Cherry Lake is a small community located less than five miles from the Georgia State Line in Madison County. It has been home to one of the state’s most vibrant 4-H summer camp programs since 1937, but it was a hub of activity long before that time.
If you travel south from Ocala toward Belleview on U.S. Highway 27/301/441, there’s a place where the northbound and southbound lanes split to go around a tiny patch of thick forest. There doesn’t appear to be much of a reason for this at first, aside from the small satellite sheriff’s office Marion County has in the median. There’s more to this than meets the eye, however.
Hidden among the vines and oak trees in the middle of this busy highway is Florida’s own Stonehenge. Granted, it’s not nearly as old, and its uses aren’t nearly as shrouded in mystery. That being said, it’s still quite a sight to see in person. Four enormous concrete structures rise nearly as high as the trees, covered in vines, moss, and graffiti. They date back to 1936 when construction began on a bridge to cross a section of the Cross Florida Ship Canal (later known as the Cross Florida Barge Canal).
The Franklin D. Roosevelt administration had authorized the canal project as a federal relief program. Camp Roosevelt, located a few miles away, served as housing for the workers. The canal had yet to be built at this point, although government authorities had already condemned a strip of land for it, right through the middle of the community of Santos.
The project was short-lived. In June 1936, after barely six months of work, the federal government halted work on the bridge at Santos. Concerns about the canal project’s impact on tourism and the water supply had aroused concern among the public and Congress, and no additional funding was made available for the span.
The bridge piers were, however, already built. What could be done with them? They were too heavy to move, and too expensive to simply destroy. Project managers decided to leave them where they stood. Maybe they thought the canal project would resume sometime in the future and the piers could still be used.
The Cross Florida Ship Canal, renamed the Cross Florida Barge Canal, did resurface in later decades, but the Santos Bridge remained untouched. When U.S. 27/301/441 was widened, the road planners simply bypassed the enormous bridge piers and allowed the space they occupied to grow up naturally. The Cross Florida Greenway now passes through the area, and the old bridge piers are a side attraction for visiting hikers and mountain bikers. The nearby trailhead is called Santos in honor of the community that once prospered there.
The Stonehenge-esque structures at Santos are merely one of many mysterious monuments to the past hiding in plain sight in Florida. What mysterious historical structures are located in your community? Search the Florida Photographic Collection to see if we have photos of them, or consider donating a photo by contacting us.
If your boss tells you she’s off to a meeting in Jacksonville, no one blinks an eye. A cousin heading to Key West? Maybe a bit of envy and best wishes for a pleasant suntan. But when someone says they’re off to Two Egg, Florida, there’s bound to be a either a giggle or a look of pure confusion.
The bustling metropolis of Two Egg is located a few miles northeast of Marianna in Jackson County. Although it’s little more than a wide spot on a curve of State Road 69, it was a prominent crossroads in the region as early as the 18th century. Europeans and native Creeks established trails in the area heading to Neal’s Landing and Thomas Perryman’s trading post on the east bank of the Chattahoochee River. The route between Perryman’s in the east and the natural bridge over the Chipola River in the west crossed right through what we now know as Two Egg. Although the road has been slightly reshaped and much improved over the past 200 years, it still follows roughly the same path.
How the crossroads got its peculiar name is something of a debate among local historians. The area was settled shortly before the Civil War by the Michaux and Knowles families, and by 1898 it had a name, but it wasn’t Two Egg. Federal records show that when locals applied for a post office, they requested the name “Allison,” likely in honor of the family that established a sawmill and general store in the area around that time. The new office lasted only about a year, however, before it closed and the mail was transferred to nearby Dellwood.
The name “Two Egg” began appearing during the 1930s, some say as a result of a cultural phenomenon brought on by the hardships of the Great Depression. With jobs and cash hard to come by, local citizens had very little money to buy the goods they needed from the general store. As a result, they turned to the barter system, trading in a few vegetables or other farm products for whatever they needed to make it through the week. According to one legend, a local man named Will Williams decided that since he couldn’t afford to give each of his 16 children an allowance, he would instead give them each a chicken. Whenever one of the chickens laid eggs, the child who owned it could trade the eggs at the store for whatever they pleased. According to the story, a traveling salesman witnessed one of the children trading two eggs for some candy and decided to nickname the town accordingly. Other versions have one of the children or even the store owner commenting that the place would never be “more than a two-egg town.” At least a dozen different theories exist, but the majority seem to agree on the common thread of bartering with eggs. Whatever the true origin of the name may be, by 1940 it was in use on official state road department maps.
A combination of New Deal relief programs and the arrival of World War II breathed new economic life into the families living around Two Egg. Perhaps just as importantly, as more people began traveling to Florida in the postwar era, curiosity about the strangely named town led an increasing number of visitors to pass through for a quick stop at the general store. John Henry Pittman’s store was the main place to shop for a number of years, although it eventually closed, leaving the Lawrence Grocery as the sole business in town. As late as the early 2000s, the Lawrence store remained open, selling candy, cigarettes, cold drinks out of a machine, and Two Egg souvenirs.
The Lawrence Grocery eventually closed, and the Pittman store was condemned and destroyed in 2010. The town, if it could be called that, serves more as a bedroom community for Marianna nowadays, but signs on State Road 69 still proudly mark the location of Two Egg. When the signs aren’t being stolen, that is. Locals say the signs for Two Egg are stolen more than any other place name markers in the state. Even bolting the signs to their posts hasn’t stopped the problem; the thieves simply cut the signpost off at the bottom when they cannot remove the sign itself. In a way it’s a sort of backhanded compliment to the uniqueness of this small Florida curiosity. We at Florida Memory, however, would encourage visitors to leave the signs alone and just take a picture or two.
What unusual places have you visited in Florida? Tell us about your favorite by leaving a comment below or on Facebook!
Every old house, every river, and every bend in the road in Florida has a story. Some are easy to learn about, others not so much. Understanding the history of a place becomes even more complicated when the place itself changes rapidly over a short period of time. The history of Camp Roosevelt south of Ocala is a case in point. In the space of a single decade, it served as an educational center for at least three separate federal programs, headquarters for workers building the Cross-Florida Barge Canal, and emergency housing for returning World War II veterans and their families.
The camp originated as a temporary home for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the large labor force it needed to build the Cross-Florida Barge Canal. This project had been a long time in the making. Even as far back as the 16th century when the Spanish had control of Florida, shippers and government officials had wished there was some way to shorten the lengthy and dangerous voyage necessary to sail around the Florida Straits. A number of ideas emerged for digging the canal, but the enormous expense of the project led private and public authorities to shy away from it.
Ironically, the arrival of the Great Depression gave the plan a boost off the drawing board and into action. Local politicians urged the federal government to take on the canal project as a federal relief program through the New Deal. The Franklin Roosevelt administration allocated funding for the project in September 1935 on this basis, and by the end of the month construction was underway to prepare for workers to arrive. The plans called for what amounted to a small city, complete with medical and recreational facilities, a dining hall, a post office, and headquarters buildings. The Army Corps of Engineers designated the site as “Camp Roosevelt” in honor of the President.
The camp’s population quickly swelled with workers, but their stay was to be much shorter than planners had expected. Vocal opponents of the project in Central and South Florida argued that digging the deep canal would expose and contaminate the underground aquifer that contained their water supply. Sensing trouble, the Roosevelt administration quietly backed off of the project. Works Progress Administrator Harold Ickes dropped his support, and Congress failed to extend the original 1935 appropriation. In the summer of 1936, with only preliminary work complete in several locations along the proposed route, work came to a halt.
With no money to continue, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers prepared to close its operations at Camp Roosevelt. With these extensive facilities vacant, the Works Progress Administration sensed an opportunity to take over the site and use it for a good cause. The W.P.A., the University of Florida in Gainesville, and the Army Corps of Engineers reached an agreement whereby the University would operate Camp Roosevelt as a center for adult education. The University would be in charge of the program itself, whereas the W.P.A. would handle the business end of the camp. The Army Corps of Engineers would pay most of the utility bills. Less than three months from the end of the work on the barge canal, the University of Florida’s adult education extension program was up and running at the camp. Major Bert Clair Riley, the university’s dean of extension services, administered the program from Gainesville, while a series of local directors handled the day-to-day business on the ground.
At first, the extension program mainly offered short courses in subjects like model design, leathercraft, art appreciation and design, and training for W.P.A. administrators. Program leaders made bold plans to expand their reach to include short courses for civic officials, printers, real estate brokers, toymakers, and aviators. The University also offered more formal courses in subjects like English and History to aid those students who wished to continue their education at the university level.
Funding for the extension program, as with the canal and so many federal projects at this time, was temporary, and within a year the University of Florida had to decide whether it would continue the work. It did, in a way, but through a new partnership that changed the focus of the camp to more of a relief operation. The National Youth Administration, dreamed up by Eleanor Roosevelt as a way to offer federal relief to young women who could not join the Civilian Conservation Corps, teamed up with the vocational division of the Marion County school system and began running the camp. The camp’s population consisted mainly of women, although men would later be admitted to the camp as well. Participants took classes for half the day, and worked on projects such as sewing, metalwork, or cosmetology for the remainder of the day. Typically, the students had had no more than a year or two of high school before entering Camp Roosevelt. By the time they completed the term, program administrators hoped to place them in their communities as secretaries, stenographers, library assistants, or other skilled workers.
As World War II approached, the camp’s classes and activities became geared more toward defense work. Teenage boys too young to enter the military were admitted to the camp, and nursing, welding, woodwork, and signmaking replaced the more domestic skills that had been prevalent in earlier years.
Whether they came for the federal relief wages or to do defense work, Camp Roosevelt’s residents were living in a difficult time. This did not, however, stop them from making the best of their situation and maintaining a healthy social atmosphere. The camp had a newsletter, the “Roosevelt Roundup,” edited by the faculty and students. It had dances and athletic activities, and recreation leadership training was even offered as a course.
As the war continued, more and more of Camp Roosevelt’s usual pool of residents became involved in formal defense work, and administrators decided to shut the camp down. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers retained the site and planned to keep it up, as plenty of enthusiasm still remained for resuming the Cross-Florida Barge Canal project. Before that could happen, however, a more pressing problem emerged for the camp to tackle.
As World War II came to a close, the young men and women who had left to join the military or serve in other defense capacities came home, looking to start new lives as adult civilians. This sudden surge triggered a dire shortage of adequate housing. Husbands and wives and sometimes children frequently found themselves living with other family members, not so much for lack of funds but simply for lack of available homes to buy or rent. Civic leaders scrambled for solutions, and in Marion County facilities like the small houses at Camp Roosevelt became an attractive option. The Ocala/Marion County Chamber of Commerce appealed to federal leaders, asking that the buildings at Camp Roosevelt be made available to provide housing for returning veterans. Washington complied, and soon former soldiers and their young families were moving into the buildings once occupied by canal workers and then residents of the W.P.A. and N.Y.A. relief programs. The federal government retained the right to move the new residents should the barge canal project regenerate, but by the time this happened some years later, the Army Corps of Engineers had determined it would not need the complex. It was declared surplus property, and eventually was sold piecemeal to private citizens.
Looking at this neighborhood, now called Roosevelt Village, its former roles during the Great Depression and World War II are not readily apparent. It just goes to show that no matter which direction you look in Florida, there’s a story to be told.
What buildings or other spaces in your Florida town played a role in the Great Depression or World War II? Share with us by leaving a comment below. And don’t forget that Florida Memory has a large number of photos from World War II-era Florida. Search the Florida Photographic Collection to find these historic images.
Washboard Bill was born in Dupont, Florida on July 4, 1905. He was known as a percussionist, rooted in the minstrel tradition, as well as a captivating storyteller. During much of Cooke’s childhood, his mother operated a juke joint in Dupont. The young Cooke would secretly stay up past his bedtime listening to the music emanating from his mother’s establishment. These experiences shaped Cooke’s interest in music, and greatly influenced his rhythmic style later on in life.
At age six, Cooke began working for a local sawmill, making 25 cents per day, after his mother fell on hard financial times. In 1916, Mrs. Cooke closed her juke joint, and sent her children to live on their grandfather’s farm in Sanford, Florida. As times grew tougher and the Great Depression set in, Cooke grew weary of his life on the farm, and decided to leave home. For ten years, he led the life of a hobo, traveling by train all over the East Coast.
Although Cooke spent the majority of his younger years traveling outside of Florida, he still maintained a connection with the state, generally spending his winters in West Palm Beach. Between 1947 and 1963, he performed with a group called the West Palm Beach Washboard Band. They played in venues everywhere from the streets to the estates of the Rockefellers and Kennedys. In 1956, he recorded Washboard Country Band with Sonny Terry and folk legend Pete Seeger. Cooke moved to West Palm Beach permanently in 1973. He performed in Florida and throughout the country until his death in 2003. For his musical and historical contributions, Cooke received the Florida Folk Heritage Award in 1992.
In 1988, Cooke recited a personal narrative, A Hobo’s Birthday, for the Palm Beach County Folk Arts in Education Project, conducted by the Florida Folklife Program. Cooke’s story offers a fascinating account of life as a hobo during the Great Depression. His travels and experiences give the listener a vivid portrayal of transient life on the railroad tracks, and of the character Washboard Bill.
Podcast: A Hobo’s Birthday by William “Washboard Bill” Cooke
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