As part of our celebration of local authors, we are spotlighting the very talented Damon Thomas herein.
Damon provided us with a video from his reading at Jax by Jax Literary arts festival VII as well as the transcript from JaxByJax VIII. Enjoy!
*If you or someone you know is an author or have/has a story to tell or a video to share, Submit your story/video here! We will review, post and share with the known universe!
I will begin with a prepared statement.
My name is Damon Thomas and I write about the weirdness of growing up in a very rural Dixie County, Florida. Dixie County being the “Home of the World’s Only 4-Headed Swamp Cabbage.”
I’m interested in a Revealed Truth that comes with time and reflection.
“Do you have the patience to wait ‘til your mud settles and the water is clear?”
Revealed Truth.
Like when your great-aunt admits that her famous greens recipe is just a can of Margaret Holmes Mixed Greens.
Revealed. Truth.
Batman has at least 10 Origin Stories. I have one.. and this is it..
Old Three-Toes: A Wanderer in Florida
Sometimes even a sea monster needs a vacation. In 1948 Clearwater, FL was a town of 15,000 people and one rampaging monster. Eyewitnesses couldn’t completely agree on what was toppling life guard towers and covering the beach with large three-toed footprints. It didn’t help that sightings were often by tourists who soon after returned to their home states. Law enforcement officials were left looking perplexed in local news photos as they stared down at the fourteen-inch tracks. The stress and strain of remaining elusive would prove too much and drove the Clearwater Monster 150 miles north to the Suwannee River. Two hundred and forty monstrous tracks in the wilds of north Florida quickly drew the attention of noted biologist Ivan T. Sanderson. Sanderson (who had already coined the phrase “cryptozoology”) launched an expedition to find the beast he called Old Three-Toes. In November of 1948 Sanderson’s plane was flying above the Suwannee River as he spotted Old Three-Toes. Ivan described seeing a “large, yellowish animal rolling on the surface of the water, creating a large patch of foam.” He concluded that this could only be a new species of giant penguin which was at least 15 feet tall. This direct sighting combined with a careful study of the remaining tracks led Sanderson to declare that this monster “could not be a hoax.” Forty years later Old Three-Toes was revealed to be an elaborate hoax.
Mythologist Joseph Campbell once spent 5 years living in a shack in rural New York where he read 9 hours a day. I did something similar as I was in middle school but I suspect Campbell read much better books. Most of my books were acquired at the flea market in Chiefland, FL where a hoarse voiced lady sold musty paperbacks 5 for $1. In hindsight it seems the boxes of books covering the tin-roof shaded plywood-topped table were from her personal collection. There was a definite occult/conspiracy theme spanning thousands of titles. Other booths offered the classics but the sheer dullness of a rural adolescence had me acting out an Ashleigh Brilliant quote – “I have abandoned my search for truth and am now looking for a good fantasy.” This ramshackle flea market with a cluster of poorly maintained camper trailers on the side did its best to supply that fantasy. I’d return home with at least 25 newto- me books a week which provided in-depth discussions of the Lost Continent of Mu and how the fashion trend towards fringe in the 1970s aided the modern witch. There was a great deal of written encouragement to seek out old coffin nails (which were required for most spells) but it was too hot outside for any sort of active desecration. Much like in the contentious 21st Chapter of the Clockwork Orange novel (Spoiler Alert!) where Alex naturally outgrew his violent ways I eventually began to diversify my reading. There was no one single event which led to me losing my Charles Fort-like focus on all things strange. A pattern of weak arguments and scant evidence (and not being flattered by fringe) chipped away at any curiosity I had for the Lost Continent of Mu.
In 1988 Clearwater resident Tony Signorini revealed that the now mostly forgotten Old Three-Toes was a hoax that began with his boss seeing dinosaur tracks in National Geographic and saying – “You know, we could have fun with this.” Signorini then produced the 30-pound metal casts attached to sneakers that in his youth had manufactured hundreds of sea monster tracks. Tony speculated that everyone from the local police to his wife (since he would return home at 2:00 a.m. covered in sand) had known the truth all along. Ivan T. Sanderson passed away in 1973 and so did not live to see his Suwannee River Old Three-Toes discovery debunked.
Even as I expanded my reading I would still frequent what was the closest to an occult bookshop that could be found within an hour of my small-town home. Having given up on the Lost Continent of Mu still left some time for books on alien visitations and injurious 1960s exercise programs. On one of these Saturday trips the lady running the booth said the books were now 20 for $1 since this was her last day. Her hoarse voice was now a barely audible raspy whisper. We can only guess how Ivan T. Sanderson might react today to the Old Three-Toes reveal of 1988. In the name of fun a mechanic from Clearwater had provided inspiration to Sanderson as he was beginning the transition from biologist to paranormal researcher. Ivan T. Sanderson should be as grateful to Tony Signorini as I am to the flea market bookseller that helped to make me a bit weirder.
When I was a kid an older guy sat out front of a gas station in Old Town, FL. His favorite story involved roughing up a couple of guys because “you could tell they weren’t from around here.” The gruesome details were implied as he’d pull out a straight razor and a plastic bag containing Red Devil lye. “Deliverance”, the end of “Easy Rider”, and every “wrong turn” horror movie would later make more sense because of those childhood stops for gas and a Yoo-hoo. Casual cruelty has always been the point.
What he didn’t mention.. was that locals were not safe either..
Our Last Trip To Mooster’s
It isn’t technically camping if you have no tent and never go to sleep. Hagen’s Cove State Park is a patch of salty shallows and marsh grass on the Gulf Coast of Taylor County that doesn’t allow camping. But with no official operating hours groups of teens could stay all night if they didn’t bring gear. I spent a lot of time here as a teenager in the 90s. Like other locals we called it Mooster’s. This original name remains despite the honorific usurper Hagen being listed on all signage. Cato the Elder once said – “I would much rather have men ask why I have no statue, than why I have one.” Hopefully Mooster would feel the same way. Every generation has cautionary tales to terrify parents into placing restrictions on their teens. Possibly because they were negatively impacted by things like Ed Wood’s “The Violent Years” then contemporary fear-mongering efforts such as “Kids” were ineffective. In my case my mom could have just identified with “The Violent Years” antiheroine – “So What!” Our time at Mooster’s was mostly spent in a creaky observation tower reached by a narrow path between the tidal pools. A complete lack of supervision led to dark, quiet nights by the water. One early morning just before dawn as we sat in the tower a faint metallic, whir joined the sounds of waves. Gazing into the darkness we saw a drifting shadow outlined against the murky water. A small boat with no lights slowly heading for the shore. We decided to make our way along the slime covered path back to the parking area. Those who sneak up on people at 4 a.m. in an isolated area are the types you generally want to avoid. As we descended the tower stairs the stealthy boat sped up and the men inside began screaming obscenities. Weeks of quiet nights by the water were forgotten as we fled towards the car. With every few steps someone slipped and fell. The muddy route combined with fear had us sliding towards escape. We quickly drove off as three men appeared behind us from the water’s edge. Rattled and covered in mud we didn’t stop our inland flight until we reached the convenience store that was the main landmark in Clara, FL. A morning shift accustomed to selling bad coffee and cheap cigarettes to drowsy laborers was not sympathetic to five filthy, agitated teens. Our parents lack of supervision had interrupted their morning routine.
Clara, FL marks the Taylor County/Dixie County line on US 19. In the 1920s this dot on the map was home to the Putnam Lumber Company. These pine sap covered robber barons had the political clout to re-draw county lines and left behind hints of rustic opulence with the Putnam Lodge in Cross City. This wealth and power was amassed with the use of leased convict labor. One of these convicts was North Dakota native Martin Tabert. Arrested for hopping a freight train in December of 1921 Tabert was fined $25. This fine had to be paid within 48 hours. His parents tried to send the money he needed but it vanished into a system designed for profit and not justice. The Sheriff received a bonus for each convict he leased. Tabert was sent to work with the Putnum Lumber Company for this minor offense. A month later Martin Tabert was beaten to death. At least 50 blows were delivered with a leather strap called “Black Aunty” by a man who held the job title of “whipping boss.”
Decades later we can only guess why those men decided to terrorize us that early morning. Some who were there are sure those three were planning senseless, random violence. Others suspect they were just loudly expressing anger. That we were scaring fiddler crabs away from the shore. That we had unknowingly violated some unspoken code of conduct observed by all who work those muddy shallows. Mooster’s was where a group of teens went to seek adventure and shared experience. We ended up frightened in Clara, FL with tales of harmless teenage escapades. The same Clara, FL where 22-year old adventurer Martin Tabert died in 1922 so the Leon County Sheriff could collect a $20 bonus.
If we had not ran that night.. I believe we would all be dead now as well.
Charles Atlas: Without an Imperfection
Charles Atlas promised big useful muscles in just 7 days. Advertisements for the Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension exercise program filled the comic books of my youth. They claimed your friends would take notice as you physically assaulted bullies and easily won carnival games. These scenarios always ended with a chanting crowd – “What a man!” This rapid transition away from frustrated adolescence began with ordering a free Charles Atlas booklet. I never ordered this booklet. Even at the age of 11 I was pretty sure I couldn’t afford a system that promoted public violence and the inexplicable mastery of rigged carnival games. A system that made you a man. My journey towards this narrowly defined manhood began with a Saturday trip to the flea market in Chiefland, FL. There in a water damaged cardboard box under a plywood-topped table I found the complete Charles Atlas course. I excitedly read through these Lessons on the 20- minute trip home and began the Dynamic Tension training program that night. The goal was to “train not strain” as the exercises were practiced twice daily. As the course progressed it became more esoteric recommending that we “bathe the sexual organs with very cold water.” This was followed by the all-caps admonition – “DO NOT NEGLECT IT!” In just 7 days I injured myself and was in severe pain. I skipped my weekly flea market trip and even reading comics was now uncomfortable. It seemed at the time that only some failing on my part could have led to me not receiving the full benefits of the Charles Atlas program. I believed that I was atypical in needing more than the stated 7 days to build those big useful muscles. For weeks I worked to follow a seemingly random program that devoted a chapter to constipation and recommended massaging the scalp with olive oil. This ended with Lesson Eight. I collapsed in an exhausted heap while suffering through the 13 exercises targeting the “SHOULDERS; THIGHS AND LEGS.” It was then that I realized Charles Atlas was my bully.
When I was 8 years old I had my tonsils removed. This was said to be needed to help with “head congestion” that created hearing issues. As my throat was too sore for any of the promised ice cream I was gifted a Silver Surfer comic book. This began my love of the medium. The Silver Surfer left his home planet of Zenn-La and explored the universe. I saw myself in a silver figure who primarily desired to explore and learn. I wanted to break free of my small hometown and soar just as the Silver Surfer had headed to the stars. Extra household chores were needed to earn the 75¢ for each issue but it was a small price to pay for cosmic reassurance that my own dreams could come true. With Issue #11 the Silver Surfer cover price increased from 75¢ to $1.00. Not having that extra quarter meant the issue remained on the rusty rotating comic rack as I left Cheek’s Drugstore empty-handed. Dreams of exploring new places now required an additional 25¢.
Silver Surfer #10 concludes with repetitions of the phrase – “No idea descends into manifestation without an imperfection.” This Sartrean reality defined the last issue of this series I would be able to purchase. With no new material available I frequently reread this tenth issue. It was with these repeated readings that I soured on Charles Atlas advertisements. They inserted reminders of bullies and social pressures into our escapism. Charles Atlas then offered to sell you chilled sexual organs, oiled hair, and bloody knuckles as the solution to not yet being an adult. There isn’t much we fully control at the age of 11. Comics provided me brief moments of escapism until a lack of funds made this small solace inaccessible. Six years later I was able to leave that small hometown in Dixie County. I have since traveled to places that would have been as fantastic to my 11-year-old self as anything the Silver Surfer could discover in a remote galaxy. All of this just took much longer than the 7 days Charles Atlas promised.
*If you or someone you know is an author or have/has a story to tell or a video to share, Submit your story/video here! We will review, post and share with the known universe!
