Southern Sage
The Honorable Woodrow Melvin
By
Sylvia Melvin
Copyright © 2011Sylvia Melvin
All rights reserved
Smashwords Edition
This is a true story. None of the names have been changed and all of the events happened as related to the author by Woodrow Melvin, his family, friends and work associates.
Contact:
Sylvia’s Scripts
Sylvia Melvin
6053 Arnies Way
Milton, FL 32570
(850) 626-8778
Email: sylviamelvin@earthlink.net
www.sylviamelvin.com
ISBN: 1452850879
EAN-13: 978-1452850870
Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary defines the word sage as a mature or venerable man of sound judgment.
This book is dedicated to Judge Woodrow M. Melvin, a man who personified these characteristics. His devotion to public service and respect for the laws of our nation were exemplified in a career that included attorney, Representative in the Florida State House of Representatives and State Senate, Circuit Court Judge and Appellate Court Judge.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to the following people who generously gave of their time in order that I could tape the memories, stories, opinions and feelings so openly expressed. You provided the raw material; I simply arranged the words:
Rev. Joe Bamberg
Beulah Chabal
Gloria Prescott Clubb
Ray Helms
T.Sol Johnson
Kathy Jordan
Lillian Kelley
Jeanelle Kingry
Butch Lindsay
Judge George Lowery
Dr. Hiram(Mac) Melvin
Jim Melvin
Laura Melvin
Woodrow Jr.(Mac) Melvin
Nita Melvin
JudgeWoodrow M. Melvin
Since this edition of “Southern Sage” is a rewrite, some of the men and women I interviewed have deceased but their contribution to the story lives on.
Thank you, one and all.
Sylvia Melvin
Preface by Laura Melvin
The Honorable Woodrow M. Melvin
When I was asked to write the preface to this book, the problem was obvious. How do you write a preface to an old sage? Particularly when that very southern sage was your father, your friend, your mentor?
I was blessed to know Woodrow M. Melvin, first through the eyes of an adoring child growing up in his home and later as I served as an attorney and then judge, modeling much of my professional and personal life after his. I know something of his strengths and weaknesses: his willingness to reach, to deal with the world expansively rather than from the safety of preconceived ideas; his private stumbles which to the few who were genuinely close served as rude reminders that he was after all, still a man.
Dad would routinely wake up at night with ideas tossing around in his head about a particularly difficult case he had heard. He reached many decisions in the wee hours of the night with Orders scratched out on whatever paper was close to the night stand. After he had the case figured out and the Order written, Dad would go into a very relaxed sleep, and get up the next morning whistling. He became renown for his legal writings-concise with interesting phrases. His writings are easy to read and show few traces of the time and anguish he devoted to each decision.
The Honorable Woodrow M. Melvin was also a gentle man with a warm and sensitive heart. This was always an asset in his role as father of five, but not always in his job as trial judge. As a judge, part of his routine was to mete out justice and punishment, but he did so with respect to all. Regardless of the press of his schedule, he was always willing to listen. Judge Melvin saw children as special gifts and invested much of himself in the effort to insure that their best interest was served.
With rare courage, Dad opened his heart to his family, work, and world. Surely his heart and soul were scarred by what he saw and experienced over the years, and yet, he grew even wiser. The passage of time generated a relentless and resolute multitude of physical problems which he met head on, looking each one squarely in the eye, choosing time and again to do everything possible to live. His spirit never gave up, in fact never died, but finally, to quote the sage himself, “In response to the inexorable laws of nature”, the body of this warm and compassionate judge passed on, leaving much behind—including his happy whistle, in the train coming down the track, in the wind playing in the top of the pine trees, in the waves folding onto the beach.
Copyright-used with permission
Introduction by Sylvia Melvin
For more than twenty years, the name Woodrow Melvin meant little to me. Since we lived many miles apart, I’d never met him, spoke to him or even seen a photo of him. All I knew about this man was that he lived in Florida, he was a judge and my husband was his nephew. In August of 1993, after our family moved to Florida, I met Woodrow on a sultry, Sunday morning in a little country church. Sitting in the pew beside me was a senior gentleman that looked like a man in a family photo I’d recently found. After the service, I leaned over and asked, “Excuse me, are you Judge Melvin?”
From the moment his face broke into that warm, welcoming smile, I felt I’d met a friend. The invitation to ‘come on down’ and visit him and Aunt Nita, his wife, was sincere and I accepted with anticipation. Within minutes we began catching up on each other’s lives and any formality dissipated with laughter and conversation. After the hugs and good-byes, the door was not closed behind me but instead, Uncle Woodrow and Aunt Nita stood on the porch and watched me get safely into my car. As I swung around in the driveway, I looked back once more and they waved a last adieu. In the ensuing months, the ritual did not change; I came to realize a visitor was always welcomed at their door and never rushed away. It made a warm impression upon my heart.
As I got to know Uncle Woodrow, and learned more about his life in public service, I realized here was a man who made a difference in the lives of the people of Florida. But not everyone was privileged as I was to sit and hear the stories of the early years of practicing law, the many sessions he spent helping to shape state laws or the multitude of criminal and civil court cases he heard as a Circuit Court Judge. Due to Uncle Woodrow’s failing health, history was slipping through the fingers of Santa Rosa County. Someone needed to compile a record of this man’s accomplishments. As a free-lance writer, I welcomed the task.
Peeling away the layers of time through the research was a journey that not only educated and enlightened me but revealed insight into the personality of a man, who because of his modest nature, never boasted of his servitude. Family scrapbooks, newspaper articles, micro-film, interviews with secretaries, court clerks, lawyers, judges, family and friends presented a wealth of information. The most valuable source was Woodrow himself. As he responded to the questions I asked, memories of years gone by came to light and I was able to record his personal reaction to whatever the particular circumstance. At times, his body language verbalized as plainly as the spoken word.
In order to give a well-rounded picture of Woodrow’s life, I felt it necessary to bring the reader along historically, too. Therefore, references are made to the many newspaper articles written about important issues he was involved in.
I have only one regret; our time together was too short— Woodrow died sixteen months after our first meeting. There was so much more about the man I wanted to know.
Thank you Uncle Woodrow, for showing me not only the meaning of genuine southern hospitality, but also a true Southern Gentleman.
Part One
Chapter One
Perseverance
“There it is; there it is!” Nita Melvin’s shaking finger pointed to the name, Woodrow Maxwell Melvin, printed in the Sunday Florida Times Union newspaper under the headline: Florida Bar Announces Graduates.
“Woodrow, you’re a full-fledged lawyer.” Nita’s arms circled her husband’s neck and she hugged him. “I knew you could do it. All your hard work and determination has paid off.”
“Wait just a minute, now darlin’. We were told we’d receive a telegram before any names appeared in the newspaper. No telegram’s been delivered to this address. Could have been a misprint, you know.”
Nita pulled back and looked into her husband’s worried eyes. All summer, the suspense of whether he’d passed the bar exam weighed as heavily on Woodrow’s shoulders as the thick, August air.
“I don’t believe that for a second; somethin’ has happened to it. You know how things get lost or sent to the wrong place. Now stop stewin’ and let’s enjoy ourselves this afternoon. We’ll get to the bottom of this tomorrow.”
Nita’s optimistic prediction came true when Woodrow picked up his mail Monday morning. Enclosed in an envelope was a telegram dated August, 25, 1935. It had been delivered to his father’s address in Milton and David forwarded it to his son in Madison.
Eager to hang his ‘shingle’ and start practicing law, Woodrow gave a month’s notice as Cherry Lake Sawmill’s bookkeeper and, with the money he’d saved and his wife at his side, he journeyed back to Milton. Evidence of depressed economic times along the route met them at every railroad stop. The smell of smoke from the hobos’ bonfires seeped through the cars and, as the train chugged forward, shadows of gaunt men lunged toward the open freight cars hoping to ride the rails. Vagrants milled around the station begging for money as the words to a popular song, ‘Buddy, Can You Spare A Dime?’ played on a radio behind the ticket counter.
The clickety-click of the train wheels lulled Woodrow into a reverie and his mind returned to 1930 and his first yearning to become a lawyer. As a teenager, he assisted his father, a county tax assessor, by typing the tax rolls at the court house. As he passed the doors of the courtroom each day, his curiosity was piqued. He began slipping into a bench at the back of the room to watch the trials. As he listened to the lawyers present their arguments and observed the evidence presented to the jury, a desire to become one of them ignited inside him and he made a decision. “I can do that.”
Although his mind was made up and he was eager to pursue his dream, reality threatened to thwart his plans. In a family of six sibling brothers, with the eldest in medical school, there was no money to extend his education beyond a secretarial and court reporting course given at Pensacola Business School.
Upon graduation nine months later, with diploma in hand, a dauntless Woodrow applied for and was hired as a legal secretary for a Milton lawyer, Franklin West, at a salary of three dollars a week. Knowing Woodrow’s quest to become a lawyer, Mr. Franklin gave him ample opportunity to ask questions and pour over the law books lining the shelves of the office.
The small salary underscored Woodrow’s need for additional funds to enable him to reach his educational ambition. Lucky for him, 1931 brought a new opportunity to add to his coffers and strengthen his hope of attending law school when he accepted a position working in the secretarial pool for the sixty-day legislative session in Tallahassee. This time his salary was six dollars per day which he faithfully put into the First National Bank in Milton to pay for a three-year correspondence course in law from LaSalle Extension University of Chicago.
The day President Roosevelt ordered all the banks in the country to close down to take an inventory, Woodrow wondered how he could overcome this new roadblock and pay the seven-dollars monthly tuition. Fate intervened when the university took mercy and notified students that they would accept whatever money they could send.
Santa Rosa County’s decision to expand highway 87 north couldn’t have come at a more opportune time as far as Woodrow was concerned. Hired as a time keeper at eighty dollars a month, he knew law school was within his grasp. In 1934, he enrolled as a new student from Milton, Florida, at Cumberland University School of Law in Lebanon, Tennessee, renowned for its number of alumni who sat as judges on the benches of federal and state courts.
The constant motion of the train chugging along the track had a hypnotic affect on his mind and memories of his days studying for his law degree flooded his conscientiousness. He could never forget Dean Caruthers with his white, flowing beard and thundering voice. Simply the thought of this man caused Woodrow to instinctively sit upright in the cushioned train seat and straighten his tie. Dean Caruther’s words at the first student welcoming assembly were imprinted in Woodrow’s mind.
“You are sitting here in two groups,” intoned the Dean. “There are those of you who have come up here to learn and you’re going to get along pretty good and the other group of you are those who have come from wealthy families and you’ve come up here to play and maybe think it’s a thrill to go to law school. I’ll be sending you back home in a few weeks.”
Woodrow shook his head in wonderment as he recalled the faces of those that fell into the latter group. Hard work and sacrifice brought him to that campus and he had no intentions of forfeiting his dream.
A smile worked across Woodrow’s cherub-like face as he remembered his naïve understanding of Tennessee winters, and a shiver ran through his five-foot-seven-inch slender frame. Walking a mile and a half from his boarding house in four or five inches of snow, wearing a pair of low quarter shoes, resulted in wet socks and cold feet. A big, pot-bellied stove stood in the middle of a large classroom and one of the professors, who realized that the boys from the south were not used to Mother Nature’s winter whims, allowed them to wring out their socks, dry them close to the heat, and prop their feet up while he went on with his lecture.
The months of lectures, tests and work on term papers flew by and before Woodrow knew it graduation was penciled in on his 1935, May calendar. At the commencement ceremony, attended by friends, family and one-hundred and thirty-eight graduates, Woodrow accepted recognition that he graduated with an average of ninety-four percent. His heart swelled with pride for the school that was now his Alma Mater and a tear gathered at the corner of his eye as he read a poem in the program written by a fellow graduate, Foyd Poe.
“Oh, Cumberland, My Cumberland!
Proud may she ever stand.
All hail her past, her history!
All hail her future destiny!
Her walls, her halls are ever dear,
Her noble men we’ll e’re revere;
Her heart, to our hearts ever near,
Cumberland, My Cumberland!
Graduate of Cumberland School of Law, 1935
With all the pomp and ceremony behind him, Woodrow knew the biggest test lay ahead –the state bar exam. To prepare for it, he and Nita, his bride of six months, moved to Tallahassee to live with her parents while Woodrow attended a cram course given at night by a local attorney. The evening of the final exam, Nita welcomed home an exhausted husband.
“I gave it everything I had, honey. Now we have to wait and see if it was enough.”
Nita squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I have no doubt you did. When will you know if you passed?”
“We were told not to look for our results for at least three months. Something tells me it’s going to be a long summer. But then, I couldn’t start practicing even if I had my license. Got to have money to rent an office; that’s the next hurdle. No sense sittin’ around these next three months I need a job. Think I’ll give Dad a call and see if he’s heard of anyone hiring. Might have to dust off the ole shovel—who knows?”
The following day, Woodrow combed through the employment ads in the local newspaper but to no avail. With the country deep in depression, the list was short. However, to Woodrow’s surprise, the next day he received a telegram from a high school friend.
“Listen to this, ladies.” He rushed into the kitchen waving the paper in the air, and wearing a smile from ear to ear.
Nita and her mother stopped setting the lunch table and gave him their attention.
“Remember Glenn Wood, Nita? We graduated from high school together.”
“Sure. What’s he up to these days?”
“Seems he works for a sawmill at Cherry Lake north of Madison. He must have been talking to Dad because he’s offered me a job as a book-keeper.”
Nita clapped her hands and hopped up and down. “Woodrow! That’s wonderful.”
“Listen to the salary. Eighty dollars a month! If we’re careful, we can save enough to open an office.”
“Hurry, run over to the telegraph office and tell him you’ll take it. We’ll keep lunch warm,” Nita insisted.
Woodrow chuckled and put his arm around his wife. “I guarantee you he’ll get my answer before the day’s over. Let’s sit down and say the blessing. I’m feelin’ extra thankful today.”
A short whistle from the train brought Woodrow back to the present and as they neared their destination, the conductor pulled out his watch and in his rich baritone voice warbled, “Twenty minutes to Milton.”
Woodrow felt a stir next to him as Nita snuggled closer to her husband, her eyelids still closed by sleep. He squeezed her shoulder. At age eighteen, he knew in his heart the night he met this slim, attractive, girl with the bouncing brunette curls that someday she’d be his wife.
When they stepped off the train, he took her hand and whispered, “We’re home Nita. I’ve got everything I ever wanted—my law degree and my life’s partner. Are you ready? Our journey’s about to begin.”
Chapter Two
Open for Business
Woodrow straightened his tie several times as he prepared himself for his first day of work at his new office. With his felt fedora hat perched at an angle on his beaming face, he kissed Nita farewell and walked to the First National Bank on Willing Street in Milton. The spring in his step on this October morning in 1935 as he climbed the steps to the second floor meant only one thing—he was eager to slip the key into the door of the office and start to work. The rent was within his budget—seven dollars and fifty cents a month with an additional dollar and a half minimum for electricity.
Not expecting any clients the first day, Woodrow wrapped his jacket around the back of a chair, rolled up his sleeves, dug into the boxes of law books and lined them up in a specific order on the waiting shelves. Stacks of papers he’d collected from Cumberland went into a used cabinet, each sorted and filed in a folder under a special category. His manual typewriter sat on his desk ready for him to strike the first key.
By 11:00 a.m., Woodrow gazed around the room, satisfied with the arrangement of the simple furniture, two wooden chairs, a small table and an oak desk with three drawers on the right-hand side. As he contemplated his next move, to his amazement, a knock came on the door.
“C’mon in,” he called.
“Heard you’d set up shop and are ready for business, so I asked around and here I am.” A man he’d worked with at Cherry Lake entered.
“What can I do for you Stan?”
“Need a divorce-uncontested. How much would it cost me?”
Woodrow’s mind went blank, but he thought fast.
“Listen, I was just on my way to the men’s room when you walked in so make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back.”
Passing the rest room, Woodrow made a mad dash to the lawyer down the hall and asked, “Can you help me out? I’ve got a man in my office who wants to know what it costs to get an uncontested divorce.”
“Twenty-five dollars and twelve-fifty to cover the court costs.” The answer came quickly.
“Thanks, I owe you one.”
Woodrow walked back into his office thinking his friend would probably get up and leave after he heard the large amount.
“How would you like to arrange to pay for it, Stan?”
“Just write me a receipt, Woodrow. I’ve been saving for this day.”
When Woodrow shared the news with Nita, they thought they’d hit a gold mine that first day on the job, but reality soon stuck its head around the corner. It was a long time before someone else showed up with any money. Instead, bartering was the order of the day. Each night, Nita greeted Woodrow at the door with her familiar nightly question, “Well, what did we earn today?”
When he gave his frequent answer, “Two gallons of cane syrup for typing up a deed”, Nita responded with a sigh, “I believe we have enough syrup for now. I’ll see if D.T. Williams grocery store will trade it out for some flour.”
One night Woodrow reported to his wife, “I’ve agreed to defend a client in return for a cow.”
“A cow! Now where are we going to tether a cow in the city?” Nita protested.
“I’ll tie it to that pecan tree between us and the neighbors.”
A few days later, he shook his head and complained, “Nita, that cow refuses to give milk no matter how hard I pull on her tits. I’m afraid I got the short end of the stick.”
Woodrow didn’t back out on his word. Instead, he gave the man the best defense he could, but when the jury convicted him, Woodrow grinned to himself, thinking, “Justice prevailed.”
***
Woodrow had earned his formal higher education at Cumberland Law School, but he learned about people from his fledgling days of practicing law. As each client brought his own personality into his office—good or bad—Woodrow learned to hone his perception skills.
One night a knock came to the door and a black man stood there anxious to talk to Woodrow.
“Sorry for the late hour, Mr. Melvin, but I’s got to talk to you.”
“C’mon in and sit down. What’s the problem?”
“They’s gonna arrest me.”
“Why?”
“For stealin’ my neighbor’s cartwheels. They’s sayin’ I bin watchin’ where he buries his money.”
“Well, have you?”
The man shuffled from one foot to another and shook his head back and forth. “Oh, no sir. Not me.”
“I charge thirty dollars to defend a case.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be back tomorrow night with the money.”
To Woodrow’s surprise, his client came back with the fee—thirty cartwheels. As he looked at the silver, part of the stolen property, Woodrow was not about to take any of it. Instead, he talked the man into turning it into the sheriff and telling the judge what happened. Probation didn’t exist in those days. Instead, a case was carried over on the docket for a length of time condition on a person’s good behavior. In this case, two or three court sessions went by until a judge determined the black man was behaving himself and let him go.
“Nita, if he’d gone to trial, he would have been convicted, sent off, and somebody else would have had to feed his family. When common sense and the law collide, there’s trouble.”
J.B. Abbott, an old country Justice of the Peace, had planted those seeds of insight into Woodrow’s mind. When hearing a case, Abbott set up his courtroom at a hardware store in Jay, Florida where he used a rockin’ chair and six empty nail kegs for the jury to sit on and another one for the witness.
Woodrow tried five or six cases at the store before Judge Abbott, one of which involved a man who got in a fight and cut the other fellow he was fighting with—cut him pretty bad. When it came time for the judge to hear it, he ordered the man to get up the money to pay the grocery bill for the injured man’s family until the victim got over his injuries. The decision sounded pretty good to the community and that’s how it got settled.
Woodrow thought about how the judge had settled the case. On one hand, it seemed to him like the man got off easy, but he realized the real problem was who would feed the victim’s family if the culprit was locked up? This way, the guilty party worked and split his income. After turning it over in his mind, how Judge Abbott settled the case sounded like practical horse sense to Woodrow.
Fairness ran deep in his lawyer’s code of ethics and it was a troubled Woodrow who walked in the door one evening for supper, plopped his fedora unto a coat hook, undid his tie and proceeded to express his frustration, “ Nita, it’s not right. Remember I told you I agreed to defend this fellow who’s accused of breaking into that little corner store and stealin’ $1.32? Well, today they brought my client into court to make his plea dressed in convict clothes with leg chains on so he couldn’t run.”
“Yes, you said you felt the evidence against him is pretty flimsy. Those black stripes and gray stripes runnin’ round and round don’t leave much doubt where he’s been spending some time, does it?”
“Exactly my point. It’s prejudicial; why everyone in that courtroom today are the group his jury will be drawn from. Now tell me, what chance will he have?” Woodrow took his white linen handkerchief and wiped beads of perspiration from his reddening brow.
“So what can you do about it?”
“I already filed a motion for continuance. The judge told me he didn’t think they’d recognize him on Wednesday seein’ as though this is Monday. Things move pretty fast but we’ll see.”
He was right; his client got convicted. But after the jury’s decision, the light in Woodrow’s office burned well past midnight. The clickety-clack of his typewriter keys produced one written appeal to the Supreme Court of Florida after another. Wads of paper filled his waste basket. Appealing to the highest court in the state was something he’d never done and it had to be perfect. His argument needed to be clear, concise and accurate. Finally, satisfied he’d made a convincing appeal, Woodrow slipped the pages into an envelope ready to be mailed to Tallahassee. There was nothing more he could do but wait.
A month later, the Supreme Court’s opinion arrived in Woodrow’s mail. His eyes fixed on the official seal and his hands trembled as he picked up the letter opener and inserted it into the envelope. Relief coupled with humility washed over his body as he read the words that would become a precedent in future cases tried in Florida:
“In reversing the judgment of the circuit court, the supreme court holds that a prisoner may not be given a fair trial if he is brought into court shackled with chains and wearing convict stripes. Every person is presumed to be innocent of the commission of crime, and the presumption continues until his conviction. Appearance of the accused in stripes might prejudice prospective jurors against him.”
With letter in hand, a smile on his face, and a bounce in his step, Woodrow headed for the State Attorney’s office. The words ‘case dismissed’ were the sweetest words he’d heard all day.
Chapter Three
An Itch for Politics
“Run for mayor of Milton! You want to get into politics?”
“Why not, Dad?”
David Melvin raised an eyebrow and looked his son straight in the eye. “Because you’re only twenty-three years old. Have you forgotten you once worked for your opponent? T. Franklin West is an experienced lawyer. Folks are lookin’ for a man with experience. One year practicing law hardly qualifies, son. They’ll say you’re still wet behind the ears. Won’t make you rich either—seven dollars a month”.
“I may be young, but I know I can do a good job. Besides, since my practice is smaller than Mr. West’s. I’ll have more time to devote to helping improve our town’s image.”
“Campaigning is hard work, Woodrow. Speeches—a well thought out agenda, lots of handshaking.”
“That’s where I can use you, Dad. Since you’re the tax assessor, you know everyone in town and can introduce me as I make my rounds. I have nothing to lose except some time. C’mon; jump on board. Let’s see how far this train will go.”
A smile crossed David’s face as he glanced at his watch, “Get on over to the courthouse; you’ve got thirty minutes before it closes to register as a candidate.”
For the next several weeks, Nita saw him when he left the house in the morning and then not again until nearly bedtime. Cold suppers were the order of the day as Woodrow attended every function he could in order to be seen and heard. His youthful energy and quick mind caught the voters’ attention and on election night, he nosed out T. Franklin West by the slim margin of 263 to 254 and on October 13, 1936, Woodrow was officially sworn in as Milton’s mayor.
A hearty congratulations from Woodrow’s father came with some valuable advice. “Listen to the people around town, son. Wouldn’t hurt to stop by the café for a cup of coffee now and then and mingle with the folks. You’ll soon learn what needs to be done.”
His father was right.
One such complaint that reached Woodrow’s ears concerned the lack of reverence for the Christmas season.
“You’d think it was the Fourth of July the way those fireworks snap and boom over there on Willing and Oak Street all night long. Somethin’ needs to be done to stop those annoying disturbances,”
After conferring with City Council, Woodrow asked the Press Gazette to print his first proclamation.
“Mayor Melvin asks safe and sane observance of Christmas holidays”
Citizens of Milton are requested to refrain from shooting fireworks of any description upon the following named streets, or upon public or private property adjacent to: Willing, Simpson and Oak Street. All violators will be dealt with according to law.
Let us celebrate the Christmas season as a period of worship and adoration, and not as a time for hilarity and dissipation.”
Woodrow M. Melvin
Mayor, Town of Milton
***
The hot, humid, air that stifled the atmosphere during the summer of 1937 only intensified the blanket of hopelessness felt by the nation. The Great Depression sucked the lifeblood out of the economy leaving the State of Florida’s coffers empty. Even road maintenance done by the convicts came to an abrupt halt due to depletion of state funds. As Woodrow thought about this situation one evening on his walk home from the office, his eyes surveyed the Blackwater River banks. He could scarcely see the water for the overgrown briar bushes, weeds and vines that ran in every direction. A miniature jungle threatened to strangle the drainage ditches and several neglected, empty lots were thick with wild vegetation that served to hide debris and garbage. The scent of a decayed animal accosted his nostrils; not only was downtown Milton becoming an eyesore but environmentally it was a health hazard to its citizens. Something had to be done and Woodrow made a decision.
Two nights later, he brought the issue before the Town Council.
“Gentlemen, I submit that we get permission from the County Board of Commissioners to bring in the convicts and put them to work cleaning up our town. They aren’t being used this summer on the roads so let’s give them something to do.”
The vote was unanimous: contact the County; get the ball rolling.
Two weeks later, the Press Gazette printed the positive news that set everyone in town to chattering at the corner café.
It’s a Good Job!
Tons of Weeds Removed From Streets
People who have been out of Milton for several weeks and who return about now will hardly recognize the town. In fact, if they looked around very much they might get the idea they were in the wrong place altogether. Why? Simply because the town has come out from behind a rank growth of weeds. Through the thoughtfulness of Mayor Melvin, backed by town council, county convicts, who were about to enjoy a long drawn-out vacation because of the stoppage of state gas tax money, have been employed to give the town a general hair-cut, shave, massage and good rub-down, and are doing a good job of it.
Drainage ditches, have been cleaned out, the banks nicely fixed up, and the ditches are now doing what they were supposed to do in the beginning—drain off surplus water.
Tons of grass, tall weeds, trees and other growing things have been cut from streets and sidewalks, and it is now possible to see how much of the town there really is.
Another good job is the street-scraping work which is going on in connection with the clean-up, and which, when completed, will make the streets fit to drive over without breaking car springs and generally shaking everybody to pieces.
Yes, sir, it’s a good job, and should be kept going until the town is cleaned and smoothed from stem to stern and from port to starboard.
Pleased about the success in improving Milton’s physical appearance, Woodrow extended his concern of those who served in the community. When he spoke to the Council. He voiced his opinion.
It is my belief that our night watchman’s salary is entirely inadequate. He is receiving from the town the sum of $25.00, that being paid to him in the form of script. In order to cash this script, he has to discount it for 15%. I realize that at the present time funds are short, and for that reason, I could not expect a raise in salary for that position. However, if it is at all possible for you to do so I would respectfully request that the town pay Mr. Hannah by check instead of by script.
The Council agreed and, after that, the night watchman received his salary in cash.
A grateful man knocked on Woodrow’s office door the following morning to report his nightly activity.
“C’mon in.”
A smile crossed the watchman’s fatigued face as he held out his hand to shake Woodrow’s.
“Thank you, Sir, for taken’ up for me at the council meeting last evening. Getting’ paid in script is tough in these here times. You did my wife and me a big favor and we won’t forget it.”
“Just want to treat you fair. We need your services to help keep law and order around here.”
“Speakin’ of such, something I notice more and more every night is gettin’ worse. Somebody’s gonna get hurt or even killed.”
Woodrow’s expression grew serious. “What is it?”
“Too many drunk drivers and one-eyed automobiles. Last night over on Canal Street one of them crossed over the sidewalk and nearly hit one of the school teachers out walkin’ her dog. Crashed into a tree and smashed the windshield to smithereens. The driver got a doozy of a goose egg but he’ll be seeing you in the Mayor’s Court today.”
“Your right, Mr. Hannah, I’ve noticed the neglect drivers have about fixing headlights and of course, driving drunk is out of the question. I’ll write up a resolution and present it to the Council immediately.”
The public read the Mayor’s proclamation in the Press Gazette.
In my concern for the safety of the citizens of Milton, fair warning will be given all offenders against laws providing proper lights for automobiles, and those who fail to heed the warnings will be brought into mayor’s court. Cars with only one light are a menace. It is my intention to do everything possible to promote safe driving in Milton and to decrease the number of accidents caused by improper lights.
When writing a resolution or proclamation, it wasn’t unusual for Woodrow to take up a pen in the evening and write while his mind was still on the topic. Often he would ask Nita for her input or opinion. One such evening they’d finished dinner and she was washing the last plate when she noted her husband busily writing in his notebook.
“Writing another resolution?” she asked.
“Not this time, my dear.”
“So you don’t need my input?”
“Actually, I do. I’m resigning.”
“Resigning! But why? You won your second term hands down and I know you can win again. The folks in this town appreciate the way you’ve helped them.”
“I want to broaden my field to include more folks.”
“And how do you intend to do that?”
“I’m going to run for county judge.”
“Against A.L. Johnson?”
“Yes, so I need you to proof read my letter because the next meeting is Monday evening.”
Unsure of her feelings, Nita reached for the paper and read Woodrow’s letter to Mr. Forman.
February 27,1940
Hon. R.P. Forman, President,
Town Council,
Milton, Florida
Dear Mr. Foreman,
As I have become engaged in county political affairs, I respectfully tender to you this my resignation as Mayor of the town of Milton effective March 1st,1940.
It has been a privilege and pleasure to have served my home town in this honorary capacity and I have enjoyed my relationship with the members of the Council and the other officers of the town.
With kindest regards,
Sincerely yours,
Woodrow M. Melvin
In making his formal announcement to run for county judge, Woodrow said, “I shall make a clean, active campaign for the office, and if honored with election, will administer it in a fair, reasonable and impartial manner. I believe that my experience in law work qualifies me to hold this office.”
Not everyone agreed; Woodrow suffered his first political defeat and after some disappointment and soul searching he graciously admitted, “Santa Rosa has a good county judge. A.L. Johnson is doing a fine job and the only thing I had to say in my campaign was that he had the job and I wanted it. Now, people aren’t going to turn somebody out who is doing a good job. I didn’t have enough sense to know that but I do now and it’s a blessing I got defeated because there are other things I need to do.”
Chapter Four
The Road to Tallahassee
“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” Woodrow mused aloud as he held out the newspaper and glanced at his wife. “Tom Watson is running for attorney general.”
“Who’s he?” Nita asked.
“Back in ’31, when I was looking for a job typing in the secretarial pool in the legislature, Tom was on the attaché committee and helped me get the position. I owe him a great deal.” Woodrow smiled and his blue eyes brightened as he continued, “I believe it’s time I renewed our acquaintance.”
Within a week, Woodrow and his father drove down to Tampa to meet with Mr. Watson at his campaign headquarters.
“I’m here to repay an old debt and offer my services to help you get elected. My father knows everyone in Santa Rosa County and we’re ready to use some foot-leather to get the word out that Tom Watson is the man for the job.”
“Can’t tell you how much I appreciate your offer, Woodrow. Florida’s a big state and often the Panhandle gets a lot less attention from politicians than it deserves. Consider yourself on board.”
True to his word, Woodrow, his father and other supporters engaged in a rigorous effort of talking to folks, handing out information and showing allegiance to their candidate for attorney general. Election night proved that their efforts paid off; in January, 1940, Tom Watson arrived in Tallahassee and he took nine assistants along with him—one of which was Woodrow Melvin.
Tom Watson clearly stated his expectations of his aides at their initial meeting.
“Loyalty to the interests of the state, as distinguished from the special interests of any group, is, and will be, the first and paramount duty of each of us. The attorney general is an identity to be supported and backed up by you. Your recognition of this fact and loyalty to him will be appreciated and desired. If at any time you feel, for any reason, that you cannot give this personal loyalty, it is respectfully declared that it becomes your duty to renounce such relationship and resign your affiliation with this office.”
No sooner had Woodrow settled himself into the assigned area he shared with another lawyer when the Attorney General asked him to come to his office. Woodrow’s pulse beat increased and his palms turned moist with perspiration. Was there a problem? Relief calmed his nerves as Mr. Watson welcomed him.
“Woodrow, I’ve selected you and Joe Gillen to handle all of the state’s criminal appeals.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your confidence in me to handle this responsibility.”
A year later, January,1941, Woodrow and Joe prepared a brief that put their ability to the test.
“Can you believe we’re off to Washington to petition the highest court in our country, Joe?”
“Never expected it to happen to me, Woodrow.”
“Thirty minutes to convince eight gentlemen to uphold this murder conviction. No time for speeches—only the facts, nothing but the facts.”
The return trip was one of celebration; the state of Florida won.
“This is one appeal I’ll never forget, Joe. What an awesome feeling to have participated in the United States judicial system in the most revered court in the country. And do you know what else impressed me?”
“Can’t think of anything better than that, my friend.”
Woodrow smiled as he commented, “How ‘bout that four inches of snow blanketing Washington. This southern boy won’t forget that.”
The staff of Attorney General Tom Watson
Woodrow is sitting third form the left-bottom row.
***
“It’s a boy, Mamma!” Woodrow’s enthusiastic announcement as he swung open the kitchen door caught his mother, Laura, with her hands in the biscuit dough. She quickly wiped them on her apron and gave her son a hug.
“You’re a father now, Woodrow. After six years of waiting, you and Nita have been blessed. Let me get the family bible and add my grandson’s name; still going to pass along your namesake?”
“Nita wants it that way. Just add Jr., Mamma.”
“It won’t take but a moment; born September 18, 1941, Woodrow Maxwell Jr. Your life will never be the same, son.”
Three months later, in the early dawn of December 7, Pearl Harbor altered everyone’s lives. Men in military uniform marched off to war in droves. Rationing commodities such as gas, sugar, coffee, became commonplace and unnecessary driving was discouraged.
Along the coasts of Florida, cities took measures to dim the amount of light that projected onto the ocean for fear that a merchant ship would be silhouetted, thus setting up a target for a torpedo. If one were staying in a hotel, the shades had to be drawn at night. These black-out conditions affected the flying public as well. In order to tend to the state’s business, there were occasions when it was necessary for Woodrow to fly. Passengers were told to keep the window curtains closed and as the aircraft passed over darkened cities, out of the blackness a shaft of light from below illuminated the plane’s exterior searching for proper identification. Woodrow whispered a prayer of thanks each time they passed the test.
***
“How would you like to go back to Milton, Nita?” Woodrow’s question took his wife by surprise.
“You mean for a visit?”
“No, I mean leave Tallahassee and return to practicing law. We’ve been here four years and I miss my own practice. If you’re in agreement, I’ll speak to Mr. Watson tomorrow.”
A smile from his wife gave Woodrow the answer. “When do I start packing?”
On their return to Milton, the local newspaper pressed Woodrow for his reason for resignation and received the following answer.
I enjoyed the work in the attorney general’s office very much. In the person of Tom Watson, the people of Florida have an outstanding attorney general, and to have had the opportunity to work with him as an assistant has been a keen pleasure to me. It’s real good to be back home again. My work during the past four years has brought me into nearly every county in Florida, but of them all, Santa Rosa is my choice.
This time Woodrow hung his shingle on the second floor of the Milton Gazette building. Besides tending to his own law practice, he was hired by the County Board of Commissioners as the county’s prosecuting attorney. For the next two years, Woodrow became more and more involved with the Democratic caucus and the instinct to serve the public on a larger scale rose to the surface once again. With Nita firmly supporting his decision, Woodrow formally announced his bid for member of the House of Representatives in the Milton Gazette, March 21,1946:
Political Announcements for Representative
I appreciate this opportunity to announce to you my candidacy for election to the office of Representative of our county in the Florida Legislature.
For the past eleven years, I have been actively engaged in the practice of law and have been admitted for practice in the United States Supreme Court, and the State Courts of Florida. I have served as assistant to the Attorney General of Florida for four years and during that time had the opportunity of working with your State Officials in Tallahassee. I feel that this training and experience, and my knowledge of the problems facing our county and state, well qualifies me to represent your interests in this law making branch of our State Government.
Should you honor me with election to this office, I shall honestly and faithfully represent the interest of all the county.
I sincerely request the favor of your consideration and vote approval.
Cordially Yours,
Woodrow M. Melvin
The race for a seat in the Florida House of Representatives was on and Woodrow sought his father’s advice.
“Dad, I need your console on my campaign strategy; you helped me win the mayor’s office but this time the stakes are considerably higher. Any advice?”
David was forthcoming, “It’s not going to be easy, Woodrow. Winning the primary is the key; you’re opposition is strong. Morrison Kimbrough is a respected Santa Rosa farmer and you know Franklin West is no stranger to the folks in this county. Both good men. Roll your sleeves up and prepare yourself for some long campaign days.”
“Dad, remember when I was younger I helped drive U.S. Congressman Millard Caldwell, during his campaign, around the county in a one-seater Ford Coupe. We’d go into towns with one of those fog horns, bark a little bit and get a crowd together. Then I’d go around and pass out his literature. Used to take plaque cards into the stores with his picture on them and get the owner to put them in the windows. Must have worked because he got elected to Congress and served several terms. Ended up governor of Florida. I believe I can duplicate his method.”
“Have you thought about your platform? Folks want to know what you stand for and how it’s going to affect their lives.”
“I’ve drafted a rough copy; let’s hammer this out together.”
It took the rest of the afternoon but by supper Woodrow had a grasp of each plank he intended to stand on. Nita offered to role play the undecided voter:
“Tell me how you intend to better our schools, Mr.Melvin.”
“I’ll enact a special law equally dividing Santa Rosa County’s share of the race track money between the Board of Public Instruction and the Board of County Commissioners. I’ll also work for any other legislation that benefits the education of our children.”
“Old people and dependent children and blind folks don’t have much help. What can you do for them?”
“They all need adequate provision and I’ll sponsor legislation to accomplish this purpose.”
“It’s hard being a farmer these days; how you gonna help me?”
“I’ll support you by funding the farmers markets for livestock and produce. An adequate appropriation for free hog cholera serum should be made. Gasoline used in farm tractors and other non-highway machinery should be relieved of gasoline tax.”
Nita continued, “The county needs more highways and better maintenance.”
“I agree and without it our county will not develop its potential.”
“Mr. Melvin, if I’m old enough to fight in a war, why can’t I vote?”
“You would if I had my way; the voting age should be lowered from 21 to 18. Those who are old enough to fight for their country are old enough to vote.”
“You’ve told me things you’re for, now tell me what you’re against.”
“Useless spending of state money by State Boards, Bureaus and Commissions. A State Purchasing Department, efficiently operated, would save the taxpayers many thousands of dollars on supplies purchased for the operation of the state government. I’m also against a stock law, a sales tax and I’ll oppose any legislation harmful to our county or state.”
Nita clapped her hands and shouted, “You got my vote,” but lowered her voice and continued, “but I guess I’m a little biased.” She followed up with a kiss on her husband’s cheek.
***
Since a world war had recently been fought to preserve freedom of speech and the right to choose the candidate of one’s choice, political contests attracted hundreds of voters. People packed the school auditoriums until not another human could get in and many stood in the hallways hoping to catch a few words. A gathering on the courthouse square brought out whole families and often an enterprising teenager peddled peanuts all around.