The Brooksville Journal

TOO LATE TO CLASSIFY

(By Russell Kay).

Prior to Pearl Harbor I used to spend about half my time traveling over the state. Since then I've had to stick pretty close to my office, but a short time ago my Friend Jack Monahan blew into my Private (the door says) office and made the mistake of announcing that he was making a trip to west Florida.

"What," I says, "is it still there?"

"It sure is," he replies, "and you ought to see it since it has grown up."

Well, that was all the encouragement I needed. I hopped out of my swivel chair, climbed into his lap and cried like a baby until he promised to take me along. If I'd signed up for a "Cook's Tour of the World" I couldn't have been many more excited.

After four years of solitary confinement, fenced in with Ybor City on one side, and West Tampa on the other and my little pink nose to the grindstone in between, the vision of rolling hills, changing landscapes, new faces and what have you came as a real thrill.

In days gone by I've driven State Road 5 from Tampa to Tallahassee a hundred times, but I tore along at 70 miles an hour and never saw much of anything but the shoulders that you are supposed to keep off of and the CAUTION-CURVE signs you are supposed to observe. But now with a speed limit of 35, the traveler is given an opportunity to really appreciate the enchanting flora and fauna that Mother Nature has so generously scattered around for our enjoyment. Why even the lowing kine on the highway gave me no offense, and I can remember when I used to cuss 'em out in all the languages including the Scandinavian. The sight of a Mama Razorback in the middle of the roadway with a flock of offspring chewing the buttons off her vest was even pleasant. Of course, I wasn't driving and maybe that makes a difference.

Stopping at Brooksville, we visited the offices of The Journal and the Sun. Editor Russell of the Journal was busy covering a Commissioner's meeting or something, and I missed him, but I found Editor Lovett of the Sun as busy as a six headed cat with a bowl of cream, while Mrs. Lovett was in back of the shop just naturally poundin' the works out of a Linotype, but I made 'em knock off long enough to swig a Coca-cola and do a bit of fat chewin' and we enjoyed a delightful visit.

Journeying on to Inverness, we found Mrs. M. C. Scofield, who now edits the Citrus County Chronicle and Dunnellon Sun, chewin' the bark off a pencil tryin' to figure out how to get all the ads in and have enough room left to tell folks about the activities of the Parent-Teachers, Women's Field Army for the Control of Cancer, Committee for the Infantile Paralysis Drive, and all the rest.

Reaching Williston we learned that Editor Vause, who incidentally is President of the Florida Press Association, and my boss, was all tangled up and backlashed as local chairman of the Red Cross Drive and busy attending a committee meeting to determine who to put the bite on and how.

At Bronson we were lucky, for we not only found good old Roy Child, publisher of the Levy County Journal, at home and on the job but J. Min Avers, editor of the Gilchrist County Journal, was there too so we killed two birds with one stone. Min, by the way, is Speaker Pro-tem. of the 1945 Florida House of Representatives, so if you don't think we talked politics, you're crazy.

Take my advice, brother, and don't run out of cigarettes in this neck of the woods if you are particular and inclined to wrinkle your nose at unknown-brands. A Camel is as hard to find nowadays there as the real McCoy and a Lucky Strike is something you make in a bowling alley.

And another thing, pepper, both white and black, is pretty scarce. We found most cafes and restaurants out of it and from what I gather if they could lay their hand on Senator Claude right now they would try shakin' him on their soft boiled eggs or oyster stew.

Regular, Daylight and War TIME all overtook us before we could reach Cross City so we missed Mrs. Chavous at the Dixie County Advocate office and likewise Editor Thompson at Perry but we'll check on them another time.

At Tallahassee, we had to call out the fire department, Chamber of Commerce and Sheriff to get a room but they finally took care of us at the Cherokee, which is a hotel and not an Indian, but they insisted on making us share the same room, which is tragic for a couple of guys like Jack and me, who snore, walk and talk in their sleep to say nothing of knocking over all the furniture on our way to the bathroom.