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.
1950s era map showing the location of Two Egg northeast of Marianna. Note: This map predates the construction of Interstate 10.
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.
Department of Transportation highway map showing the Two Egg area with the location of dwellings, churches, and a school (revised 1946).
How the crossroads got its peculiar name is something of a debate among local historians. It was originally called Allison, after the family that established a sawmill and general store in the area in the early 20th century. 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 as scarce as hen’s teeth, 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 the materials they needed to make it through the week.
John Henry Pittman and his wife at their general store in Two Egg (circa 1970).
According to one legend, a local man named Will Williams decided during this difficult time 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 would lay eggs, the child who owned it could trade them at the store for whatever they pleased. A traveling salesman witnessed one of the children trading two eggs for some candy, according to the story, and decided to nickname the town accordingly. At least a dozen versions of the tale exist, but the majority seem to agree on the common thread of bartering with eggs. However the name came about, by 1940 it was in use on official state road department maps.
Sign explaining a two-cent charge for opening cans at Pittman’s general store in Two Egg (circa 1970).
A sign in Pittman’s general store (circa 1970).
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 grocery remained open, selling candy, cigarettes, cold drinks out of a machine, and Two Egg souvenirs.
Street view of Lawrence’s grocery in Two Egg. This was the last store open in town. Note the license plate on the car reading “Two Egg Florida” (1985).
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.
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