(Originally published November 29, 2013, but it had been on my computer for years.)
Recently I visited Holly Hill, Florida, on a side trip while seeing my parents and sisters. I drove past old haunts, one of which was the site of the old Greenland Motel. Here’s some snapshots of the now-vacant lot.
A paved driveway to nowhere.
You could develop something here!
The Greenland Motel existed in 1960. It no longer exists, hasn’t for some time. It is not historically special, but it is special for me so I thought I’d write about it a bit, as a memory of those times.
I lived there for a very short while during a time of change for our family. These memories are those of an 8 year old. That realization makes me think differently regarding what my son and daughter might remember about their own early lives.
It helps to know a little about our family history in that era. In 1960 my father, a computer operator, seeking better opportunities for himself and stability for his family, moved us from central Pennsylvania to San Francisco. In a 1952 Pontiac, large by today’s standards, pulling a travel trailer, my dad, mom, and two younger sisters and I took our hopes westward. I have no clear recollection of what happened in San Francisco – we didn’t stay there long. We moved to Los Angeles after a short time. I have vague memories of Los Angeles, really Bellflower. My main recall involves concrete and chain link fences – that our trailer was in a concrete trailer park and that we walked down sidewalks next to busy streets.
My father worked for an airplane manufacturer. One day my father came home from work and said that he’d been laid off. Soon, we were headed back across the country, in that Pontiac, pulling that trailer. I remember lying on the shelf below the rear window as we cruised across the country. I remember the heat of the desert, water bags on the front of the car, and an evaporative cooler attached to the passenger front window. I remember the hood ornament, an Indian chief, Chief Pontiac no doubt, rendered in chrome and yellowing plastic.
We came to stay with my Aunt Helen and Uncle George, my father’s sister and her husband, and their young family in Holly Hill. It was a place for my father to gather himself and search for work. We parked our trailer in the back of the Greenland Motel, which my aunt and uncle owned, and lived there until my father found work. We then moved into our house in Holly Hill which was my childhood home, and in which my parents lived for about 50 years. My father was proud. He was determined to support his family, and for some time worked at jobs which were beneath his skills.
Those times seem so foreign now. All of us are successful, loving, and intact. My father and mother are healthy and loving grandparents and great-grandparents. I wonder if my parents could have known then that it would all turn out as well as it has. They should be proud. I know they are fortunate.
Holly Hill is north of Daytona Beach on the western banks of the Halifax River. The Greenland Motel was on Ridgewood Avenue, US Route 1, at that time the main coastal road from the top of Maine to Key West.
It was a true motel, a motor hotel. There were ten or twelve cottages, arranged in an “L”, with a carport between each one. The cottage closest to the road served as office and home for my aunt, uncle, and cousins. A small front yard, with some Adirondack chairs, looked out on Route 1. A green neon sign made humming noises in the hot humid nights. Although I’m sure I didn’t know the word at the time, to me this was exotic.
This is from the Daytona Beach Morning Journal, from December 27, 1958, in the real estate section:
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On warm summer nights we would play in the big front yard under the neon sign. If you got close to the sign and listened carefully, it would make all sorts of snapping and humming noises and you could see the neon gas flow in the tubes. Cars would be whooshing by on Ridgewood Avenue but we hardly noticed. Many nights we would catch fireflies in glass jars with holes in the lids.
Each large Adirondack chair could hold one kid comfortably, but usually held three. The chairs were often upside-down. They made good forts that way.
In the summer, when we were out in the yard, Uncle George would allow each of us kids one Coke. It would come from a red-painted rounded-corner Coke machine sitting outside the front office. About ten glass bottles were aligned vertically, caps towards you, behind one long thin door that you would open. It was so cold inside the door, dripping with condensing water on the glass front. You would put in your money, and then you would have to pull sharply on the bottle to get it free. Then you would use the bottle opener on the front of the machine to pull off the cap. Uncle George would do something magical to the machine so that we would not have to use money. Then he would set it back for the guests to use.
About two blocks down Ridgewood was a Mr. Peanut shop. I don’t remember ever actually going into the shop, but every so often on summer evenings one of the adults would agree to take us down the sidewalk to see Mr. Peanut. “Wanna go see Mr. Peanut?” and we would all jump and squeal. We would promise to be careful on the sidewalk, with the heavy traffic nearby. Mr. Peanut was a 7-foot-tall peanut dressed in formal wear, sporting a monocle and a top hat, walking with a fancy cane. He walked up and down the sidewalk in front of the shop, waving at traffic. He was a giant. He never talked to us, not that I can remember, but he addressed us, shook hands, sometimes gave us some warm peanuts in a paper bag, and waved goodbye when we left.
This is a daytime pic. Imagine this dude at night!
When arriving guests pulled up in front of the office we kids understood that for that time the office was off limits for play, and that we were to be a little bit better behaved than usual. Generally, we obeyed, and understood that this was a business as well as a home. But we always snuck a look at the incoming guests, just to see if there was anything interesting or if they had kids our age.
I specifically remember thinking to myself then how much better the Greenland Motel was than Los Angeles had been, and I remember thinking, at 8, that I was thankful to be there.
One of the lasting memories that I have from that time is of my Uncle George. He was different than other adult men I knew at that time. He did not have a 9-to-5 job – he ran the motel. I had no idea whether this was difficult, whether he did a good job, or whether he was successful. None of that mattered to 8-year-old me. What mattered was that he was a kind and funny man, who took time with kids. Most adult men I knew in that era, from a kid’s point of view, appeared to be serious. They worked, they did their duty, and they talked about us kids in the third person even when we were standing next to them. I felt that I was just a part of their duty. Not so Uncle George. He was more like a friend, a co-conspirator against anybody who didn’t get our jokes. He seemed to get his work done without making it serious, and made time for us kids as if it were the natural thing to do. Uncle George died recently. I regret that I did not take the time to thank him for those years, or to let him know the lasting good effect he had on me. Perhaps the real reason for this blog post is to thank him now.
