He sprang a 'wild hair' with frequency

Franklin Burke, who once studied drama, also liked life peppered with a hearty dose of it.

By SCOTT TAYLOR HARTZELL

© St. Petersburg Times, published August 16, 2000

ST. PETERSBURG -- Dressed as Abraham Lincoln, the man on skates repeatedly rolled past President Jimmy Carter during the 1977 inauguration. Then Franklin Burke fell.

"I hope I didn't make a bad impression," said the gentle eccentric. "I never should have bought these (roller skates) for only $10 on sale."

In the 1970s, Burke regularly crashed public events, posing as Lincoln, Uncle Sam or Charlie Chaplin. "He'd just show up," said Herb Melleney, 69, past managing director of the Festival of States parades.

Burke was a whimsical soul who took long walks into his characters. "He was only aware of the persona he was representing," said Bethia Caffery, formerly of the Evening Independent.

"He was part of the local oddity scene," said Mary Evertz, of the St. Petersburg Times.

Burke often refused to discuss his past. "You do not interview Franklin Burke, as each time he loses you on the curves," syndicated columnist John Keasler wrote.

Burke claimed at least three birth dates: 1922, about 1931 and 1936. "He was one of life's wild hairs -- a maverick," said Jane Meinhardt, of the Times.

After growing up in Chicago, Burke took his mother's advice and pursued drama at Northwestern University. "My mother had a great influence on my life," he said.

Burke explored music at Roosevelt University and attended the Art Institute of Chicago. He also trained to become a priest at a Boston seminary.

The fathers "talked it over with me, and we decided I didn't have the vocation," Burke said.

Burke also said that he lost his chance to appear on Broadway because of pneumonia, which he contracted after walking to an opera.

One summer, the loner toured with vaudeville comedian Frank Libuse. "I would have been smart to stay with him," Burke said. "He went on to appear on the Ed Sullivan Show."

Burke held less glamorous jobs before and after teaming with Libuse: gardener, theater worker, hospital orderly, boys school instructor and department store salesman. "Gosh, I did everything imaginable," he said.

After his father's death in 1963, Burke and his mother settled at 540 Fourth St. N, where she ran the Palm Manor Guest House. He assumed the business after his mother's death in 1969 and eventually sold antiques. Burke wrote a constant flow of letters to the Independent. He was something of a gadfly.

"He took on all sorts of issues," said J.W. Cate, 65, acting mayor in 1972. "He expressed his views and never uncovered his sword."

Most images of Burke, however, echo Meinhardt's memory: "I see this guy at the lead of every parade St. Petersburg ever had."

"People enjoyed his presence," said Mack Vines, 62, former St. Petersburg police chief. "We let him do his thing."

On a whim, Burke once joined several thousand runners during a bay-to-bay race. "Street clothes, leather shoes and all," said Robin Mitchell, of the Times.

Burke could be a "nuisance and a pain," the Independent reported. Police records show he was arrested in 1970 for disorderly conduct and using obscene language.

In 1976 and 1977, Burke drew national and international attention, beginning with the Democratic National Convention at Madison Square Garden.

"Burke has been in absolute glory," journalist Dick Bothwell wrote. "Photographers have zeroed in on St. Petersburg's Uncle Sam; he has even appeared on national television."

Months later, Burke crashed Kansas City's gathering of Republicans and danced under a helium-filled elephant as Lincoln. "I just tried not to be conspicuous," he said afterward.

Burke then received a cold December reception in London. He spent hours at Heathrow Airport's detention area before agreeing to cancel his plans to surprise the queen.

Weeks later, Burke headed for Carter's inauguration, forsaking his dog Curly and leaving his neighbors questioning his whereabouts.

Upon arriving, Burke displayed an unofficial inaugural invitation. "They said it didn't mean anything," Burke recalled. "I went down and got into the parade anyhow."

Burke subsequently returned to Curly and his apartment at 2428 Fifth St. S. Later, he seemed to vanish with the same cunning he used to enter gala events.

"I was told he left town about the early 1980s," Meinhardt said.

- Contact Scott Taylor Hartzell at Hartzel@gate.net.

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