© Myfanwy Phillips 1976
I was walking through a pasture filled with flowers and I came upon a Dharma cow. She was looking right at me, in a bewildered kind of way. There was a piece of paper stuck in her head between her ears and I went up and pulled it out. On it was written, "I'm thirsty." I found a bottle of water and gave it to her, and as she drank it down I noticed that the top half of her body was made of plexiglass, so I could see right inside. The water went down her throat, down some stairs, (fast, like a flash flood) and filled up what turned out to be the concourse at the John F. Kennedy building at the airport in New York City!
Note: it was a strange dream. I was born in India, so therefore (perhaps) the Dharma cow, and although I've never been to the JFK building, I've always been an admirer of Saarinen, the architect who designed it in the 1950's. It has recently been renovated back to it's original condition, and I notice that there is a red carpet in the lobby. But, I had dreamed that color into the painting way before that rug was installed! © 2010 Myfanwy Phillips. 15" x 11" acrylic on canvas
"A murder trial in Florida has turned into a national obsession" June, 2011.
There was no murder trial in Florida in October, 1910, or even after that.
In 1990, 'Killing Mister Watson,' was published. It was the first part of Peter Mattheissen's trilogy about the settlement of the Everglades. The book is about a man, Edward J. Watson, "a sugar planter and notorious outlaw on the wild Florida frontier at the turn of the century," who was shot dead in 1910 by a posse of neighbors and acquaintances from places like Chokoloskee, Lost Man's Key, Rabbit Key, Half Way Creek, Pavioni and Chatham River. He had lived and worked alongside them for years, he had been a friend, but ultimately he made everyone nervous.
"Folks just got tired of him I guess". Hoad Storter.
Mister Watson "was a strong, good-looking feller in his thirties, dark red hair... Close to six foot and carried himself well, folks noticed him straight off, and no one fooled with him. First time you seen the man you wanted him to like you - he was that kind." Henry Thompson.
Edward J. Watson could do almost anything he turned himself to, but he had a reputation for violence that had followed him to the islands. It was said that he had killed many people, both men and women, although it was never clear just how many that might be, or why. He was the stuff of legend. Mattheissen has told the story as it might have been. It's a truly remarkable work of fiction, based on fact. I was mesmerized by the tale. As someone wrote, "the book took my sleeve and like the ancient mariner would not let go."
A year or so later I found myself in Florida and decided to drive down to the Ten Thousand Islands. I took Highway 41 south from Naples and then a right on 29. It was a remote road, nothing but swamp on either side and it seperated two completely different worlds. I went through Everglade City and then a few miles farther to Chokoloskee, the scene of the crime.
"I never saw a man so dead in all my life." Bill House.
Even then, twenty years ago, there were very few houses on the island. Other than the store and post office (now preserved as an historic site) I couldn't see anything that looked as if it might have survived the past. I recalled the story of Postmaster Smallwood retrieving his drowned chickens from under his building after the hurricane. It was said that he used to blow on a conch shell when the mail came in.
I didn't have a boat to go to Chatham Bend to see if Mr. Watson's house was still there. It was said that "when his house was finished he painted her white, and he kept her painted, and that big white house stood high in them dark rivers for the next half century. Except Storters at Everglade, there was nothing between Fort Myers and Key West come close to it, not even the old Santini house on Chokolochee."
I found a small coffee shop and went inside. There were a few souls sitting around talking as if they knew each other well. It turned out they were mostly Vietnam vets and they were living in the swamp. Some of them were still wearing their army uniforms from the war.
I didn't see many other people at all.
I walked around the town looking for things that would take me back into the story. There was nothing left except the very place where everything had gone down. On an overgrown road I came upon this house. It's not the Old Santini House and it's not Mister Watson's house, but it belongs to the place for sure.
Note: "Watson's story is essentially the story of the American frontier, of the conquering of wild lands and people, and of what such empires cost... Even among a body of work as magnificent as Matthiessen's, this is his great book." The trilogy, Killing Mr. Watson, Lost Man's River and Bone by Bone "were originally conceived as one vast, mysterious novel." They are now retold in "Shadow Country."
© 2001 Myfanwy Phillips
