My Window To The World – 1950’s
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I grew up in Southwest Florida, a tropical climate – in the 1950’s. A tall wooden structure – only a fan, no a/c – the nearest ‘open-window’ provided our only relief at night. Having open windows was the common factor for all; day/night; homes, schools, and businesses alike.
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1906 Hanson st, home (Hurricane Donna) 1960
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In 1956 I was four-years old; my bed was ‘against the wall’ and inches below the window sill of that tall wooden structure – later it was to an attic bed – this was our Hanson Street home in Fort Myers, Fl. If you wonder if kids can remember things until they are adults – circumstance, the heat, and through this particular window over my head flowed a world of impressions for each night.
A PULSE OUTSIDE
In the early years, it was within the settling moments after midnight of peace and silence that occur throughout the week hours – (the “midnight still”) – that I realized that there was a ‘pulse’ to this world. I’m sure that young folks all over this world find similair moments, – but I found mine along U.S. highway 41.
From under this window I noticed differences in the breeze, I felt the weight and dampness of the early morning air. Under this window I found comfort as the heavy florida rain struck against our metal roof. In the late evenings the cooler air would seep over the sill and down onto my skin – gently caressing a high-strung kid into a very subtle state of subconsciousness.
During sleep, I sensed early from late; I sensed stuff that was going on and the subtle changes that came with daybreak. It a regular thing to be welcomed into the earliest part of the morning by the sound of a mockingbird grasping onto our aluminum television antenna above – after a pause and orientation would come the singing, chirping, calling, and other enthusiastic compilations within their ever-changing melodies. This; is the cycle that welcomed me back into yet another day/week/month, another year…..
Below that window that I realized beyond having a pulse – there were ‘cycles’ to life.
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There were lots of lives passing outside. Sixty yards away was highway-41, an artery of a highway that hosted plenty of sounds which reverberated within those thoughts and dreams throughout those long, slow Florida nights.
THE ‘TAMIAMI TRAIL’
Highway 41 (The Tamiami Trail) was just east of my window. There were no interstates, in the fifties this was the only route for travelers from Tampa to Miami. Physically, the highway appeared ‘haggard,’ two uneven lanes of patched and faded asphalt – each lane deeply rutted from years of constant wear. Along each side of this highway were ditches of magnitude from the original construction of the highway through the soft Florida soil – mosquito spa’s.
The Tampa-Miami Trail was in every way an a life-line to life on the West and South coast of Florida – any community along the this southernmost region depended on this route for provisions. Trucks ran through at night, ‘pounding’ through that intersection sixty yards away.
These were the sounds that paralleled and infiltrated this child’s dreams and contemplation’s.
SOUNDS WITHIN THE ‘MIDNIGHT STILLNESS’
At that time Ft. Myers truly was like being halfway between nowhere and somewhere. Through many moments within the nights it was not unusual for ‘silence’ to occur – dead-silence, – midnight still. Within the night it was possible to recognize the ‘click’ of the changing signal at that 41/Hanson st intersection. In the fifties the traffic-light was ‘timed’ – no magnetic or electronic fields to recognize awaiting traffic, just a preset timer.
Instead of ‘counting sheep,’ for me it became more natural to anticipate the ‘click,’ pause, and then the following ‘click’ indicating the changes of color from green, to yellow, to red, and so on through the night. With lighter late-night traffic anticipated, the signal was programmed to change to a flashing yellow warning light – this occurred from ten pm until six am the next morning, always on time, always. Maybe somewhere in here I learned consistency.
There were also the associated sounds of drivers anticipating that upcoming signal; a slowing of vehicles (brakes and engine noise). The vehicles of the fifties were distinct in their sounds; the rumble of a particular engine; clutch petals would ‘pop’ up against the floorboard when released (many times identifying the specific vehicle); the shifting of gears (not always perfect) and sometimes even the smell of exhaust or lingering smoke. For the most part I didn’t have to rise from bed or open my eyes to know what color the signal was; I understood from the timing, the ‘click,’ and the overall sound.
The sound of a particular vehicle could even provide the time..
The ‘dead-sleep’ within those ‘dark and still’ periods would often be nudged by a distant rumble grafted into my dreams, an approaching vehicle. Steadily the sound would become more and more recognizable – once again and miles between I understood what type of vehicle was approaching through the darkness, usually a truck. I could tell whether the truck was empty or loaded, headed north or south, all from the tone that was produced as it crossed that patched and haggard intersection outside. The rumble of the vehicle and pace of the moment would once again fade into the darkness of the night, settling back into a young boy’s dreams and thoughts. I noticed how drivers operated – their pace, their anticipation of the signal, and maybe a little about a driver’s demeanor.
I could sense the denseness of the heavy Florida dew as it settled upon the earth outside…
That thick morning fog could ‘muffle’ the sounds of sunrise; the local milk-trucks (Borden’s, Hart’s or Sealtest) would approach the traffic light, stop, and settle to an idle. In our small town we knew many of the local delivery trucks without having to look. A few seconds after the signal ‘clicked’ the truck would move across the rutted lanes of Highway-41 causing the glass bottles within to jingle; the driver would shift as he neared our home and the clutch would ‘pop’ against the floorboard outside as the truck passed. I heard their windshield wipers slashing against the heavy dew – depending on the vehicle; some would stop further down our street – a small time lapse, then crank-up before easing into the increasing sounds of a new day.
You could feel the beams of sunlight eating away the lingering dew…
MAKING SENSE OF IT
My window provided me an avenue to understand “traffic-flow.” Traffic is normally slower and ‘lighter’ during the night while naturally noisier and ‘heavier’ during daylight hours, but the unique thing about the traffic outside my window was how it also coincided with the changes of the Florida landscape.
There were locals, there were tourists, and there were travelers; each segment easily identifiable through their ‘pace’ and actions. In the fall of each year our traffic (along with the sound of the horns) would increase dramatically from the influx of Northerners escaping the snow up north (Snow-birds). The increase of traffic was always noticeably hectic remaining throughout the cooler months. The relaxed local pace returned with the summer heat and kids once again played in the streets.
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The distinctive difference in that hectic seasonal pace of the fifties and early sixties, was that it began to lengthen through the years. One spring in the late 60’s the traffic and the Northerners that came for the winter season – stayed. Our little intersection then became busy year-round – accidents, well – the squeal of tires followed by a sudden thud became part of the ‘norm.’ The intensity of any impact indicated whether or not we even looked up from our dinner table above.
CHANGE
Over time the traffic signal was updated, re-timed (Wendell Leigh) and the system computerized. The late-night change to caution-lite (yellow blinking) was extended from ten o’clock to midnight and then removed all together. The once sporadic traffic now had to be controlled 24-hours.
Outside my window that little highway had grown from a rutted two, to a smooth six lanes of highway. The moments of ‘dead-quiet’ periods within those long nights became replaced by the buzzing of large fluorescent signs.
The highway is but one example of so many impressions that came to this child through a simple bedroom window. The natural sounds, those man-made, the smell, the changes – and that damn mocking bird’s ever-present morning compilation still lurks more than fifty years later
– it leads me to believe that a child’s bedroom window could influence a young life forever.
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– Born/raised in SW Florida
– Fort Myers High School 70
– raised a family in the Mountains of North Carolina (Weaverville/Asheville/Hendersonville)
– retired from the City of Asheville, Fire Department (31 years)
-‘default‘ is a quiet little lake amidst the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mtns. SC
– Dad’s Old Pickup (Ft. Myers)
edited 2015
Life at 60, (mph) 