If you would like to catch up first, read Part 1 of this 2-Part Entry in the Ben Irving Postcard Project here.
Quincy, Florida is a small town not too far Northeast of the state capital Tallahassee (separate, dedicated entry on Tally coming in the future). A YouTube search, which I’ll admit I did not think to do when researching before my visit last week, turned up a few brief videos focusing on the newer hotels on the outskirts of downtown. One video was submitted to HGTV and included testimonials from a diverse set of local residents, including the owner of the Alison House Inn. Like the other functioning B&B’s in town, it was built as a private home, and I have no indication it was ever a hotel. Another video features barely-edited footage of walking and driving around the town set to what I assume is a royalty-free soundtrack. It’s pleasant, but not too informative.
Late last month, as promised, I took a diversion on a multi-state drive to go check Quincy out. I managed to sneak into town before 5pm, so there were still some people out and about. I parked near the intersection of Jefferson and Duval, but I saw no historical markers (at first) or buildings easily accessible to the public – only the police station and a pair of B&B’s. I decided to take a walk over to the town square’s Federal Courthouse Building, two blocks away.
After encircling the building, I found the ground-level public entrance. The security guard on duty seemed like he had a good base of local knowledge, so I showed him the 1936 postcard. I told him that I read that the Hotel had been located on the corner of Jefferson and Duval. He replied, “Yes… that hardware store’s parking lot is where the hotel was located.” I left him my information and walked back over to where I’d parked my car next to the Bell & Bates Home Center.
Given my limited resources at the moment, nor immediate access to anybody old enough to clearly remember the hotel, I decided to take the security guard on his word. I stuck the postcard and my camera through the fencing and took this picture:
Looking at it again, I wonder: Are those pillars and slats supposed to be an homage to the vanished hotel building’s lobby pillars? They don’t appear to serve any clear purpose for the garden center. Was the main entrance on Jefferson Street, or was it on Duval Street? If it was the former, then I had this repeat-photo staged (mostly) accurately. If not, then I still came close enough. I turned around and looked back across the street, and I took this picture:
As I believe I mentioned in Quincy Part I, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the Police Station was located in the building that had once been the Hotel Quincy. The historic placard (which you can see on the right side of this photo, standing on the grass) had another story about the building’s history, indicating that it used to be the Post Office where Ben Irving may have dropped his postcard off on January 29, 1936.
I will keep digging, but I still have not been able to find any clear references to the Hotel Quincy coming down. This very charming walking tour guide only mentions the Pat Munroe House (seen below) opposite that parking lot. I wonder if the building fell into such disrepair that it was a non-story when it did happen, a pile of rubble that needed to be cleared for that parking lot on the edge of downtown.
So, per usual, ground-truthing brought net-positive results: I got to visit (however briefly) another charming small town, and I got a verbal testimonial that answered my original question. I believe a phone call to the local Chamber of Commerce may be in order, and I’ll post any updates to this entry below.
The greatest byproducts of my research on Quincy, however, have been the discovery of the “Quincy Five” and Marston C. “Bob” Leonard’s Florida History Internet Center website. The Q5 were five young Black men who were convicted of the 1970 murder of a regional deputy Sheriff but were later exonerated from death row (the first incident of such in US history). What an amazing story, and I’m disappointed (though not surprised) I’ve never been taught about it. As for the Florida History website, Bob Leonard founded it in 1998. By the looks of it, it has not been updated since then, which is incredible. Crack open a bottle of Surge, throw on that scratched up New Radicals CD, and feast your eyes on this. You’re welcome.
I have a chapter in the new Geographies of the Internet volume in the Routledge Studies in Human Geography series entitled “Ethnographic research and the internet.” It is available via the Routledge site here and, ideally, your campus library!
Special thanks to Barney Warf for inviting me to contribute. It was already a challenge pushing this long-term project through the process with Routledge, and I’m sure the pandemic hasn’t made things any easier.
I’ll paste the book description and table of contents here:
This book offers a comprehensive overview of recent research on the internet, emphasizing its spatial dimensions, geospatial applications, and the numerous social and geographic implications such as the digital divide and the mobile internet.
Written by leading scholars in the field, the book sheds light on the origins and the multiple facets of the internet. It addresses the various definitions of cyberspace and the rise of the World Wide Web, draws upon media theory, as well as explores the physical infrastructure such as the global skein of fibre optics networks and broadband connectivity. Several economic dimensions, such as e-commerce, e-tailing, e-finance, e-government, and e-tourism, are also explored. Apart from its most common uses such as Google Earth, social media like Twitter, and neogeography, this volume also presents the internet’s novel uses for ethnographic research and the study of digital diasporas.
Illustrated with numerous graphics, maps, and charts, the book will best serve as supplementary reading for academics, students, researchers, and as a professional handbook for policy makers involved in communications, media, retailing, and economic development.
Table of Contents
1 Introduction Barney Warf
PART I Conceiving the history, technology, and geography of the internet
2 Is cyberspace there after all? Aharon Kellerman
3 The World Wide Web as media ecology Michael L. Black
4 Robustness and the internet: a geographic fiber-optic infrastructure perspective Ramakrishnan Durairajan
5 The history of broadband Elizabeth Mack
6 The mobile internet Matthew Kelley
7 Geographies of the internet in rural areas in developing countries Jeffrey James
8 Geographies of global digital divides James B. Pick and Avijit Sarkar
PART II Political economy of the internet
9 The geography of e-commerce Bruno Moriset
10 Online retailing Emily Fekete
11 Finance and information technologies: opposite sides of the same coin Jayson J. Funke
12 E-tourism Irene Cheng Chu Chan and Rob Law
13 The state and cyberspace: e-government geographies Barney Warf
14 A geography of the internet in China Xiang Zhang
PART III The internet in everyday life
15 Google Earth Todd Patterson
16 Augmented Reality: an overview Mark Billinghurst
17 Twitter Matthew Haffner
18 Neogeography Wen Lin
19 Ethnographic research and the internet Tyler Sonnichsen
20 Cyber-spatial cartographies of digital diasporas Michel S. Laguerre
21 Wearable internet for wellness and health: interdigital territories of new technology Monica Murero
22 The Internet of Things Anurag Agarwal and Bhuvan Unhelkar
Short notice, I know, but if you’d enjoying hearing my thoughts on various things related to my research, media format archivism, and the strange state of our country, tune into Titan Radio (Fullerton CA) online today at 4pm ET! I had a wonderful conversation with my old friend/collaborator Ted for his show Sitting is the New Smoking.
Here is a picture of us in New Orleans in 2008.
Thanks for reading and, provisionally, listening. I hope your August is going well.
Happy Birthday, Bill Berry!
On a related note, here is your Song Challenge for August, everybody.
There’s only one rule, and it’s pretty obvious. Download it, share it, hashtag it #NotbyREM, tell all your Gen-X friends (as well as those from other generations), call me a leper, and have a great time. Bonus points to anyone who still picks a song with Peter Buck on it, somehow.
At the outset, this one got even more traction than the Sonic Geography Song Challenge did when I released it via social media. I’m not sure what they says about the world of Sonic Geography, but I’m willing to accept the reality that Billy Joel’s music has more mass appeal than my research. Crazy, I know (I may be, too).
Anyway, here are the results from my own take on the challenge. In all honesty, I hadn’t queued up so many results in my head as I was writing it as I did with the other one in May.
- Pixies – “Tony’s Theme”
- The Spinto Band – “Brown Boxes”
- The Dismemberment Plan – “Girl O’Clock”
- The Afghan Whigs – “Uptown Again”
- The Housemartins – “Build”
- Descendents – “Weinerschnitzel”
- Bill Evans – “Lucky to be Me”
- F.Y.P. – “Die Young”
- Bob Dylan – “The Hurricane”
- Minor Threat – “Cashing In”
- The Clash – “Jimmy Jazz”
- Lifetime – “Airport Monday Morning”
- Minutemen – “History Lesson Part II”
- Jawbreaker – “Bad Scene, Everyone’s Fault”
- The Ergs – “Books About Miles Davis”
- Hunx & his Punx – “You Don’t Like Rock n’ Roll”
- Julia Jacklin – “Pressure to Party”
- The Jesus & Mary Chain – “Nine Million Rainy Days”
- Sick of it All – “My Life”
- Sunny Day Real Estate – “Pillars”
- The Bloodhound Gang – “Fire Water Burn”
- Replacements – “Love Lines”
- Misfits – “Bullitt”
- Minutemen – “Viet Nam”
- Pulp – “Sorted for E’s and Wizz”
- Throwing Muses – “Walking in the Dark”
- Chumbawamba – “Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire”
- Zwan – “Honestly”
- The Brian Jonestown Massacre
- De La Soul – “A Roller Skating Jam Named ‘Saturdays'”
Thanks for reading and/or playing. Tune back in tomorrow morning at 9am EST for the August Challenge!
On some occasions, the Ben Irving Postcard Project leads me down a path into scouring the internet for information on hotels that no longer exist in any form (unless you consider a parking lot a form). On rare occasions, his postcards lead me into small towns and ghosts of buildings that don’t exist even in (digitally accessible) historical records. Most of the larger cities that Ben visited have been blanketed with Google Streetview imagery, making ground-truthing of the postcard images slightly redundant (though never unnecessary). However, some of the smaller towns, even where Streetview previewing is possible, don’t tell much of the story.
Take, for example, the Hotel Quincy in Quincy, FL, the lobby of which is detailed in this 1936 postcard:
I’ve been through the Florida panhandle once or twice, mostly speeding through the stretch between Pensacola and Tallahassee save for a lunch stop in DeFuniak Springs (thanks for the tip, Bruce Hunt). I never heard of Quincy, a small town not far from the US-10 west of Tallahassee, until I saw this postcard. The city’s website, especially the history page, is bare-bones.
In 1956, Edward Gearhart wrote this history of the Episcopal Church in Quincy for the Florida Historical Quarterly, but that’s the only academic article I could find that focused on the town, other than a couple of hard-scientific studies on bees and/or soybeans. I searched for any references to the hotel on the Newspapers.com database, which turned up one promising blurb. I contacted the Florida State University library via the “Ask a Librarian” portal on their website and asked about the April 22, 1951 edition of the Tallahassee Democrat. Within a few minutes, I had that page in front of me. The article “Hotel Quincy Changes Hands” contained more information and history about the hotel than anything repeated Google searches could produce:
New owners have taken over the Hotel Quincy property and have plans for modernizing the building which has been closed for the past year. The property, at the corner of Jefferson and Duval streets, has been acquired by H E Corry, Sr., H E Corry, Jr, Miami, and associates from Mrs. Frank W Lloyd. Plans for altering and modernizing the building are in the tentative stage at present, according to Corry, though he was quite definite in stating that the new owners contemplate placing the hotel in an operable condition as quickly as possible. The hotel has been closed a year after being in operation for more than a third of a century. Corry stated it would require a minimum of from five to six months time to complete, the changes contemplated. He anticipated preliminary work would begin within the next three weeks. A modernized glass front for the hotel is prominent in tentative remodeling plans.
So, in one very short article which, in all likelihood, nobody has read in almost seventy years, I found the hotel’s location (at Jefferson and Duval Streets), rough date of opening and initial closing (ca. 1917 – 1950), and its owners in sequence (Mrs. Frank W. Lloyd until 1951, H.E. Corry and Son of Miami thereafter).
Searching for the hotel’s owners has also opened up a pair of windows into Florida’s aristocratic history. Looking up “Frank W. Lloyd,” even including a “-wright” search clause, was maddening for the same reasons that Googling “Ben Irving” is difficult (it keeps on pushing me toward Irving Berlin data). The search engines are fast, but they aren’t smart. The only publicly accessible record of a Frank W. Lloyd that lines up with this story is a mention of a Spanish-American war veteran. Of course, his name shows up all over digital back-issues of the Tallahassee Democrat.
The less common/searched name “Corry” was a bit easier, though once I put the “H.E.” in quotation marks, it got interesting. On September 9, 1949, the Tallahassee Democrat published a blurb announcing the birth of Henry Edmund III, which more or less confirms what the H.E. stood for. Also, it mentions that his grandparents were based in Quincy. His mother’s family were the Martorells of Tampa, whose name I don’t recall seeing anywhere in the Bay Area. According to a blurb published the previous April announcing the Corry-Martorell wedding, H.E. Jr. got into the family construction business and the couple was planning to reside in Miami.
I’ll spare you the other detritus I scraped up when searching that name, save for a Gadsden County Times society page mention from April 1934: “Mr. and Mrs. H. E. Corry, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Vrieze, Rev. and Mrs. E. M. Claytor and Mr. and Mrs. K. A. MacGowan of Quincy and Mr. and Mrs. Frank Harrison of Tallahassee, spent Wednesday on the Gulf on board Mr. Corry’s yacht.” Even living in age when most people obsessively curate their online personae through social media platforms, reading Society Pages from that era just feels invasive and unsettling.
I hopped over to Florida Memory to see if that name generated anything good buried in the growing digital archive out of Tallahassee. I did find a few items of interest, one of which was this photo of a judge’s birthday party from approximately 1919. Edmond Corry is labeled with #16, standing in the jacket and bowtie on the left side of the picture. He appears to be about 10 or 11 years old?
I also found several references to Corry Field, which refers to both the Pensacola Air Force base as well as the former High School’s Athletic field in Quincy. I think the latter is more relevant.
Anyway, the long and short of this is that this will require some ground-truthing in the Florida Panhandle, and I hope to respond to this entry in a few weeks with the Part 2 that it deserves. Also, while I have your attention, librarians are heroes and you should fight to ensure they get all of the public and private funding coming to them. Food for thought. Thanks for reading!
By the way, there will be an August song challenge.
Thanks to Márton Berki for some great praise and even greater critiques for moving forward!
(2020). Capitals of punk: DC, Paris, and circulation in the urban underground. Journal of Cultural Geography: Vol. 37, No. 2, pp. 255-257.
I try to keep all of the content on this website germane to Geography and my related research, but also sometimes…in the middle of the summer, I go walkin’ into admittedly dumb but fun ideas.
Download this image and re-post it on whichever social media account you would like with your pick for song of the day. The only rule is that it cannot be a song by Billy Joel.
Hashtag it as #notbybillyjoel so I can keep up on your selections. I’ll post my full list here, as I did with the #SonicGeographySongChallenge. I don’t know why I’m hashtagging that within the body of a blog post, but that’s just how we’ve been reprogrammed.
Come and get it, Boomers:
I love Florida, but I also have no doubt in my mind that it is our weirdest state. It leans on its Spanish history in some corners, yet nothing is built to last. It came of age as an ostensible Garden of Eden (some still think the actual Garden of Eden was there*), yet it’s been meticulously plowing under its natural beauty in favor of strip malls, parking lots, and surface highways that necessitate signs warning motorists of the upcoming intersection. I spent a lot of time in the Miami area growing up, and I am just old enough to remember the Rascal House’s last burst of glory before it got swallowed by development. You can refer to David Sax’s Save the Deli (2010) if you’d like to learn more about just how bad things got before they finally cut the cord and closed the place. I’m also looking forward to checking out Andy Sweet’s photo book about the “golden era” of Jewish Miami, which was quickly fading by the time I was old enough to pay attention to my surroundings down there.
Anyway, I will leave Miami for what will ideally be a separate entry once I’m able to visit. Today’s post is about (depending on how you look at the map or believe what the University system dictates) Central or Southern Florida, a region I greatly increased my familiarity with as an adult. As a kid, the Central Region meant Disney World, Universal Studios, and Disney World. Never mind the five-plus major Universities that dotted the sprawling Orlando landscape (Or-landscape?) which have fostered one of the South’s most under-the-radar booming cities for the past two decades? These days, driving through Orlando feels like driving through Atlanta, in that the whole thing appears to be under construction and if you drive through it, you will be white-knuckling past jersey barriers for almost the entire thing. I’ve also written about Tampa here, since it was the setting of one of my favorite AAG meetings.
The focus of this week’s entry is one of Florida’s unheralded smaller cities, Lakeland. During the Florida land-boom that crashed in 1926, Lakeland was a major railway stop between Orlando and Tampa. Today, it’s conveniently located off of I-4, and had I not had a handful of postcards from Ben Irving, I probably would not have paid it much mind.
Let’s go to the tape:
The Hotel Lakeland Terrace, 1939
Here, we have a look at the Terrace Hotel, overlooking Mirror Lake. As the postcard suggests, the lake is filled with all kinds of waterfowl. If you get there in the Springtime, you’ll get a chance to see plenty of mama ducks and mama geese with their offspring:
According to their official pamphlet (which includes the image from the 1939 Postcard I’m holding up in the photo above), the Lakeland Terrace opened in 1924 under the aegis of Florida Collier Coast Hotels, who had opened nearly identical hotels in Miami, West Palm Beach, and Tampa.
In the days before air conditioning, most hotels opened for The Season and closed by summer. But, the early ‘twenties were boom times in the Sunshine State. Trainloads of tourists poured into cities like Lakeland, beckoned by the siren call of warm weather and the chance to make a quick fortune speculating on cheap land.
Mysteriously, their official literature jumps to when the Lakeland Terrace re-opened in 1998 under the ownership of FCA, Corp. and a Lakelander named Rob Scharar. I don’t know if it’s intentional, but details about the hotel’s inevitable downturn in the 1970s and 1980s are relatively hard to come by. Even the hotel’s Wikipedia page is, as of this writing, languishing as a skeletal draft – very odd for such a historic building.
According to Lonnie Brown’s column on the Opinion Page of the July 12, 1987 edition of the Lakeland Ledger, the city had just re-dedicated the wall around Mirror Lake. Apparently, it had been featured in the January 1930 edition of National Geographic, which I’m going to try to dig up after finishing this sentence. Thankfully, the National Geographic Society are great archivists, and the full run of their print editions are available publicly.
The January 1930 edition featured “Twenty-Four Pages of Illustrations in Full Color” for their Florida – the Fountain of Youth feature by John Oliver la Gorce. Given my interest in Florida’s 20th century, this issue would be something of a grail for me. “Flipping” through the digital version online unveils a time capsule of the state, post-land-boom. A full-page ad announces that the Atlantic Coast Railway runs 17 trains per day (25 total in Lakeland by the turn of the century, according to the city’s website) into Florida, only “23 1/3 Hours from New York” (where I imagine the bulk of Nat Geo’s depression-era readers lived). La Gorce’s feature is full of pithy observations about the state, including a great statement about the “real Florida” and the “tourist Florida,” as well as a differentiation between the North and the South: “North Florida… is as different from south Florida as lower Alabama from Cuba.” As one would expect of a major publication from 1930, the writer gave a lot of credit to everyone from Ponce de León to Henry Flagler, the Standard Oil industrialist who he praised as a nearly-divine visionary. The photo of Mirror Lake finally appears on p. 41, comparing it to the entrance to a Venetian palace. It even suggests Lakeland feels like “a fairy city on an iridescent sea,” a statement that Lonnie Brown bore in mind while reflecting on how far things had fallen over the previous five decades:
During a 1987 walk through downtown, with empty stores and an old hotel that is in such disrepair it has been shut down by the city, it is hard to imagine Lakeland as a “fairy city on an iridescent sea” with Venetian overtones.
Brown goes on to praise the refurbishing of the sea wall around the lake, citing how it makes Lakeland appear to be a city invested in its downtown. He continued writing for the paper through the end of 2010, when he retired. LkldNow, an independent local news site, had a bit of history about the building that preceded the Lakeland Terrace on the site. According to the Lakeland Library,
“The Tremont House was built by Lakeland founder Abraham Munn in 1885 at the corner of East Main Street and Massachusetts Avenue, the present site of the Lakeland Terrace Hotel. It was considered to be one of the most elegant hotels in Central Florida at the time of its construction. So elegant was it that it was reputed to have the first bathtubs in all of Lakeland. The Tremont was moved from the corner of Main and Massachusetts to an adjacent lot in 1911 and enlarged. By the 1930’s, however, the Tremont had been eclipsed by the larger and more elegant Terrace, Thelma and New Florida Hotels. It was torn down in 1936.”
I will report back if I find any more details about the downfall of the Lakeland Terrace Hotel; it’s unclear whether the city was crafty with digital scrubbing or if Lakeland was just small enough to fly under the radar with archived news.
Speaking of Abraham Munn, his name remains on the city’s downtown park, which is the subject of my second postcard, which Irving mailed on January 23, 1936.
Going to Munn Park today with this postcard image in mind is confusing, because the park has been redone numerous times over the years. Save for a thin layer of tall trees which line the park and a pair of patches of greenery, a lot of the vegetation advertised above is no longer there. In fact, as you’ll see a few photos down, most of Munn park is overlaid with bricks and fairly nondescript. The only evident fountain was clearly different from the one in the postcard; had it been the same one, the railroad tracks in the background might have been visible. Something about the fountain yelled “relocated,” but we only had a hunch.
Thankfully, my partner and I bumped into Julie Townsend, who works for Downtown Lakeland. Julie quickly pointed out where the postcard image pointed, which was the Southwest corner, where Tennessee Avenue met Main Street.
Again, notice how barren much of Munn Park is. According to Julie, the city wrapped a weird, post-modernist design into their 80’s-era refurbishment of the park, which proved (like a lot of risks city planners were taking back then) less than popular. I can’t recall when she said they took it apart and bricked it over with these cement hexagons, but it definitely had that “unfinished” feel to it. The fountain depicted in the back left corner had long since gone away, and the statue was no longer. I waged a guess that it was a removed Confederate monument, which turned out to be true.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I did some research and found out the statue of the unknown Confederate soldier, funded by the Daughters of the Confederacy in 1910, was just removed from Munn Park last year. Unfortunately, rather than grinding the statue into a fine powder and putting it to good use in one of Lakeland’s numerous construction projects, they’ve simply relocated it to a Memorial Park closeby. Of course, neo-Confederate groups and other people who sport those “I stand for the Flag / I kneel for the Cross” decals are trying to sue the city to put the statue back in Munn Park, and the battle is getting messy in the courts. Hopefully it gets thrown out so we can all go back to living in the 21st century.
The Hotel Thelma
This was another interesting case study. This postcard was mailed in February of 1939, but stood for another few decades at least, based upon this 1950 photograph I found on Florida Memory (below), which reads: “Built in 1913 at a cost of $125,000 by twin brothers A.B. and D.B. Kibler (phosphate entrepeneurs). Six years later the hotel originally named “The Kibler” was bought by H.B. Carter and renamed. For many years it was a popular place for civic club meetings. It stood on the northeast corner of Kentucky Avenue and Lemon Street.”
Standard Oil…phosphate entrepreneurs… it’s almost like the state’s lifeblood was underwritten by people whose wealth depended upon destroying its natural beauty. I know I just described almost every state, but especially this one.
Anyway, the Hotel Thelma was torn down in 1962, shortly after this photo (I imagine the final one in existence) was taken. Today, a restaurant called Fresco’s sits on the Northeast corner of Lemon and Kentucky Avenue, and Palace Pizza (visible in the background of both the postcard and the repeat photograph of the block) remains as the one anchor to the city’s past.
For what it’s worth, Palace Pizza had some of the best pizza I’ve had in Florida, and they didn’t even pay me to post that. They had a big patio available with adequately spaced seating for COVID regulations, too. This meant a lot to my partner and I (in our masks) after one of the (mask-free) managers at Fresco’s stepped within 3 feet of me and practically breathed in my face to tell me that Hotel Thelma used to be there. Helpful, yes, but mindful, no, considering what a pandemic cesspool we’re in here.
According to the best website on the internet, Cinema Treasures, the Palace Theater was also opened in 1913:
Opened in 1913 as the Casino Theatre. Seating was located in orchestra and balcony levels. By 1926 it had been renamed Palace Theatre. By 1941 it was operated by Paramount Pictures Inc. through their subsidiary E.J. Sparks. The Palace Theatre was listed as (Closed) in 1943, but had reopened by 1950.
Strangely, another account of a historic Lakeland Landmark that evaporates before talking about the building’s descent into under-use. One user actually found and linked this 1980 article from the Lakeland Ledger that mentioned how the Palace building had been stripped of its history and uniqueness. According to this listicle, the Palace Theater operated from 1925 – 1950, which contradicts the idea that it reopened after closing in 1950.
Based on my experiences seeking historical sites there, it feels like Lakeland, FL can work as both a cautionary tale about scrubbing your history and a reminder that reinvestment is not a quick fix. Julie Townsend told us that Lakeland was one of Florida’s early major cities because it was located on the rail line that connected Orlando and Tampa. Prior to Orlando’s reinvention as the theme park capital of the planet, old-timers talked about the three cities in the same breath. Today, it’s a fun smaller city with pretty decent pizza, a wonderful lake perimeter walk, a couple of fantastic little record shops, an antique mall on par with the greatest ones I know from Michigan, Frank Lloyd Wright contributions (by the way!) at Florida Southern College, and zero threat of the traffic and headache that one can find around every corner in Tampa or Orlando. When it comes to civic life and urban planning, there’s nothing to be ashamed of a few shameful decades if you’re willing to learn from them.
* I’m serious. Consult Gloria Jahoda’s book The Other Florida (1967) if this piques your interest.