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It seemed so strange. They were slightly scuffed and worn but now lay unmoving and silent. They were placed on the closet floor just the way Daddy had left them, as if they were waiting for him. My heart heavy and searching for peace, I stared at them – Daddy’s shoes. No one else could ever fill those shoes. No one would ever have an imprint in those shoes like Daddy. He left an imprint in my heart, as well as his shoes.
Daddy had just passed away. My eyes locked on his shoes, the shoes that would never be worn by him again as I let my mind drift……
My father was the Depot agent for the Atlantic Coast Line, a southern railway. History tells us that during the 1940s, Citrus was the bread and butter of the community. Tons of citrus were shipped from Palm Harbor, Florida to all parts of the country. The Palm Harbor Citrus Association was active at this time. There were 46 growers in the cooperative, which had been formed in 1924. The “fruit season", as the locals called it was bittersweet. The season was when all the orange growers made their money but it was also hectic. Daddy knew all of the orange growers, as they shipped their fruit through the depot. My two sisters and I would go help Daddy at the depot after school. My mother would work from about 8 am until after dark. I walked to the depot right after school. The first thing Daddy would say to me was, “Are you hungry? Here’s some money. Go to the Gas Station (next door) and get yourself something to eat." Usually, I would get crackers or peanuts and a soft drink. Of course the peanuts were really good, if you put them in the drink and let them soak in cola. After that, I would usually stamp pads (shipping labels) at 5 cents a pad. My mother would write out tickets (name, address, etc) for each individual bushel of fruit. Sometimes there would be 200 or more bushels filled with oranges or grapefruit. We worked away, stopping only to greet the growers as they came in to give us an order. The old black pot bellied stove sitting in the middle of the big depot gave just enough heat. This went on from about November till May. Daddy looked so tired but no matter what, was always polite, as he would murmur, “Yes Sir" and " Yes Maam."
Working at the depot was a way for my sisters and I to make money because Daddy would pay us by the hour. When the season was over, we would all go to Tampa for a shopping spree at O’Falks. What fun that would be! Maybe we would get to go the Columbia Restaurant for lunch and have Spanish bean soup and hot Cuban bread. Or we could have a Cuban sandwich and that wonderful Coconut Ice Cream.
One day, after school I went to the depot, as usual. The first thing Daddy would do was to give me money to go get a soft drink and snack at the gas station next door. However, this particular day, Daddy had something on his mind. He said he wanted to tell me something. He said that I needed to have an operation. I didn’t ask him what that was or why. If Daddy said I needed an operation, that’s all I had to know. He also told me that I would be going to Waycross, Georgia with Aunt Christine by way of the train. (All traveling on the train was free for all of us.) The facility at Waycross was where the Atlantic Coast Line sent us for any kind of surgery. I am guessing that it was paid for or almost paid for by going there.
The most meaningful thing that Daddy taught me was, “don’t worry about things that you can’t do anything about." It is such a simple thought but has carried me through the trials of life. I am sure that is how he dealt with my undiagnosed illness and my mother’s bouts with depression.
Most of the time Daddy called me “Shug" or “Prissy." When he called me Francine, I knew he was upset or sad about something.
One day, we got a terrible telephone call. Mother cried and Daddy was shut up in the bedroom. Daddy’s mother had died unexpectedly. I went with Daddy to Jacksonville to the funeral. Mother wasn’t able to come. I can’t remember if my sisters were there or not. I had never been to a funeral before. I was frightened. Most of the people were sobbing loudly and wailing. It was a long funeral. I didn’t know what was happening. It seemed like the world was coming to an end. I tried to think of a way to comfort Daddy. Tears were rolling down his cheek. I didn’t know what to say or do. I was too scared to be sad about my wonderful grandmother because everyone was crying so loudly. As I sat there, I tried to think of something to help Daddy. Then one thing came to my mind. I pulled out my handkerchief, turned to Daddy and wiped the tears from Daddy’s check. Daddy didn’t say anything and I couldn’t come up with anything either. Neither one of us said a word.
It was my father who taught me compassion. Even though my mother was ill, intermittently, throughout those years of my young life, Daddy always had time to think about others. He knew a family in the area that was very poor. We packed a box of food and toys, and he delivered it to their house. We were not rich, by any means but Daddy had a job and wanted to share. From time to time, I would see the mother of that family. Daddy would employ her when he could afford it. He always treated her like royalty, not like the family that lived in the shack. I can still hear him saying to her, “Yes Maam" or “No Maam."
My father taught me to be interested in what was going on in the world. During my early years, he attended the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. My job was to fill up a scrapbook with anything political that happened while he was gone. Every day I would scan the newspapers for articles and information. I felt important because he trusted me this job. Again, that was a paying job. Even at ten years old, I was learning the value of my time and most of all, responsibility.
When I was around ten years old, a girl one grade below me lost her father through a car accident. I didn’t know what to say or do. A friend in my class came over to my house to talk about the accident. Her mother had instructed her to tell me and other girls that she knew to just “be" with her." We didn’t have to talk about the accident. We were to take walks with her and do normal things. We all went for a walk that Sunday afternoon. My heart was heavy for her. I could only imagine how she must feel, as my mind drifted to Daddy.
Years later, on my wedding day, I stood in the rear of my church with my father. Our arms were entwined as we prepared to walk down the aisle. Daddy said, “Are you sure about this?" I knew what he meant. Life away from him, my mother and our precious Palm Harbor. “Yes, Daddy", I answered. As the music swelled, I knew the memories of this small town and the honor of having parents so loving would remain in my heart forever.
Daddy’s shoes carried us both down the church aisle.
……………………..by Francine Larson
This is an excerpt from a book I am now writing, “My Life in Palm Harbor." These were my most recent thoughts, although my father passed away many years ago.
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