Ballad of the Choctawhatchee River by Nanette Sconiers-Pupalaikis   Ripples from the Past Some of the great days of my youth were spent on the Choctawhatchee River with my Grandmother. When I tired of fishing - because Elma Groce never did - I would hop off onto a sandbar to run wild and free until she returned for me. We traveled up and down the river fishing all of her favorite spots. Grandmother loved the river like some women adore fine jewelry. Of course, she never wore jewelry, makeup, or even perfume that I remember. I often observed as she plunged her arms into the muddy water to wash her hands after unhooking a fish. Some-times she sat a minute longer watching as the river flowed and sparkled through her fingers. As I grew older, I realized that the river was like an old friend and if it had been possible, she would have spent everyday fishing it. It seems many folks in our community hold more than a fondness for the Choctawhatchee River. It is not only an element of their livelihood—but a part of their history and their soul. Grandmother pointed out every bend, slue, and lake and I can still hear her call them by name; Chapman Lake, Blue Hole, Powell Lake, Warehouse Slue, Curry Lake, French Fish Hole, and Horse Shoe Lake. She noted what the current carried along— foam or driftwood thus predicting whether the river was rising or falling. She paid attention to the clouds and wildlife in order to surmise the weather. She loved to see birds migrate in the Spring and Fall and she always knew what flocks were coming and going. Alligators eased off sunny logs to slip quietly into the water and Great Blue Herons lazily lumbered skyward to find another fishing spot. Deer, turkeys, wild boar, and other animals wandered cautiously to the river’s edge, and Elma Groce watched them with tenderness—she knew every tree along the bank and every birdsong.   I sat on her boat and listened to stories of long-gone days. She spoke in simple terms about the complex history of the river—ferry routes, political doings, sober days of trouble, old farm sites, and gristmills, the location of a wrecked steamboat, pulp wooding and the logjam near her favorite boat ramp. She well remembered the coldest winters and the hottest summers, the long days working in cotton fields, and the first dance with the love of her life, Floyd Groce. “In those days folks would celebrate after raising a new barn or harvesting their fields. Some men played fiddles and others played their guitars and your grandpa and I danced on peanut hulls.” Her stories were amusing and always down to earth real. Elma Groce was an intelligent woman who had a deep perception of people and life. She awakened with the sun and hastened to the bait bed. I remember the cardinals singing at dawn and Grandmother insisting that even the redbird was calling, hurry up! There were days when we watched as a heavy fog rolled down the river or we would sit out a thunderstorm because Grandmother knew it would pass quickly and there were hours of daylight left to catch the fish. She was not easily daunted or discouraged by thunderheads or slow bites. The days were warm and long. She always greeted other fisherman—exchanging friendly words about their luck that day or their family’s health. Then they pulled away slowly so as not to churn up the water and spoil her spot. She read the river like some people read a book, always keeping a watchful eye out for snags. Sometimes we made excursions through the backwaters in search of the best fishing place—which changed now and then due to a hard rain upstream. She spoke of everything from her earliest childhood memories to a favorite song she heard at church recently— all with the same intensity and clarity as if it had happened the day before. I listened to endless stories about the great flood of ‘29, and of outlaws that hid in the woods and fished for survival. There were tales of moonshiners who risked the current to escape the pursing revenuers and of old-time baptisms when the voices of folk’s singing—shall we gather at the river, rose above the swamps and drifted heavenward. She often sang herself as we traveled from one spot to another and the truth is she had a strong alto voice that blended beautifully with river’s song. There was one location that grandmother never failed to acknowledge, “Your grandfather’s people lived there,” she would say. “His grandmother came up the Choctawhatchee River on a large raft with others from her tribe.” She explained how Crissy Ann a Seminole Indian had met her Creek husband Robert Craven at the place called Bear Pen where they were married and built their home. I often imagined these great grandparents, hunting and fishing along their beloved river much like their descendants continue to do. After Holmes County was founded in 1848, Bear Pen, originally known as Hewitt's Bluff, was selected as the county seat. It was later moved to Cerro Gordo and other locations before Bonifay was chosen in 1905. Most historians agree that the county was named after Holmes Creek, which was a primary waterway in that era. However, there is some speculation, regarding why the name ‘Holmes’ was given to the creek itself. Some believe that it was called after a Creek Indian Chief who had taken an English name, but other scholars insist that it was named after Thomas J. Holmes, an early settler in the region. The Choctawhatchee River begins in southern Alabama and flows approximately 140 miles south into northwest Florida. Native Americans lived and thrived throughout our region and along the riverbanks prior to the first appearance of the Spanish Conquistadors and the British Conquerors. The Milan Tapia journal, a bibliography which was printed in 1693, refers to the river as Chicasses—a term that applied to the Chatot Indians who lived near the river at that time. From 1764 to 1781, a Scottish surveyor, George Gauld was consigned by the British to chart one of the first manuscripts of the Gulf of Mexico and parts of west Florida. Gauld was captured at the Siege of Pensacola in 1781. He was taken to Havana and later New York, and then finally returned to England, where he died soon after. In his manuscript dated 1769 Gauld referred to the river as Chacta-hatchi. Later Romans maps from 1774 and 1776 recorded variations of the same name. It is believed that Chatot was likely a synonym for Choctaw and the river may have been named for them. If so, Choctawhatchee simply translates to “river of the Choctaws.” Early records indicate that other clans also dwelled along the river. Some of these indigenous tribes have faded and their names are long forgotten. Though we have little knowledge of their customs, it is impossible to forget their existence because the landscape is still rich with their artifacts. Many changes have occurred from the time of the first people to the present. And yet the river seems unchanged—endlessly winding and cutting her path through the lives of a changing world, while memories along with history dissolve like sandbars with the flow of time. An era has gone and a new generation now wades into the water. Perhaps it is inevitable that every generation moves further from the banks of their ancestral home. Nevertheless, some things cannot easily be undone by a forever changing world that now offers high tech entertainment with river sports that can be enjoyed online. My youngest brother once visited me when I lived in Tennessee. I had never seen him ill. However, after making the drive he came straight into our home and collapsed on the couch. He was in bed for the first 24 hours of his vacation. When I asked, “Dean, what is wrong why are you sick? His reply was simple and real. “I have traveled too far from the river—I think it is my lifeline.” Once, I assured him that there was a beautiful river nearby and an ancient Indian grounds to investigate, he became adventurous again and could not be restrained from exploring the woods and river. Surely, some part of our heritage is embedded into our genes or simply breathed into our soul. I have had the fortune to travel the world but I have not found another home. The call to return to the Choctawhatchee River and the wild and wonderful clan that I call my family is too strong. © 2008 Nanette Sconiers-Pupalaikis          Tribute to a Beloved Father   Junior Howard Sconiers May 27, 1932  -  July 8, 2008   It is always well worth the effort to listen to our elders. The stories they share of our ancestors, an adventure, or a different lifestyle, will simply fade away if we do not take the time to record their history or retell their stories to our children. We all hold something that future generations will value—After all every family has a saga and it is worth preserving. Family stories are not only tales about people, places, and events related to our ancestors but also often closely linked to our community. I grew up hearing stories told by my father, Junior Howard Sconiers. He sometimes casually recounts an entertaining moment while we sit around the dinner table. Other stories unfold while huddled around a fireside on the banks of the Choctawhatchee River—we listened to his voice rise and fall as if it were a natural part of the river’s song or the crackling fire. Daddy effortlessly draws us into an adventure and then leaves us laughing or sighing for a quick sunrise so that we might rush out to experience such a life. He can paint the scene so real that we all became part of the chase to track ‘Old Crook-Foot’ through the swamps or hop Curry’s Ferry on a sunny day to visit folks on the west side of the river. He has a keen gift of reenacting every sound—a twig snapping suddenly underfoot, the rumbling of distant thunder, his fishing lure as it hits the water—pluuuugh! Or the cowww of his rifle when he fires.   Again and again, he has held a captive audience with his uncanny ability to tell the tale. His stories offer a journey back in time to retrieve some forgotten treasure. Papa (as his grandkids call him), keeps the brood sitting on the edge of his world—a natural and wild place, both pristine and haunting. His memorable stories of his life and that of his family and community take on special importance because they flow like the river from our past. Daddy’s tales have become family heirlooms held in the heart of his children and grandchildren. Tales that fascinate the young and give lift to the soul that always wishes to remember the good old days. His stories are a gift to each generation that preserves them by remembering to pass them on.   I earnestly believe that there is a wholesome quality associated with spending time with family. The ceremonial holiday gatherings and casual, everyday get-togethers become one thread of an ongoing narrative. There is deep commitment and a sense of comfort within those families who share time and stories whether they are separated by miles or live across the field from their parents, next door to their aunt, or around the river’s bend from their siblings. A sense of belonging extends across the generations and the miles.                                                                                  Nanette Sconiers-Pupalaikis                                                                                        Father's Day 2008 ©  Return to Newsletter