Fabulous Historic Places."

The shotlist included sites in both Key West and Islamorada, so I got a room inbetween, in Marathon. I'd intended to stay at the Hidden Harbor Motel, a quaint combination hostelry and sea turtle hospital, but Hurricane Wilma put the motel part out of commission, most likely for good. So I stayed at the cheap, cheerful Yellowtail Inn. It was quiet and comfortable until the last night, when the Fraternal Order of Water Buffaloes held an impromptu blowout in the next room. Or maybe it was just an earthquake- hard to tell. Thank god for MP3 players.

The first day of the trip was pretty much a washout. As I boarded the 7 Mile Bridge shortly after dawn a heavy squall blew up, pounding the islands for two solid hours, then intermittently the rest of the day. Here's a shot taken that morning, looking north from Spanish Harbor Key, showing the rusted remains of Flagler's Overseas Railway partially obscured by the rain.

The second shot -same subject- was taken that evening, looking southwest from Bahia Honda State Park.

Once the storm let up, everything was Jake. I'll add more shots and text over the next several days.

Roadside Zoo, Spring Lake, FL

Just another pointy birds pic.

another Springs story: music lovers

Back around 1972, my future wife and I lived in a small house in Sulphur Springs -- I think it was on Sitka. Next door lived an older couple who we exchanged pleasantries with as we came and went. Eventually, they asked us over for a visit.

Inside, we saw that their house was home to a number (10+) of large, wildcat-sized, cats. These were apparently inside-only cats -- we hadn't previously noticed any cats outside. A little unusual we thought, but lots of people like cats. The house was otherwise fairly clean and well-kept.

We were offered some soda and cookies, and sat on the couch in front of a large console stereo. We soon learned that this was a prized possession, and casually agreed that yes, we would like to hear some music.

As we ate our cookies, drank our soda and chatted, the man put on a succession of country music records. Things were pretty normal except that from the Chipmunks on speed sound of the stereo, it was apparent that the LP records were being played at 45 rpm. We kept thinking that some mistake had been made, but didn't want to embarrass our hosts. However, eventually it seemed our duty to say something. I tried to be diplomatic: "You know, I was thinking that those records might sound better if the stereo was set at another speed". Luckily they weren't offended: "Oh, we know that. We just figured that this way you'll have time to hear more records".

True Tales From Sulphur Springs: The Death Of Al

When somebody hijacked my beatup old garbage cans the other day and dumped garbage all over the yard, it brought to mind the sad fate of my neighbor Al, and how after he died in his shabby Sulphur Springs bungalow, penniless and alone, somebody purloined one of his few possessions -his slop pail- which was full at the time.

As any longterm resident will tell you, Sulphur Springs isn’t what it used to be. When I moved here in the 1970’s, it was quiet and peaceful, and the rent was dirt cheap. They say Kerouac lived here once, although no one seems to know exactly where or when. I’m pretty sure he didn’t live in my house, which was a tiny shack in the shade of a magnificent live oak. I never liked the house much, cheap as it was, but I loved the tree, and spent a lot of quality time in and under it. Mrs. Dillon, who was ninety-five, lived next door. She passed away after a year or two and I acquired her place, which had a new roof and by Sulphur Springs standards was pretty cozy. I’ve lived here ever since.

Al lived across the street. He was about sixty, with skinny legs and a bloated belly. Another neighbor, Larry, looked after Al, and supplied him with beer, smokes, and surplus pastries from the Entenmann’s outlet on Hillsborough. Al had no electricity or water, and when he needed to bathe or drink he went over to Larry’s house, or mine if I wasn’t home, and filled a couple of gallon jugs from the tap outside.

Mrs. Dillon warned me about Al. “Don’t never give him no money”, she said. “Money goes through Al like soup through a goose.” She was right. Once he offered to mow my lawn and I naively paid him ahead of time. Weeks dragged by and the lawn remained uncut. Al made excuse after excuse. His lawnmower was busted. His back hurt. He needed gas. After a couple of months I gave up. I didn’t have much use for him after that.

Al was remarkably adept at maintaining a low profile. Even the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who circle these streets like hungry vultures, left him alone. His front yard, although perpetually weedy, was uncluttered and inconspicuous. There were no trash piles, abandoned appliances or cars on blocks, nothing to draw one’s attention. Most days he could be seen sitting on the steps. His clothes were always clean, his white hair was always neatly combed. After awhile I forgave him, kind of, for the lawn episode, and although we didn’t talk much, we were civil when we did.

One day I was taking a shower and I thought I heard Al yell my name. “Ah shit,” I thought, “I really don’t want to talk to you.” I shut off the water and listened, but heard nothing more. So I went about my business.

The following week Al was nowhere to be seen. Then one morning there was a stench in the air. It was faint at first, but pervasive and inescapable, growing worse as the day wore on. I turned on the AC and cranked the jalousies shut, trapping a number of big green flies. I thought something had died in the attic or there was a problem with the sewer. Around two in the afternoon Larry knocked on my front door. He seemed dazed. “Hey Jim“, he said. “Al’s dead.”

“I guess I should call the police.“ he mumbled, gesturing toward the house. “You don’t wanna go in there.”

We stood in my driveway and watched events unfold. First a firetruck came. Two firemen wearing some kind of scuba gear went inside. After a minute or two they left and a young cop went in. He stumbled out moments later and staggered to his car. Then the Medical Examiner arrived with his assistant. They looked like Jake and Elwood Blues. For them it was business as usual. As they toted Al down the steps in a body bag the postman, looking a little nonplussed, delivered his mail.

Larry opened what windows he could and let the cottage air out overnight. The next day I peeked inside. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In every corner, trash was heaped to the ceiling. One room was inundated with thousands of beer cans, another so packed with rubbish, mostly newspapers and empty Entenmann’s boxes, you couldn’t open the door. The bathroom was indescribably filthy. In the living room, where Al died, there was a hole in the ceiling big enough to drive a garbage truck through. It was the rainy season and everything was soaked. There was a waisthigh mound of soggy butts and ashes -it must have been years in the making- against one wall. Thumbtacked to another wall were a pair of Playboy centerfolds ca. 1973, Al’s only attempt at decor. Beneath them, stacked on a splintered cabinet, were about a hundred dogeared paperbacks, all westerns, mostly Louis L’Amours.

Al rode into the sunset on a spavined leatherette divan in the center of the room. Next to it there was a galvanized bucket filled with excrement. Larry made a little joke about it, about how glad he was Al hadn’t kicked it.

These are the things I saw, before the smell drove me outside.

Larry let the house air out another day. The next morning he stopped by with a bizarre update. “You ain’t gonna believe this,” he said. “Last night somebody stole that bucket.”

That sort of mischief, while not so unnerving as a drive-by, doesn’t bode well for any neighborhood. But I wasn’t really surprised. Like I said, Sulphur Springs isn’t what it used to be.

Al died hard. Felled, according to the Medical Examiner, by some sort of massive gastrointestinal hemorrhage. He was buried in a pauper’s grave in Bushnell. He left the house to Larry. Not counting the paperbacks and the bucket, that was the extent of his legacy. Larry told me the last time Al worked was over thirty years ago, as a caddy. We decided he'd been dead for many years, he just hadn’t realized it.

-walkin' tree

Feeding Limpkin

Although limpkins typically eat apple snails, this one was snacking on freshwater clams. Photographed in the Hillsborough River, at Tampa's Rowlett Park.

-walkin' tree

The Peace Of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

-Wendell Berry

How Cockroach Bay Got Its Name (Maybe)

The People lived beside the inlet. They lived well; the waters were bountiful and the forest teemed with game. They decorated their bodies with soot and feathers and bead necklaces made from the vertebrae of fish. Lacking stone, they made tools from seashells. From oysters, horse conchs and lightning whelks they made scrapers and projectile points, ladles, awls and spoons. They fastened shells to sticks, to make axes, picks and hammers. From the biggest shells they took the heavy spines, the columellae. These they fashioned into chisels, “pounders,” to crack open clams and turtle shells.

They lived this way for countless generations, trading with some clans, skirmishing with others. Then one day a messenger brought word of a strange new enemy; a tribe of bearded men, their skins pale as the inside of an oyster. They bore sticks of fire, and were obsessed with gold.

When the strangers finally came, the chief greeted them warmly.

“We, as you can plainly see, are exceedingly poor,” he said. “But our neighbors, far to the north (a treacherous lot, rumored to hold both you and your sovereign in very low esteem) are always bragging about their gold, which, regretably, they refuse to share with us.”

“But, you look hungry -would you care for some seaweed?”

As they rowed back to their ship, the Spaniards looked around in disgust. There was nothing here, nothing but mangroves, naked savages and sea-cockroaches, their name for horseshoe crabs. Henceforth, their maps would refer to the inlet as Cockroach Bay.

-walkin' tree