Meet my Uncle George

Today, I'd like to introduce ye rabbits to my great-uncle George Everett Macy (1850-1928).


His grave marker may be found near the back of Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando, in Section A to be more precise.


If you squint at this image, you can barely make out some words beneath his name and vital dates: "Absent from the Body, present with the Lord."

Uncle George came down to this little corner of heaven with his dad, my great-great-great grandfather William H. Macy during the years immediately after the Civil War.


Settling in Orlando in 1875, George established a blacksmith shop at what is now the intersection of South Street and Hughey Avenue.


His two-story home stood nearby at 208 West South Street, but had to be moved over to the grounds of the old Boone homestead on Irvine Street when I-4 was rammed through our old downtown area.


Anyway, Uncle George's blacksmith shop grew from producing horseshoes and branding irons to become a wagon factory--the biggest in the state, as a matter of fact. It covered 12,640 square feet of workspace and produced 16 varieties of wagons, carriages, buggies, and surreys.


I'll bet it was a Macy Wagon that the old funeral homes used to carry caskets and mourners out here to Greenwood Cemetery back in the long ago, maybe even for Uncle George funeral!

Non-traditional source reveals citrus pioneer

This stone at Greenwood Cemetery in dowtown Orlando doesn't reveal too much about the fellow it memorializes.

It's hard to read, so here's a transcript for ye rabbits:

WILLARD DEWEY

Born

Aug 15, 1839

Died

Dec 5, 1899

A precious one

from us has gone.

I tried the usual sources of additional biographical information, but completely struck-out with the federal census.

I did find a Civil War service record showing he served as Quartermaster Sergeant in the 27th Kentucky Infantry Regiment.

But, it was only by checking a recently-discovered source on citrus farming that I found out more about Mr. Dewey:

http://www.fshs.org/

The site belongs to the Florida State Horticultural Society, and if you click on the "Proceedings" tab you will find they have kindly digitized their records dating back to 1888. It was in these records that I found the Committee on History's "paper number 6," about the history of orange plows. It was written by W.W. Yothers, an Orlando entomologist, who remembered Mr. Dewey as the owner of a grove about 3 miles south of Orlando, and quoted a letter from the Avery Plow Company in Louisville, Kentucky, dated 23 November 1918, which stated (in part):

An old and highly esteemed member of our staff

was Mr. Willard Dewey, foreman of our forge shop.

After years of faithful service he moved to Florida,

partly for the purpose of seeking relief from rheu-

matism. He acquired an orange grove, and at that

time the cultivation of groves was either not done or

done in a primitive way. This was about 1885.

He decided that the cultivation of orange groves by

plowing, to keep the groves free of grass and weeds,

was advisable, and he applied intensive cultivation to

his grove along this line . . . This improvement was made

in 1889, as the result of several years study preceding.

Mr. Dewey, like many of our pioneers, came to this neck of the woods only after the rail lines were established and thus missed the 1880 census enumeration. We all know the 1890 census records were lost to fire. So, it is important for we rabbits to broaden the scope of our search when we're trying to find out more about people whose grave markers were erected in this time frame. Don't just check the census and vital records, try contemporary periodicals, too!

Graveyard wildlife

We graveyard rabbits are well aware of the fact that cemeteries are (or can be) places full of life.

That irony seems to be lost on most folks.

But, all they have to do is open their eyes to both flora and fauna, especially down in this little corner of heaven where the winters are so mild.

A recent visit to Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando confirmed this.

Rising from the tombstone littered grounds and jutting above the treeline is an active bald eagle nest that could have inspired Dr. Seuss.

And scampering around the gravestones--not to mention along the paths that divide up the various sections--is a veritable menagerie.

I didn't spot any other rabbits, just yours truly. But, there were tons of birds.

Most of them fled, either on foot or on wing, when my indelicate clodhoppers approached with a camera . . . like I was a gaggle of paparazzi trying to capture their images for the front page of the National Enquirer.

I did manage to snap one good pic of a little white crane, though.

Enjoy!

An accusation carved in stone

One of the most eye-catching sites within the bounds of Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando is the Weeks mausoleum, mostly because just about everybody around this little corner of heaven was buried in the ground.

Anyway, if ye rabbits are brave enough to closely inspect the mausoleum, you will find a curious Bible verse (Luke 10:30):

"A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves."

There's a fairly humorous story behind that inscription.

It seems Fred S. Weeks came to these parts from Quincy, Illinois, in the late 1800s, and began searching for a good piece of land to start an orange grove.

He traveled the countryside and came upon a promising parcel of land that some locals were already clearing for that purpose. They were piling up the scrub brush in a pile and burning it to make way for rows of new citrus trees.

Seeing this, Mr. Weeks eagerly made an offer on the property, figuring the current owner had already done the hard work of clearing it. He should have been slightly suspicious when his offer was accepted just as quickly . . .

When he and his wife went out to the property to build their new home, they discovered all the smoke from the scrub fires had masked the view of the entire tract of land. As it turned out, clear skies revealed a boggy marsh unsuitable for citrus. They had been swindled!

Exhausting all normal means of recovery from the swindlers, Mr. Weeks erected his mausoleum in Greenwood Cemetery. At the time, as pointed out in previous posts, the cemetery did double duty as a public park and had quite a lot of pedestrian traffic. So, you can imagine how embarassed the swindlers were when they found their names had been chiseled below the aforementioned Bible verse for all their neighbors to read!

Long story longer, they settled-up with Mr. Weeks and he allowed them to pay someone to remove their names. (You can still see the "blank" space beneath the verse where the swindler's names used to be listed!)

References:
* 1870 Census, Adams County, Illinois, page 427b.
* 1880 Census, Adams County, Illinois, page 589a.
* 1900 Census, Orange County, Florida, page 45b.
* 1910 Census, Orange County, Florida, page 206b.
* 1920 Census, Orange County, Florida, page 130b.

Old newspapers add stories to the stones

Have you ever hopped upon a grave marker and wondered what it WASN'T telling you?

You know, most of them will give you a name and a couple of vital dates. But, there is so much more to a person's life than the beginning and the end.

Now, we local rabbits have a great online resource for finding out more by perusing old newspapers posted at this website:

http://www.wppl.org/

For example, yours truly wanted to know more about this Civil War veteran Nathan H. Fogg (20 June 1838 - 26 March 1916) who was buried in the GAR section of Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando.

I found his obituary printed in the 30 March 1916 edition of the Winter Park Post:

DEATH OF NATHAN H. FOGG

Nathan H. Fogg died at his home in Altamonte Springs Sunday evening. Mr. Fott has resided in Altamonte Springs for the past 32 years and was dearly beloved by all who knew him. In the words of one who knew him well, "He was a self-made man, a devoted husband, and a loving father--ever willing to lend to the poor and afflicted. He will be sadly missed by those whom he assisted in times of distress."

The funeral services took place Tuesday morning. The cortege left at 10 o'clock for Greenwood Cemetery, where after the Masonic ritualistic burial service, the interment was made in the G.A.R. burial ground. Undertaker Carey Hand was in charge of the arrangements.

The deceased was in his seventy-seventh year. He moved her to what was then Orange County from Saco, Maine. He is survived by his wife and two daughters, Mrs. J.W. Osteen of Altamonte, and Mrs. J.M. Tracy of Colville, Wash.

An early account of a haunting at Greenwood Cemetery

A century ago, many of Orlando's black residents lived in a settlement dubbed "Jonestown." It lay east of the city limits, between Colonial Drive and Gore Street, and as far east at Bumby Avenue.

But, soon after the 1900 census enumeration, most of Jonestown's residents moved west of the aptly-named Division Street.

Now, as I continue reading Kena Fries' old local history, I believe the following first-hand account (slightly edited) indicates that a supposed "haunting" at Greenwood Cemetery scared the people away . . . conveniently vacating a lot of valuable acreage for real estate development:

"We'd all been living there in brotherly accord and love for a powerfully long time and the ghosts never gave any trouble til they put up a fine tombstone over the man who gave the land for the burying ground. Since then, every night when the town clock goes "bong, bong" twelve times, he creeps out of his grave and sits atop the stone pointing his gun at the gate, and he sits there til our roosters crow three times in the morning, then he creeps back in the ground til the clock goes "bong, bong" twelve times the next night. I saw him, and my father-in-law saw him, and all the rest of us have seen him sitting there."

In the long, long ago . . .

Back in 1938, Kena Fries (whose stone pictured here may be seen at Greenwood Cemetery downtown) published a book on the history of Orlando.

I thought ye rabbits would appreciate what she wrote about early funerary practices in this neck o' the woods:

"In the long, long ago, when a death occurred friends of the family made a rude coffin or box, and the corpse was lovingly laid to rest on the very best sheet and pillow the family owned. The body was taken to the grave on a wagon drawn by a mule or oxen. A pine board, or light wood marker was placed on the spot. The interment usually took place under some large tree, magnolia, cedar, or oak, on the homestead. The first public grave yard was situated at the corner of Main and Pine. When the street was clayed, notice was printed in the papers requesting all bodies be removed. At the end of six months those remaining with some form of marker were disinterred and buried in a common grave in Greenwood."

Note, she doesn't mention what happened to those remaining *without* a marker!

Mark your calendars, local rabbits!

Once again, venerable Greenwood Cemetery in Orlando will be hosting a moonlight tour:

Next Friday - December 12th - 9pm - 1603 Greenwood Street

This is the perfect opportunity to see some of the things yours truly has been blogging about here at the CFGYR.

Couple of suggestions from past personal experience:

1. Wear comfortable walking shoes. The tour is about 2 miles long.

2. Bring a flashlight.

For more info and tips, please feel free to call the sexton's office: 407-325-6269.

Victorian Cemetery Design

A few days ago, yours truly mentioned a fellow named Samuel A. Robinson, whose name should be heralded by all local graveyard rabbits.

It was Mr. Robinson who came up with the original design for Orlando's beautiful municipal graveyard: Greenwood Cemetery.

Here is a basic map of the modern cemetery's layout, but it has been expanded and modified significantly since Mr. Robinson first took pen to paper back in the 1880s. In his day, rabbits entered from Gore Street, on the south (see the red dot between sections J and G). That is why most of the earliest burials here are clustered from that point to sections A and H.

Unlike modern planners who seem more interested in utility and aesthetics, Robinson was a true Victorian. His three purposes were pragmatism, amenity, and morality.

By pragmatism, I mean his primary intent was to provide the city with a sanitary means of handling human remains. Imagine how important a concern that was in his day, especially given Florida's subtropical climate.

By amenity, I mean he also wanted to create a space that would be as inviting as a city park. He intended the grounds to be used for more than just funerals, and expected his design would to welcome both individual citizens seeking a refuge from the bustling urban center as well sizeable civic gatherings on important dates.

By morality, I mean Robinson expected visitors to receive important messages about mercy, virtue, and patriotism . . . and from the other side of the coin: vice and selfishness, too. A section was mercifully set aside for the indigent. The virtue of the family unit was reinforced with multigenerational plots. The patriotic values of the city founders are reflected by the placement of all the veteran sections at the front, where they could be clearly seen by those traveling along Gore Street. (Confederate veterans in section J, Union veterans in section I, and later Spanish American War veterans in section W.) Vices would be decried in the monuments that sprouted up when the grounds were opened. But, there would be none of the selfish old iron fences surrounding individual plots and interrupting what was intended to be a broad, open, and tangible moral lesson.

Robinson's intentions are all but lost on modern visitors to Greenwood, who enter thru the new gate on the west side of the property . . . especially since most turn north after passing the cemetery office and head toward the more active sections that crowd up against Anderson Street and the new "urban wetlands."

But, now, at least ye rabbits know a lot of thought was put into designing this little corner of heaven, and the heavy thinking was done by Sam Robinson!

Pioneer undertakers

Further to yesterday's post about Orlando's earliest graveyard, I would like to introduce ye rabbits to the city's earliest undertakers.

Until the arrival of Edgar A. Richards, a carpetbagger from Massachusetts, most folks in this little corner of heaven oversaw the burial of their own family and friends.

Mr. Richards made things easier on the grieving survivors, though, with his ready supply of coffins at his furniture store . . . not to mention a willing shovel.


But, it wasn't until 1887, when Elijah Hand came to these parts that embalming of bodies was introduced to our funerary customs.



Before Hand's arrival, there was a custom that anyone who died before noon had to be buried by sundown. Anyone who died after noon would be buried the next morning.

But, with Mr. Hand's introduction of embalming fluid, funerals could be postponed a few days . . . a very convenient thing when you consider how difficult travel conditions could otherwise restrict turn-out for a good wake.

After a couple of years in competition with each other, Mr. Richards and Mr. Hand teamed-up to serve the community.

Ironically, while Mr. Richards' fine obelisk may still be seen at Greenwood Cemetery southeast of downtown Orlando, Mr. Hand (father of local embalming) was himself embalmed and sent back to his old hometown of Shelbyville, Indiana, for burial!

That being said, Mr. Hand's son Carey remained in Orlando and it is his name that has become synonymous with the funeral business right up to the present day.

Not a vestige of anything left . . .

Those were the words Orlando pioneer Samuel A. Robinson used to describe the city's first graveyard when he was interviewed by the local newspaper back in 1915.

According to Mr. Robinson, it was where "Samuel Russ and many others" were originally buried. But, it may not be their finaly resting place. Or, maybe it is . . .

The roots of the vanished cemetery date way back to 23 November 1857, when my ancestor John Patrick deeded one acre to the local Baptist congregation to build a church. I suspect his generous gift followed the death of his father Wright Patrick, Orlando's first postmaster and quite possibly the first person buried within the bounds of the modern city block bounded by Church Street on the South, Rosalind Avenue on the East, Pine Street on the North, and Magnolia Avenue on the West.

It was certainly being used as a graveyard by 1869. But, it wasn't until 1872 that the locals got around to building an L-shaped log church on the site. (Pictured above.) It was used not only by the Baptists, but also by all the other congregations in the city until they were able to build churches of their own. Thus, it was known as the "Union Free Church." It also did double duty as a public school building.

In 1880, when Greenwood Cemetery was established southeast of downtown, the old graveyard fell into disuse. The union church building was absorbed by the nearby Tremont Hotel, but was ultimately condemned by the city in 1891. Two years later, the Baptists wanted to expand their new church complex. So, they disinterred all the grave sites they could identify and moved the remains to Greenwood. But, as ye rabbits are well aware, sometimes it's hard to spot all the graves in a graveyard. And, they apparently missed more than a few!

Who knows who may yet remain buried under this bustling block in the heart of downtown Orlando: Samuel Russ? Wright Patrick? Their names certainly don't appear in the sexton's records at Greenwood . . .

Think about that the next time ye hop down to one of the hot spots at Church Street Station, and a chill might just run down your spine!

Ask Carl Dann!

That was a piece of oft-heard advice to tourists in this little corner of heaven about a hundred years ago.

Hanford Carl Dann, Sr. (15 Sept. 1884 - 1 Sept. 1940) was practically a one man chamber of commerce back then.

I bring him up today, because I am preparing to open my home in the College Park neighborhood to a couple hundred expected visitors on the annual Historic Homes Tour.

You see, Mr. Dann once owned the property on which my home was evenutally built. He subdivided it, and sold it off to another developer--something he did no fewer than 60 times.

His own home was at the corner of Colonial Drive and Orange Avenue, just north of downtown Orlando.

Today, though, you rabbits may find him at Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando.

Colonel Allen drowned in the Kissimmee River

Well, rabbits, to thank Steve Rajtar for his moonlit tour of Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando last night, I'd like to introduce you to one of the notable fellows buried there.


This is Colonel Robert T.P. Allen (26 September 1813 - 9 July 1888) who was born to Irish immigrants in Baltimore, Maryland.


After graduating fifth in his class at West Point in 1834, he came to this little corner of heaven with the U.S. Army during the Second Seminole War.


In 1845, he established the Kentucky Military Institute, over which he presided for many years--except from 1849 to 1851 when President Zachary Taylor sent him out west to organize the postal system in California and Oregon.


In 1857, he moved to Texas to establish another school, the Bastrop Military Institute. And, it was there he raised the 4th Texas Infantry Regiment at the outbreak of the Civil War. They took the field as part of Hood's Brigade, but Colonel Allen was not a popular commander. So, he was sent back to Texas to oversee a POW camp near Tyler.

After the war, he returned to the Kentucky Military Institute. But, in 1877, when his son John was elected Orlando's second mayor, he returned to Florida.


Sadly, he drowned while swimming in the Kissimmee River near "Allendale," where his son had established a steamboat line after completing his term as mayor.

His body was retrieved from the rushing waters, and hauled up to Orlando to be laid to rest beneath this sizeable marker in the Allen family plot.

Armistice Day came too late for poor Ben Brown

While seeking out Jack Barber's grave at Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando for yesterday's post, I also paused to pay my respects to the many service men and women buried in the American Legion section.

As today is Veteran's Day, I thought it would be a good time to introduce you to one of those servicemen: Private Ben B. Brown (1896-1918), who gave his life for this country in the Aisne-Marne offensive in France during the First World War.

I wanted to learn more about Brown, and quickly found his funeral record in the Carey Hand archives at cfmemory.org.

It tells us that he was a native of Spartanburg, South Carolina. He enlisted 8 August 1917 in Orlando to serve in Company C of the 2nd Infantry, Florida National Guard. That unit was sent for training at Camp Wheeler, then shipped to France on 20 June 1918.

Poor Ben was killed in action just one month, one week, and one day later.

More tragically, he fell less than four months before Armistice Day.

While I hope all ye rabbits take a moment today to honor all veterans of all our nation's wars, please remember the holiday was originally declared to commemorate the end of the First World War--the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918--an important moment that far too many young men like Ben Brown did not live to see.

Jack Barber's bloody lip helped spark a feud

Yesterday, I introduced ye rabbits to Violett Roberson Barber, the first wife of Andrew Jackson "Jack" Barber (9 July 1839 - 18 Aug 1916).

Today, I want to introduce you to his second wife Nancy Hull of Orlando, whom he married only four months after burying Violett down in Kissimmee. As you can see from the photo here, their's was a May-December romance.

While married to Nancy, Jack became a respected member of the community, faithfully attending the Baptist church and building-up his cattle herds and citrus groves.

But, it was during his first marriage to Violett that he gained legendary status, at least amongst local history buffs.

As his grave marker at Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando attests, Jack served in the Confederate Army during the Civil War. (Company G of the 5th Florida Cavalry Battalion, to be precise.)

His greatest claim to fame, though, came as a primary catalyst of the bloody Barber-Mizell feud.

His uncle Moses Barber, patriarch of the clan, already had a beef with the scalawag Mizells--pun intended. He resented the way they seized cattle from his herd to pay the ridiculously high property taxes levied during the dark days of Reconstruction, and even went to jail for threatening one of Sheriff Mizell's deputies. (George Bass was his name.)

Anyway, during the following year, Jack Barber was riding the range. To his surprise, he discovered one of his prize heifers in the midst of a herd of Mizell cattle feeding on that very same range. Well, he did the only logical thing and reclaimed his wayward property. The sad result was a prison sentence to equal his uncle's.

Uncle Moses had recently returned from serving his own time behind bars, and insisted upon accompanying Sheriff Mizell as he escorted Jack up to the prison in Palatka. They went by steamboat out of Mellonville, modern-day Sanford. And, it was a long journey.

Jack thought he'd kill time chewing some tobacco, but couldn't reach his pouch because his hands were tied. So, he asked the sheriff to lend a helping hand. Annoyed, the sheriff took a large wad of the weed and shoved it in Jack's mouth so hard that it bloodied his lips.

This was the last straw, as far as Uncle Moses was concerned, and he warned Mizell that he had "started down the road to hell."

Within a year, the sheriff was dead and buried at what is now Leu Gardens in Orlando.

The Barbers' side of the story

Not too long ago, I posted some details of the Barber-Mizell feud.

My ancestors didn't have a dog in that fight, to borrow an old Cracker alliteration. In fact, we were the law and order types who stepped up to the plate after things got out of hand.

So, I want to perpetuate our history of neutrality. And, since I already gave the details on the Mizells buried in Conway at Leu Gardens, I feel it only fair to tell you rabbits something about the cantankerous Barber clan.

To do so, I take you down to Kissimmee today, to a little cemetery on Hilliard Isle Road, just a few blocks east of Boggy Creek Road. It's a small burial ground, hemmed-in by suburban sprawl. I don't think it contains more than a dozen or so graves . . . at least graves with markers.

The most impressive stone, in my humble opinion, belongs to Violett S. Barber (6 Sept. 1841 - 8 June 1894). It bears the following poetic inscription:

Thou art gone away, our loved one.

Life's toilsome journey is over.

Sweet songs shalt thou sing with the angels,

On the beautiful golden shore.

Violett (nee Roberson) was the first wife of Andrew Jackson "Jack" Barber, whose uncle Moses Barber was the head of the clan at the time of the 1870 feud. The two of them had to flee to Texas when the law clamped down on the violence, leaving their wives and children to fend for themselves.

While Moses never returned to Florida, Jack did come back to live with Violett by 1880. After her death, though, he married a girl from Orlando and is buried with her at Greenwood Cemetery downtown.

More to come, when I get back to Greenwood!

References:

*1870 Census, Orange County, Florida, page 456a.

*1880 Census, Orange County, Florida, pages 456b & 457a.

*"The Way Hit Wuz," by Mary Ida Bass Shearhart.

A senator in the cemetery!

Well, rabbits, this fine Election Day had yours truly pondering about all the public officials who found their final resting place in this little corner of heaven. And, I wondered, which of them had attained the highest elective office.

My mom told me the former first couple Ike and Mamie had a home in Winter Park. (Back in the 60s, she helped them select the pillows for their master bedroom there.) Of course, neither of them was actually buried down here. Like so many residents today, they wanted to be buried closer to "home."

So, I turned to my database, and am now pleased to reveal the answer:

U.S. Senator Charles Oscar Andrews (1877-1946)


Andrews was one of the many folks who poured into Central Florida in the heady days of the 1920s real estate boom. In fact, he was general counsel for the Florida Real Estate Commission (1925-1928) and Orlando's City Attorney (1926-1929). He also served as our local state representative in 1927.

His national prominence was achieved several years later, in 1936, when Senator Park Trammell died in office. Andrews was appointed to completed his term, and was re-elected in his own right in 1940. Ironically, Senator Andrews himself died in office, and is buried beneath a humble marker at Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando.

Distribution of graveyards

Well, rabbits, this week yours truly conducted a very unscientific survey to determine which were the most active graveyards in this little corner of heaven.

I say "unscientific," because all I did was keep a tally while reading the obit page of the Orlando Sentinel for seven straight days--a total of 94 entries.

Here are the results with commentary:

51% of obituaries made no mention of a final resting place at all. I can only assume that this includes the increasingly large number of cremations, as well as families who simply want their privacy.

20% were either out of the area (particularly at the national cemetery in Bushnell) or out of state entirely. This definitely reflects the transient nature of Central Florida's population. Very few of us are actual natives.

That left only 29%, distributed as follows:

8 at Woodlawn in Gotha--hands-down the "winner" in the busiest graveyard category.

4 at Osceola Memory Gardens down in Kissimmee.

2 each at Greenwood-Orlando, Glen Haven Memorial Park, and Winter Garden.

1 each at Chapel Hill, Congregation of Reform Judaism (never heard of this one before!), Edgewood-Apopka, Ocoee, Palm, Pineywood, San Pedro Catholic in Winter Park (also never heard of this one before!), Temple Israel in Gotha (is this new, too?), and Washington Park.

A bird's eye view for ye rabbits

Yours truly created a Google Map of all the hopping grounds already mentioned in this blog, and will commit to updating it on a weekly basis.

Happy Hallowe'en, everyone!

View Larger Map

Plan now to join moonlight history stroll

Mark your calendars!

11/14/08 - 9pm to 11pm

Once again, local historian and hiking guide/enthusiast Steve Rajtar will be hosting a moonlight history stroll thru Greenwood Cemetery in downtown Orlando.

The group will be limited to 50, so call the cemetery office at 407-246-2616 to claim one of the spots.

There is no cost to join the stroll, although donations will be accepted for the cemetery's tree replenishment fund. (Several old trees were lost in recent hurricanes.)

The stroll will begin at the cemetery entrance at 1603 Greenwood Street.