Orlando, Fla.
Sun., Feb. 7, 1926
There is an old pavement with many holes between Jacksonville and St. Augustine, and so narrow that, when passing, one car has to go off into the rough. We would have liked to have had more time to snoop around enchanting St. Augustine, the oldest city in America. The view at sunset from one of the turrets of the old fort with its Spanish gates, guns and cannon was stunning. At the Fountain of Youth we paid 50¢ for a draught of the famous water and to hear the guide’s spiel about Ponce de Leon and De Soto and the ancient chapel built out of coquina rock--shell ground and pressed by the action of waves and time. A daft reformer, the president of the society which collected the fee, gave us a diatribe against white slavery.
Although we had sworn to avoid tourist camps after Jacksonville, we were not able to resist the VERMONT Tourist. It turned out to be the best yet--running water, clean toilets, cement washtubs, cooking ranges under cover, and tiny bungalows to rent, for those who do not have a tent. Our motorcycle, N.Y. license and our pile of duffle are a great curiosity wherever we go. People are surprised at how much the machine can carry.
The next day the old bike made such a poor start that Bill gave her one more overhaul. Experimenting, he replaced the new Washington spark plugs with supposedly worn-out ones, when, lo and behold, she ran like a bird.
After crossing the toll bridge to Ormond Beach, I let her out all the way, and we whizzed along on the magnificent hard sand until suddenly losing power, she stopped dead. Again disappointed in the old bus, I looked down and saw the carburetor hanging loose. We had nearly lost it!
Orlando’s twenty-nine lakes make it a charming residential city, but the folks on the downtown streets are a motley crew-sharpers, aristocrats, tough looking women, get-rich-quickies, and just plain people.
We arrived just at supper time at the home of Percy and Dora, Dr. Strobel’s son and his wife, who are expecting us to stay a few days. Their two cunning boys are most well behaved, Percy being so strict they don’t dare be otherwise.
Saturday our hosts took us and the children for a picnic on Cocoa Beach. Driving about sixty miles through endless swamps of cypress, oak and pine, many kinds of heron fished the black waters; mud turtles basked in the sun; and the blue sky and gray moss set off the delicious new red of the maples. While we ate lunch on the beach, sandpipers gingerly picked their way along the water’s edge, and pelicans plummeted for fish offshore.
Florida seems either intensely cultivated or wasteland. The soil in the swamps, however, is said to be rich, so that to grow a fine truck garden it would only be necessary to cut down the trees, dig out the stumps, drain, plow, fertilize, and sow the seeds. No trouble? The profit from the resulting fine vegetables is said to be well worth it. But what about the birds, mud turtles and small animals? Where do they go?
Much of the Florida peninsula has a coral base, and there are strange tales that: water will bubble up anywhere a twenty-foot hole is dug; but by digging three hundred fee down, a swamp can be drained. Most confusing?
Tomorrow we hit the road again, after a most pleasant visit with the Strobels.