In the small Panhandle towns where East meets Central time, residents cope with life in two time zones.
By JEFF KLINKENBERG
Published April 4, 2004
[Times illustration: Steve Madden]
[Times photos: Jeff Klinkenberg]
Lunch lasts a while in Blountstown in the Central time zone. Ruby Davis and other women in the Prayer Chainers Mission of God start feeding the multitudes at 11 a.m. because five minutes away, on the other side of the Apalachicola River in Bristol, it’s already noon.
Outside the only grocery in White City, where the time zone changes from East to Central, Murdic Harcus and Bob Stebel meet for coffee and talk. Though they live in the Central time zone, both keep their clocks on Eastern time.
Time can’t separate Norma Leach and George Pence. They dated each other 54 years ago in high school, then married other people. Their spouses died, and they became reacquainted at a class reunion. Now they enjoy sunbathing on the beach, side by side, in different time zones.
BEACON HILL - Everybody looks a little stressed inside the Lookout Lounge on U.S. 98. Everybody smokes, everybody talks loud. Maybe nerves are on edge because the tavern perches on the invisible line in the Florida Panhandle where the Eastern time zone bumps into Central time.
Jim Vickers accuses the guy on the stool next to him of being completely crazy. The object of the attack, Larry Presswood, stares daggers at his swizzle stick. "It's just that I'm a stubborn kind of fellow," he finally explains.
Presswood lives in the Central time zone but keeps his watch adjusted to Eastern time. More than once a day he travels between time zones depending on appointments, what fish happen to be biting and where he plans to wet his whistle.
"This is a real confusing place to live," says the white-haired Presswood. "So I try to make it easier. I grew up in the Eastern time zone and I plan on staying there no matter what for the rest of my life. I don't like change."
"See what I mean?" erupts Vickers, who lives in Central time, drinks in Eastern time, but keeps his clocks in Central. "This is nuts."
"Well, it is a little confusing," Presswood allows. "My wife sells real estate in Panama City in Central time. So she keeps all her clocks set on Central time. We're a two time-zone family."
Tackling the time zones
Up here, where the dogwoods blossom along every road and fish poles stick out the rear windows of every other car, folks talk about "fast time" and "slow time," fast time meaning Eastern time and slow time refering to life in the hour-behind Central zone.
"You always have to be thinking about where you're going and what time you're supposed to be there or else you'll be way late or way early," says Ed Hester, a retired school teacher who lives in fast-time Port St. Joe Beach but keeps his watch on slow time because his wife works in Central.
An avid angler, his daily ritual includes a stop at Howell Tackle on the coast road for bait, fishing advice and maybe a chart that keeps track of the tides. Trouble is, it's a fast-time tidal chart. When Hester is fishing in slow-time he has to translate everything on the chart to an hour behind.
"You try to adapt," he says.
Keeping time used to be a natural thing. When the sun rose, it was time to get up and milk the cows. When the sun was directly overhead, time to break for a noontime repast. When old sol dipped below the horizon, sensible folk fried up some chicken, read the Bible and crawled into bed.
Things got complicated starting on Nov. 18, 1883, at high noon. That's when a standardized way of keeping time was instituted throughout North America. Still, many communities resisted the government meddling with clocks and continued telling time by God's own sun. A few years later, a Canadian civil engineer, Sanford Fleming, spiced things up even more by developing the concept of different time zones. A railroad man, his ambition was to help keep trains on reasonable schedules.
In Florida, the time line was established along the Apalachicola River beginning at the Georgia border. But things get funky near the coast. As the time line approaches the seaport town of Apalachicola, it acts confused. Suddenly, as if it can't make up its mind, the line stops dead, veers west and wraps around the town of Port St. Joe. Even though Port St. Joe is west of some Central time communities, it goes by Eastern time. Years ago, when Port St. Joe was a major shipping and railroad center, industry found it more convenient to go by Eastern time.
Of course, some residents find it nothing but inconvenient. In 1982, Gulf County voters had a chance to change their time zone to Central. But by a 55 to 45 percent margin they decided to remain on fast time.
Living in slow time would simplify the life of Douglas Birmingham, the clerk of the court. His office is in Eastern time but his house is in Central. "Lots of people find our time up here confusing," he says. "To tell the truth, I don't even wear a wristwatch. Oh, I've tried a watch a few times, but then I lay it down and forget about it. Then I realize I don't need a watch after all."
Gulf is the only county in Florida with two time zones. The main courthouse is in Port St. Joe with a satellite courthouse a half hour away in Wewahitchka, where time is maintained an hour slow.
"I keep two alarm clocks at home," says Judy Markham Pittman, chief judge of the 14th Judicial Circuit. "I live in Central time but I hear cases over in Eastern time as well as Central time so I'm ready for wherever I have to go. In my courtroom, I am very conscious about time differences. I've had attorneys from Tallahassee show up to do business thinking the Port St. Joe court is in Central time and they're an hour late. So we are very specific when we make schedules. We say "Do you understand we want you here on our time and not your time?' "
Her Honor is sensitive to grumbling stomachs.
"Sometimes we have jurors from Central time serving in an Eastern time courtroom. If it's noon in the east, it's 11 a.m. to them. We try to time our lunch breaks so it doesn't throw everybody off."
No way Judge Pittman loses track of time. From the bench in her Port St. Joe courtroom she has a clear view of two clocks that hang above the door. One is set to Eastern time, of course. The other is on slow time.
A river runs through it
State Road 71 roughly parallels the Apalachicola River. As you drive over a bridge into tiny White City, the time zone changes. Next to the volunteer fire station, a man plants collards. Crows caw from the wires. At the Baptist church, a sign offers some old-fashioned fire and brimstone:
The wages of sin is death. Repent before payday.
On the slow time side of the line, payday arrives an hour later than on the fast side. In fact, it's easy for the weak to be late for just about anything, including church - especially church today - when daylight saving time comes into play and mixes everybody up even more. Sayeth the Panhandle psalm: "And they who forgetteth to spring forward their timepieces weepeth and gnasheth their teeth."
Across the street, sitting on a bench in front of the town's only grocery, Bob Stebel and Murdic Harcus, both retired, keep track of everything. They drink coffee, chew a little tobacco, gab about fishing, or maybe solve the problems of the world. Life would be easier if everybody's clocks agreed, they agree. But clocks argue around here. Time isn't relative, it's anarchy.
"I used to be a truck driver," Harcus says. "One night I'm over in Panama City and this lady runs into my truck. Well, when the accident got reported, it looked to my bosses like I'd driven 50 miles in about five minutes. Actually, I'd driven 50 miles in 55 minutes. But the differences in the time zones got me in trouble."
Murdic Harcus, world weary man, understands trouble. Inside the grocery store, the phone rings shrilly. He automatically gets up to leave.
"If it's my wife," Harcus calls out, "tell her I'm on the way home."
Fast time or slow time, the chess game between husbands and wives will continue through all eternity.
A peculiar rush hour
Over in Blountstown, which is the largest small town on the Apalachicola River, it can be hard to get a decent night's sleep if you enforce the law. But police chief Winston Deason looks fairly dapper.
Blountstown, population 3,500, is located on the west side of the river in Central time. On the other side of the river is Bristol, population 850, in Eastern. An hour beyond Bristol is Tallahassee. Many Blountstown residents work in Tallahassee. To get to work at 7 a.m. they jump into their cars in the middle of the night.
"We don't have traffic jams here," says the chief, "but you ought to be out here about 4 a.m. Traffic is pouring out of here heading east. And then about 4 in the afternoon folks start pouring back into town. That's one nice thing about living in Central and working in East. You get home early. You can fish. We got good fishing in the river. Catfish are biting right now. Go south along the river and try for flathead catfish. Whooeee. They'll pull on your line."
Outside the station, on the nearest street corner, Ruby Davis and the women of the Prayer Chainers Mission of God do not have flathead catfish on the menu. Raising funds to build a new church, they offer roast chicken, collards and lima beans. They offer black-eyed peas, potato salad and chocolate cake.
"I did the collards," Davis confides, "and collards are my specialty. I'm not that confident of my lima beans, but they're mine too."
It's around 11 a.m., a little too early for lunch. But the line has started anyway. Five minutes away is the Eastern zone, where's it's a tad past noon. "We have a long lunch time around here, a double shift," Davis explains. "First you get people from the East and then our own people from Central. Feeding all the people will help us build a new church for the Lord."
Two-for-ones, twice a day
If there is an advantage to living on the wrinkle of time, it must have something to do with eating and drinking. On the populated coast especially, the gluttonous can drive from Port St. Joe to Mexico Beach and in clear conscience enjoy early-bird specials in different time zones. The thirsty can take full advantage of one happy hour on fast time, take a short cab ride west and do it again slow time. It is also possible to close down two bars on the same night.
On New Year's Eve, U.S. 98 up here becomes either a heaven or a hell depending on one's attitude regarding the consumption of adult beverages. When patrons are celebrating the arrival of the new year at the Wonderbar in the Eastern zone, it's 11 p.m. only five minutes away in Central. The ambitious drinker can head over to Toucan's on Mexico Beach and belt out a second version of Auld Lang Syne and maybe get kissed by the most attractive person in the bar at midnight No. 2.
In the morning, recovering from a hangover, the Mexico Beach imbiber might travel east to the Lookout Lounge at Beacon Hill, where it's an hour later, and consume a satisfying Bloody Mary, perhaps. Or maybe just take a catnap on the beach across the street.
George Pence and Norma Leach like the beach. They are both 70. They both grew up in Michigan and went to the same high school. They even went out on a few dates. But they married different people after high school and stayed married until death did them part.
"My wife died of Lou Gehrig's disease," George says.
"My husband passed away from heart disease and diabetes," Norma says.
They bumped into each other last year at a class reunion. They hadn't seen each other in 54 years. On June 26, at Climax United Methodist Church in their Michigan hometown, they are going to get married. The time on the wedding invitation will say 1 p.m.
For now, they are on vacation, sunbathing on what turns out to be the demarcation line between time zones in the Panhandle. George lies on the beach on fast time, inches from Norma, who sunbathes on slow time. Her left hand crosses from slow time to fast time and brushes sand from George's back.
- Jeff Klinkenberg can be reached at 727 893-8727 or klink@sptimes.com
