By VERNA BROCK
This past weekend a Facebook post about Wakulla Station gained a boatload of resposes, as debate raged over a couple of neighborhood buildings from the 1920s and 1930s. The conversations centered around what is now “Sandy Bottoms,” which was also known as “Beep’s” before that. Built in a very common style of the era, the old wooden building primarily belonged to my longtime neighbor, Mr. Bennie Rogers.
Ed and I had moved into our home in December 1977. Our original structure was built in 1930 by Sam Smith. Meant for his daughter before her marriage, it once was very basic, with hand-selected lumber, throughout six rooms; it lacked indoor plumbing, electricity or closets. I’ve been told, by people who were born and raised here, that what is now Woodville Highway was once a two-rut road, and Old Woodville Road (which parallels what is now the Rails to Trails State Park) was the area’s primary paved road.
At some point, Mr. Rogers sold the property to John and Kathy McDevitt shortly before Ed and I moved into the neighborhood. Directly south of there was Mrs. Branch’s historic store, shaped in another iconic North Florida style, the A-frame gas station. Her store was still open in 1977, but the building has been slowly disintegrating over the last nearly 50 years.
Another store, owned by the Hagler and Jernigan families, was located directly across from Sandy Bottoms. Also built in the same style as the Rogers’ store, this old wooden building soon became an antique store for Lamar Garner. He spent his days restoring everything from Chippendale furniture to primitive pieces and turn-of-the-century tiger oak items. I loved visiting his shop and still have some items purchased from him.
In April 1982, on a drizzly Saturday morning, a newly filled Sing Oil tanker came through the caution light at Woodville Hwy. and 267. Despite the speed limit set at 35 mph, the driver was flying. He passed Bruce Alford by her mailbox, and seconds later clipped a Scotty’s delivery truck turning north from what is now Lovett Lane.
The tanker attempted to swerve around the smaller truck, lost control on the damp pavement, and rolled over several times. sliding through the front of the Jernigan’s store and onto the corner of our property. It brought down a live power pole while spilling 8,000 gallons of leaded and unleaded gasoline across the ground. No sound emanated from the crushed cab.
I was standing in my yard, preparing to make a trip to the library storytime with my toddler, when this all transpired. I watched in horror as what seemed like armageddon unfolded before me. Everything went dead silent, and then a loud whoosh sounded. Flames raced down the slight incline towards the stand of trees, following the flow of gas away from the broken wreckage. Immediately, deafening explosions racked the morning air as black smoke and roaring white hot fire leaped toward the sky.
I turned to Ed and shouted for him to call 911, but the line went dead before he could get two words out. As we shook off the stunned disbelief, we realized we needed to move our vehicles away from the intense heat. For the next seven hours, explosions shook the neighborhood. Jernigan’s wooden building, along with Lamar’s entire inventory of beautiful antiques, was reduced to ash in under five minutes.
One lasting effect of the fire was the death of the driver. Another was the infiltration of gasoline and all of its carcinogenic components into the Florida Aquifer. As Ed pointed out, if even one percent of the truck’s load managed to percolate through the sandy soil, that would equal 80 gallons of gas. Judging from the reek of gasoline that lingered for months, it’s no wonder our deep well tested positive for contamination. Now, nearly 45 years later, we have drilled a new well into the aquifer that seems gasoline free. Fingers crossed!
What seems really curious to me is how such impactful events recede in the collective memories of community. Living our day to day lives, year in and year out, time passes. Fresher events move to the forefront and new neighbors move in unaware of the history of their environs. Next thing you know, people are astonished to learn that there was a suspected pyromaniac roaming two counties, a full-fledged railway stop where mail was delivered to the Post Office daily, two boarding houses for train travelers just around the corner and a thriving lumber business down the road in the other direction.
After so many decades, all physical traces begin to be erased from the landscape, much like what is happening at Branch’s store.
We’re so focused on the here and now, or sometimes the future, we let the past slip away. Suddenly, no one recalls how it was, what delivered us here in the first place. But these things are the warp and weave of our lives’ fabric, a tapestry that we shouldn’t allow to become unraveled.
I hope my sharing about our history helps readers to see the community with a new perspective!