THE MOST FAMOUS MEN IN BAKER COUNTY

Miami Herald, The (FL)
August 8, 1982
Author: AL BURT Herald Columnist

What is it about these two gentlemen that has motivated college kids, reporters and Adele Graham to stop and sit a spell?

The Crews brothers, born, raised and grown elderly among the gray sands and black puddles of Moccasin Swamp, once told me they feared only God, the devil, women and electricity.

But that was six years ago. Since then, they have become the most famous men in Baker County, and I called on them again to see how celebrity had changed their lives.

"No different," said William McKinley, at 71 five years younger than his brother, Daniel Lucas. "Still ain't got none of 'em."

About 80 years ago, their Daddy hacked a 160-acre homestead out of the thick palmettos and pines and sweet bays, making a home and a haven in this extension of the great Okefenokee Swamp that straddles the Georgia-Florida border.

McKinley and Daniel, bachelors, have changed nothing. Almost everything is handmade, just like their Daddy left it when he died in 1931, and still handrun.

After their mother died 30 years ago, McKinley and Daniel had the place all to themselves. That year, McKinley bought a new Chevrolet pickup. He still drives it to Jacksonville to buy feed for the cows.

The brothers persistently have refused to accept electricity. They do not trust it. They get water from a hand pump, have no telephone, no screens or windowpanes, read only the weekly Baker County Press mailed to them out of Macclenny.

Their views of the world, and the world's views of them, are ones of curiosity and uninformed fascination. The mutual perception is through a time warp, an open door with history on one side and the present on the other.

The weathered frame house, the split rail fence, the yard beaten bare by cows' hooves and festooned by fragrant cow droppings, lie about 4 miles north of a crossroads called Baxter, far off the paved road, not far from the St. Marys River.

"We got worried out with farming," said Daniel, sitting on the front porch, swatting at swarms of flies, filling me in on the news. "Don't plant nothing but a garden. Eating mostly 'maters and roastin' ears, right now. Planted Irish potatoes but it was too wet and they ruined."

They quit farming because of age and health. Daniel has arthritis and must walk with a cane. McKinley sometimes faints or, as he puts it, "I lose my knowing." Yet both insist they get along fine.

When word spread about the Crews' brothers lifestyle, and their innocent geniality with strangers, various emissaries from the outside world began to make pilgrimages.

So many have come that the Crews, in their courteous way, have begun to express weariness with strangers dropping in unexpectedly, disturbing their afternoon nap, breaking peaceful routines, arriving with shiny cars and flashing cameras, staring, exploring, laughing a lot.

"Sometimes, it gets too many," admitted McKinley. "Just a few, you know, is all right. But too many gets kind of aggravating."

"Yeah, people's always coming up here," Daniel said. "Biggest bunch came up from a college. Must of been 50 head of 'em. They kept drawing pictures of the house and counting the boards. Went up in the loft, one of 'em did. I never hear tell of such things. Went all over the kitchen and everywhere, measuring everything."

"Yessir," said McKinley, "we thought they was going to break the lamp shade a-measuring one day, but they didn't. Even went all over the chicken house. We didn't know they was going to do all that, till they done it."

Television crews have come calling, newspaper people, groups of schoolchildren, historical groups and some just plain, curious folk. "They like to see it," said McKinley, understandingly. "They say they can't find nothing that looks just like this."

Even the governor's wife, Adele Graham, visited the farm in March. She sent them a nice letter and an autographed picture of her and the governor. The brothers are proud of that. "That was the first governor's wife we ever seen," said Daniel.

Most strangers almost instantly feel affection for the shy brothers, and some show it. "One woman come up here and asked would I let a couple of 'em spend the night with us. I said, 'no, ma'am,"' McKinley recalled. Visitors always joke with them about their bachelorhood. The brothers have to explain that they like women but, as McKinley puts it, "We was always skeered of 'em."

He teased Daniel. "One of 'em hugged my neck, but she kissed Daniel." Responded Daniel, "I told her it wouldn't do me no good for her to kiss me but she said, well, it would her." They laughed.

In their overalls and with their country hospitality, they offer each visitor a tour. They have learned how to talk with strangers, what the people want to see, how to look straight into the TV cameras, how to pose.

There have been suggestions that they should charge admission. They considered the idea and rejected it. "I don't 'spect it's worth nothing, these messings we got," Daniel said. He seemed embarrassed.

Not much outside the county interests them. They have investigated television as entertainment. "Nonsense, to my mind," McKinley said.

A friend gave Daniel a small portable radio. He calls it "the little thing that talks," and rarely listens. "Start it up and it'll just go to raring," Daniel said. "It just carries on something all the time."

Fame has not changed the Crews brothers. They remain primitive innocents, skeptical about the world, tolerant of its strange ways, polite when it intrudes, ever beguiled by the odd way that an honest life delights the city folk.

Edition: FINAL Section: TROPIC MAG Page: 22 Copyright (c) 1982 The Miami Herald