Monticello bound Part two Of Strawberries, Bread Pudding and Sopchoppy

The trip from Sopchoppy that June day in the powder blue Dodge DeSoto to Monticello in Jefferson County was only sixty-four miles or about an hour and a half. But the distance may have well been the distance California seemed to the Dust Bowl travelers. And little did we realize that my sister and I were not traveling alone. For inside my mother was Lewis Watson, to be born on November 7th, six months into our stay in Monticello. As moving month for Methodist ministers was June following annual conference in Lakeland, we had two months of getting settled in and trying to find some friends before that dreaded first day of school. The parsonage we arrived at was on the corner of Washington and Water Streets, in the middle of downtown, grander than anything we had ever seen in Sopchoppy, only the Jones or Tully's houses comparable. It was a two story Victorian designed home, with spires and porches and filigreed architecture ornaments throughout. The best thing of all was for the first time I was to have a room of my own. My room was the corner room to the east, facing Washington Street with a good view of the town, from the Catholic Church across the street to the Courthouse to my right eastward. Monticello is a beautiful southern town, set atop a hill with the four highways all meeting at the Jeffersonian Courthouse and circling it.
Grand as the old wood home was, the church was a work of the finest craftsmanship, no expense spared, as it should be with houses of worship. With the bell tower and steeple soaring heavenward, the arching stain glass window occupying the entire wall opposite the pulpit with the finest mahogany woodwork, one was in awe and wonder.
Despite all the grandeur and finery, the two things lacking was room for a garden and not a tool shop to be found. Perhaps on thinking back upon my father and how it seemed every appointment he had, he immediately began a building project, be it a new church or parsonage, in the case of Monticello, whether it was already in the works or not, I do not know, all I know is soon upon our arrival plans for a new parsonage were underway, with you guessed, a tool room and enough property for a garden.
While my father was busy with the new parsonage and my mother with our little brother, I was making friends in our Cub Scout Pack, of which my mother too was the Den leader. It was a proud day for me when I attained the highest rank of a Cub Scout, the order of Webelos. "On my honor, I will do my best, To do my duty to God and my Country and to obey the Scout Law; To help other people at all times; To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight."
I am not too certain how well I lived up to that credo, but the first summer in Monticello, I went out for the punt,pass and kick competition at the Jefferson High Stadium. To my everlasting pride, I placed third, winning a burgundy Washington Redskin helmet with the Indian feather down the middle. I treasured the helmet even though my favorite team at the time was the Green Bay Packers, my hero next to Ray Hughes of the Jefferson Tigers, Bart Starr.
It was during this summer that the scars I had received while two years of age of Sopchoppy from a scalding coffee pot came back to haunt me. I had joined a summer basketball program and one of the first things we had to do was play, shirts and skins. I was picked skins. It was a terrible moment for me, knowing I would have to remove my shirt and face the comments from my friends, which could be cruel. I made it through that game and quickly found my tee shirt afterwards. It was sad that as a little boy, the scars would keep me from taking my shirt off while swimming or doing any activity around people. To this day there is a certain hesitancy to remove my shirt.
The summer basketball led to one of events that led me to love basketball throughout my days. In the fall of our first year in Monticello, at half-time of the varsity basketball game, the third grade boys would compete.
On the opposing team was the ever talented Plains brothers, Butch and Bobby. As we ran onto the court, it was akin to an NBA final. While the Plains Boys team won that night, I was high scorer for my team with three points, establishing me in the respect of my new found friends.

To further encourage my love of basketball, my father set a pole, backboard and goal in the new backyard of our new parsonage at the edge of town on Washington Street. I would stay for hours and hours shooting hoops, mamma having to call me in for supper. I still have that rim to this day.
It was likewise in Monticello that I discovered that I could run fast. Our Physical Education coach one day announced we would have a running competition down the hill to the fence and back to determine the fastest runner in the 4th grade. We all knew that Jimmy Haines held that title, but nevertheless, we would try our best. The long line of anxious boys and girls lined up and awaited the whistle. And off we went, down that grassy slope. Jimmy and I made the fence in a dead heat. In a determined effort, I made a late surge and finished first, several steps ahead of Jimmy, fastest boy in Monticello fourth grade!
The new parsonage was a modern brick home with all the modern conveniences. It was my mother who was the most elated, for the kitchen had the double oven and stove with double sinks and the works.I again had a room of my own with a large walk in closet, which I liked to just sit in and day dream.
In the backyard my father had his garden, his tool room and he again constructed my sister and I a playhouse, though by now, my sister had passed the doll stage and was into the 45 records and slumber parties. My brother was of the age that my poor mother and her mother, who came to live with us, Ethel Orander from Bluefield, had to lay newspapers all about to keep Lewis from messing up the new carpets and floors. Mostly I recall him residing in his playpen. My father also made sure the builders left enough sand for my sand pile, of which I had not outgrown.
It was during our time in Monticello that my mother encouraged my artistic bend as well. In Sopchoppy, I was a constant doodler, drawing on the bulletins in church, many of which my mother kept to this day. I can recall drawing my first nude, making the stick ladies have circles and such, making sure mamma did not see.
There was a local artist, Mrs Cy Groves, who offered art lessons in her home. Once a week I would carry my canvas and paints on my bicycle and make the journey across town to paint in acrylic my dog bobo, the old fisherman after Van Gogh, a panther, still life's and mountains. I produced many a canvas in the time with Mrs Groves, sending most off as gifts to relatives. To me they were masterpieces worthy of hanging, and it troubled me greatly when we visited my Uncle Curtis and Aunt Grace in Syrma, Georgia only to find my panther painting behind the couch. But, it was a joy when we visited my grandmother Bernice Stokes in Homewood, Mississippi to see her proudly hanging my still life of fruit after Cezanne in the kitchen.
Many days instead of going out for recess, Wayne Lassiter, another fellow artist and I would stay in the class and draw. We especially liked to draw motorcycles and dragsters. Wayne, who was from nearby Lamont also had an extremely good singing voice. I call recall him singing " Lord I'm 500 miles away from home" at the schools talent show. But the act that won the day were the four who sported the wigs and dressed as the new group, the Beatles. I begged mamma to buy me one of those Beatle wigs but she would have nothing of it. Monticello was one of the only towns I can remember having an old fashion candy store with the old glass containers full of hard candies. It was a magical place to visit.
It was a grand day when my old friend from Sopchoppy, Robert Strickland came to visit. And then, I was able to visit him as well as Sam, Maxi and my other friends. I thought of Helen Roussey, my second grade sweet heart, that even at such an early age, envisioned sitting in her Panacea home in marriage. The girls of Monticello were difficult and distant, and I was way too shy to send the folded notes across the room to Deborah Daniels.
When the day came that my father announced we would be moving to Wilmore, Kentucky to take up the position of Director of Public Relations and Alumni director at Asbury College, no J.L. wailed. Though I had made close friends in Mark Bishop, Hunter Dobson and my cub scout friends, two years just wasn't enough time to bond. And so, this time, with the steel blue Chrysler with the spare tire hump on the back trunk  we began the long journey north. Daddy, mamma, Paula, Lewis and Bobo our toy terrier, half Manchester, from Florida and further than ever from the memory of my fathers strawberries, Mrs Mary's bread pudding and Sopchoppy.