Mayor of Blue Mountain
Coming Soon!
An Episodic Memoir
Gunshots in the brush. Milk delivered by hand. Luxury measured in screens on windows. Told through an often humorous pioneer journey along Florida’s Gulf Coast, George’s episodic memoir remembers a life shaped by simple times—and the extraordinary things that happened along the way.
Mayor of Blue Mountain
Preface
Coming soon...
I met George in April of 2014, three months after Paul and I met. His own family suddenly felt like mine; one I did not step into at childbirth, but later into life. And at that stage of my life, I was falling in love with myself in a way I hadn't before. I came to accept my past with compassion, without worry for my future. And I was at the right place at the right time when I met Paul. My life felt brand new. Like a blank canvas to create and discover with.
As a writer, I have found that you don't often tell stories until you live them. It's a true story when you feel what happened to you during the story as it unfolded—not the other way around. The story doesn't feel you. Rather, it's like a motion picture of events swirling all about, in every direction. You can be outside your story, not truly involved as an observer would be, or you can get right into the story and play your role. Looking back, I've done more observing of my life than getting right into it. Now, I know that true living is when you get into your story and allow it to happen, realizing too that you were the one creating it—with a view to see from back at the observer's place. A place that won't ever let you get stuck into any one story but have that freedom to move through many. Life along these sugar-sand shores can feel like a tide-scattered strand of pearls—each one cast out by time or tide. But when gathered together, their stories shimmer with meaning. Each pearl, weathered by its own moment, belongs to a larger rhythm. And when the string is finally tied, the first and last come full circle, just like the tides returning to the shore they never left.
Introduction
This is a story told in the first person, but it’s not just one voice you’ll hear. You’ll hear George Thompson, a man born in 1931 in the pine-shadowed sands of Santa Rosa Beach, Florida—a simple man, you might say, but that would be only half the truth. George is many things: a master storyteller, a plainspoken philosopher, a loyal son, a faithful husband and father, a gifted tinkerer, and someone who could turn hardship into humor, and humor into wisdom. What began as a casual chat on a porch one day grew into a conversation I never wanted to end. So, I didn’t let it. I am the narrator of this memoir, not because I lived it, but because I listened to it. I bore witness. My name is Daphne, and I married into George’s family in 2014. From that moment on, I became a kind of daughter of the soil—first through love, then through story.
George’s voice is unforgettable, full of North Floridian cadence and charm, woven with punchlines and pauses only a person born into the red clay and salt breeze could deliver. Over time, I began to record his stories—111 recordings, to be exact—each one a small miracle of memory and meaning. It is from these recordings that the pages of this book come to life. What you’ll read here is George’s voice, shaped by my hand. I didn’t invent anything—I only helped him say it plain. I cleaned the windows so you could see the view. In many ways, George and I have co-authored a portrait of a time and place many have forgotten, and others never knew existed: a wild and tender Florida, stitched with homesteaders, barefoot bus drivers, moonshine stills, white leghorns, sugar sand roads, and laughter so thick it could thump like a watermelon. These are not just tales. They are living memories. They are heartaches held lightly. They are miracles made believable. And above all, they are invitations—to pause, to smile, to remember, and to belong. Whether you know Santa Rosa Beach or you’ve only dreamed of a place like it, may this book lead you barefoot down a dirt road, where the past is close and the porch light’s still on.
Screens on Windows
The August sun was easing down the sky, warm light spilling over the Gulf like melted gold. George sat on the bench at the top of the stairs that led down to the beach, his coffee cup steady in one hand, gaze fixed on the horizon. He wore his favorite blue jean shorts and a short-sleeve, button-up collared shirt with a pocket—perfect for his reading glasses. The fabric was faded from years of wash and salt air, the look of a man at home in his skin. Franny had been walking the shoreline when she caught sight of him up on the bench. She slowed, her heart giving a little leap. She’d heard about George from nearly everyone she’d met in Blue Mountain Beach—how he always had a story worth stopping for. Now, here he was in the flesh. She smoothed her windblown hair, took a breath, and started up the stairs barefoot, her rolled-up capris still damp from the surf. Finally, the George she’d heard about from nearly everyone since moving here. Her stomach fluttered with the strange mix of excitement and nerves that comes from meeting a local legend in the flesh.
wore his favorite blue jean shorts and a short-sleeve, button-up collared shirt with a pocket—perfect for his reading glasses. The fabric was faded from years of wash and salt air, the look of a man at home in his skin.
Franny had been walking the shoreline when she caught sight of him up on the bench. She slowed, her heart giving a little leap. She’d heard about George from nearly everyone she’d met in Blue Mountain Beach—how he always had a story worth stopping for. Now, here he was in the flesh. She smoothed her windblown hair, took a breath, and started up the stairs barefoot, her rolled-up capris still damp from the surf. Finally, the George she’d heard about from nearly everyone since moving here. Her stomach fluttered with the strange mix of excitement and nerves that comes from meeting a local legend in the flesh. In her late fifties, fit and sun-browned, Franny carried herself with the kind of easy sway that hinted at both her Boston city stride and her newfound coastal ease.
“Well,” she said with a laugh, catching her breath, “I think that’s enough exercise for one afternoon. Danny’s gonna wonder if I walked all the way to Pensacola.”
George smiled, the corner lines of his eyes deepening. “That’s a fair hike you just made.”
She set her tote down between them. “Y’know, it’s funny—we left a life in Boston most people would call luxury. And I suppose it was, if you measure it in square footage and bank accounts. But moving here… it’s a whole different thing. Quieter. Feels richer somehow.”
George nodded, his gaze still on the water.
“Danny and I had buildings downtown,” she went on. “Next to the hospital. The rent checks just rolled in. We could’ve stayed forever, but after ten years of vacationing here in Santa Rosa Beach, we figured it was time. Sold everything. Now we’re settling in, one room at a time—choosing colors and textures with the Interior Designer, that will hopefully feel like home and do justice to that beautiful view!” She waved her arm to sweep across the Gulf, as though it were a canvas.
George chuckled. “Those fellas building your place, they treated me like I was on the payroll. Couldn’t pass by without ‘em hollerin’, Hey George! How’s it going?’ His voice lifted an octave as he mimicked their greeting, a subtle laugh riding the words.
Franny laughed. “They told us about you, too. Said you kept ’em entertained.”
“Well,” he said, “they were good company on my walks. Got to know ’em pretty well.”
Franny leaned back, resting her hands in her lap. “We heard about you from some folks we met walking the beach, too. Everyone says the same—you’ve got the best stories.”
George gave a small shrug, but the grin lingered. “Stories come easy when you’ve lived long enough.”
They sat a moment in the easy quiet, the breeze tugging lightly at Franny’s hair. A couple of pelicans glided low over the water, wingtips just brushing the surface.
“You talk about luxury,” George said finally, “but when I was a boy, it meant something different. If you had screens on your windows, you were livin’ high.” He sipped his coffee, then began to spin it out for her—the way the yellow flies came first in summer, leaving itchy welts with every bite, and the dogflies later, sharp as a needle but gone in fifteen minutes if the wind turned south. How they’d break off palmetto fronds to swat at their legs, or duck under the water just to get some peace.
“Eggs were a luxury, too,” he said. “Pa sold most of ’em to cover the grocery bill. Only ones we got were the cracked ones. Ice cream? Once a year, Fourth of July. Big block of ice, burlap-wrapped. Make it one day, finish it the same day—’cause there wasn’t any keepin’ it.”
Franny listened, eyes bright, smiling at his turns of phrase. He told her about meat in winter, smoked hams and bacon in the little shack they called a smokehouse, sausage sealed under a cap of lard. About running barefoot until the thermometer read below fifty, and about Christmas stockings made from ladies’ nylons, stuffed with nuts, candy, and maybe an apple or orange if you were lucky.
“Luxury wasn’t about what you bought,” George said, “it was about what you had when you needed it. And sometimes that wasn’t much.”
Franny nodded slowly. “Sounds to me like you knew how to make the most of it.”
George’s eyes softened. “We did. And I reckon that’s the real kind of luxury—enjoyin’ what you’ve got, even when it ain’t much.”
The breeze picked up, carrying the faint salt of the Gulf. Down on the sand, the tide whispered in and out. Franny sat with her coffee, picturing those old wooden frames, mesh stretched tight to keep the bugs out, and thought—maybe luxury’s just that. A little peace between you and the things that bite. And with that, she felt a quiet gratitude she hadn’t felt in a long time for the luxury of home in her day and age.