My Florida writing retreat included a Magical History Tour to a couple of places that mean as much to me as any place on earth: Bok Tower and Babson Park, Florida.
At Bok Tower (video), I sat under the Spanish moss-draped oaks for more than an hour, writing song lyrics as they came to me, but mostly just reflecting on this beautiful place that towered over the part of Polk County where my family hails.
Babson Park is less than 10 miles from Bok Tower.
My Granddaddy Bob1 and MaMa2 moved there in 1935 when Dad was 6 months old. They bought a small house in Elizabeth Manor, a defunct housing development around a small lake.3 My grandparents were chicken farmers, and bought property around the lake lot-by-lot.
The road from Libby Road4 to the subdivision was a red clay road named for my family: Beatty Road.5
Below are two photos of the road sign. The first one is at the end of the road leading to the house (which is still standing). The second is at the corner of Libby Road and Beatty Road.
Dad lived at the farm until he went to the University of Florida in 1952. He surely had his fill of farm living as I never saw him swing a hammer or turn a screwdriver in my life. He wasn’t as mechanically declined as he let on, but it made me so.
My grandmother moved from the farm in 1970 when my grandfather died. She moved into a small house in Hillcrest Heights, a couple miles as the crow flies from the farm. Some of my happiest childhood memories are visiting her and my cousin at that home and swimming in Crooked Lake for hours on end.
I mentioned in my last post, Greetings from Macon, place matters a lot to me.
Place is what roots history in situ. I feel different when in these places.
It’s why preservation is so important to me.
When I think of the places that had some of the greatest impacts on my life, Babson Park and Lake Wales both rank high.
It’s why I came to this particular part of Florida to do some reconnecting, which was my goal going into this season of life.
Lagniappe
Here’s yours truly from a few years back opining on place in my book An AASLH Guide to Making Public History:
Robert Lyndhurst Beatty, for whom I’m named.
Pronounced “maw maw.”
Lake Helen, but everyone called it Beatty Lake.
The “hard road” is what Dad called it.
Granddaddy Bob wants me to remind you that “It’s pronounced Beatty. B-E-A-T spells beat!”
