Along the ocean beaches, frosty waves had brought abnormally high tides from the north in 1935. The radio weatherman predicted temperatures in the low 30′s for Central Florida’s outlying areas. With early varieties of oranges and grapefruit already picked, citrus growers remained calm. A moderate cold snap would sweeten the juice of the remaining citrus. However, the weather aroused concern for Hibbard Casselberry and his employees, as frost only brought damage to ferns.
In the wood frame packinghouse, several men stood around an oil heater, bundled like layer cakes of denim, flannel, corduroy, and wool topped off with a with a hat or knit cap. “Evening, Mr. Casselberry,” they greeted Hibbard as he arrived. Sam, a jovial young black man, walked in, having just finished another drive through the acres of slat houses. His job was simple but vital, to keep a watchful eye for falling temperature readings.
Hibbard called Sam over and introduced Hib. “I’ve got a young assistant for you tonight. How about teaching him how to record the readings?” Sam winked at the excited but shivering boy. “We’ll start out in fifteen minutes. That’s just enough time for us to get something hot to drink.”
While Hib and Sam fortified themselves for their rounds, Hibbard walked over to a wall map showing the location of each slat house. Paul Bates, now a young man, advised Hibbard of his prediction, another dangerously cold night. “I’d better let the men know they can expect a call later.”
Sam and Hib headed out the door to began their drive into the slat houses. The roofs, consisting of one-inch cypress lath strips spaced exactly one inch apart, prevented the frost from settling in during the winter. But at night, with only the old pickup’s headlights to guide them through the dark and fog, the ride was as spook as walking through a graveyard. He could make out the heaters that the men had put out that fall for a night like this. Smudge pots stood like little trolls, about three feet high including the stack, with 25 gallons of fuel oil in their bellies. If the mercury dropped to freezing, they would be lit first because their fuel efficiency. To the side of the smudge pots, smaller, less efficient “lazy boy” pots waited as the second line of defense. Then a creepy sight off in the shadows sent a chill through Hib: iceboxes laid silently in rows like coffins, with their insides stuffed with wood and ends cut out to direct the heat. They would be the last line of defense, and used only when temperatures dropped into the twenties and below.
Each time Sam stopped the truck Hib took his flashlight and ran to a small wooden box nailed to a post. He flashed his light up inside to see the temperature and then recorded it on the clipboard next to the time. When they returned to the packinghouse at about 3:30 a.m., Sam turned the clipboard over to Paul, who recorded the temperatures on the map. Hib ran to his dad. “It’s really getting cold out there. It’s down to 34 degrees.” Hibbard and Paul gave each other that call-in-the-men glance.
Because few of the black fernery workers had phones at home, several men grabbed bundled up warmly, before catching a truck to their neighborhood. Quietly, they went door to door, waking up men to come in for a long night without, they hoped, disturbing the men’s families. One of the women who worked packing ferns during the day came in on those frosty nights to cook a hot breakfast for the men. In the years ahead, when Hibbard’s children Lilian and Johnny were old enough to go with him, they would remember Letroy Battles best, as the black woman who dispensed warm welcome smiles, endless cups of hot chocolate, and fried egg sandwiches. Cooks made sure there was always a big pot of coffee on the hot plate, along with sugar and canned milk. As men arrived, some carried homemade cookies or cakes their wives sent to share with other workers. With a hot mug to warm their hands, they gathered around the kerosene space heater to warm their bodies, first the front, then the back. Small talk began about the community’s recent activities and upcoming events. Old-timers told youngsters tales about the big freezes of the late Twenties. Each time Sam and Hib came back from their rounds of temperature readings, the group stopped its chatter.
When Hib ran in shouting, “It’s 32 on the North outside,” Paul took the page with the critical readings from him. With Hibbard unspoken agreement, Paul sounded orders to go firing. “Suit up, men; and pick up lighters on the way out. Light the north and west line of pots only.”
As the men moved across the acres of sheds, smoke puffed and chugged out each perforated chimney-like stack, warming the delicate ferns. Firing was part of the job, but from a distance, it gave breathtaking sight no one who saw it ever forgot. Dozens of acres glowed like a setting sun under the black velvet sky.
Although most cold air swept in from the northeast, the next wave moved into the northwest edge of the sheds. Sam and Hib kept their half-hour vigil, reading the thermometers and then reporting to Paul in the packinghouse. Everyone knew the most critical point came just before dawn. The men kept a sharp eye on the temperatures and read the gages in their assigned sections more frequently. Luckily, heaters in the sheds held in the safe zone, with only heaters in the north and west areas lit.
As the sun peeked over the eastern horizon and moved toward the red hearth haze in the west. From the packinghouse in the middle, it was like seeing both a rising and a setting sun in the same sky. Hibbard and the crews relaxed and waited for the sun to do the rest. When the thermometers indicated temperatures in the safe zone, Paul gave the order to snuff out the fires and let the smudge pots cool down.
Hibbard called to his young son, “What do you say we go home for some breakfast and sleep? Everything’s okay for tonight.”
