Lure of the unknown - Amazon Web...
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EDMUND D. FOUNTAIN | Times Rafael Martinez-Ybor sits with a detailed document of the late 1800s holdings of his great-grandfather, Vicente Martinez-Ybor. BY JOHN BARRY Times Staff Writer T ampa’s last Ybor recently was asked to come by Tampa Antiquarian Books to check out a carton from Cuba. It appeared to be full of century-old papers related to his great-grandfather, Vicente Mar- tinez-Ybor, the founder of Ybor City, eulogized as the Great Bene- factor when he died on Dec. 14 114 years ago. Great-grandson Rafael Marti- nez-Ybor, 81, met up at the book- shop with Andy Huse, a librar- ian in special collections at the University of South Florida. Huse asked him to look through the box from Cuba — and to pay extra attention to one item. Most of the contents appeared to be letters and photos saved by Ybor relatives who remained in Cuba after a young Rafael fled the Castro takeover in 1961. But digging deeper in the box, he found a yellowed, typewrit- ten document, folded in thirds, about 40 pages long. Martinez-Ybor’s eyes widened. It was the legacy the great- grandson never got. • • • Before Vicente Martinez-Ybor died in 1896, he had — over a frenzied 10-year span — turned malarial swamp into Cigar City. All the locks, stocks and beer barrels in Ybor City had been his doing — from the cigar fac- tory to the bank, to the brick fac- Recently discovered papers detail the grand beginnings of the family’s cigar and beer legacy. Accounting for Ybor’s true value . See MARTINEZ-YBOR, 6E A new girl in a red poncho learns an early lesson about fitting in. 6E tampabay.com/features Sunday, January 2, 2011 Pop Life: One more Top 10 list: best singles of 2010. PAGE 2E • Beware: Angry Birds is deceptively simple, devilishly addictive. PAGE 4E ST. PETERSBURG I n 1977, when I was new in town, I saw a giant on the downtown pier. He lurched out of the dark toward the bait house like Frankenstein’s tormented monster. At first I thought he was 8 feet tall. On second glance he seemed only slightly smaller. Towering over the pier rail- ing, he hurled a spear into Tampa Bay with a mighty grunt. An instant later he tore a flopping fish from the prongs of the spear as if he intended to devour it raw. Instead he tossed the plate-sized prey into a shopping cart that carried his meager belongings. He seemed more feral than human and walked with a hor- rific limp. As he vanished into the night a chill ran up my spine. “Who’s that?” I asked the bait monger. “Slim,” he whispered from the doorway. “Slim who?” “Just Slim.” The bait monger didn’t know his real name. Nobody I talked with in the following weeks did either, even though Slim had been a waterfront icon for generations. But they had stories. Slim is a nice enough guy, some- one told me, but he has a bad side. He is the best fisherman on the pier, more than one person said. Slim is a bum who sleeps under the pier, Slim has no friends, Slim limps because of an old bullet wound in the hip, Slim hates tourists — watch out, he’s quick with a knife. Everyone seemed to have stories about Slim without really knowing him. From anecdotes and hearsay they had constructed a life history. A few weeks later, I had another chance to talk to the giant himself. I saw him on the pier around twilight, pushing his shopping cart with his left hand while carrying his spear in his right. He leaned over the water, let fly and roped in a corpulent striped fish, a sheepshead. My notebook and I stepped into his path. A curiosity born 33 years ago still dogs a reporter to this day: Who was that giant of a man catching fish at the St. Petersburg Pier? Lure of the unknown Photo courtesy of JoAnn Mendenhall Many people knew of the towering man named Slim who frequented the St. Petersburg Pier downtown for about four decades, hauling in fish with a spear, a hand line and a casting net. But, a reporter wonders, did anyone actually know the man? LARA CERRI | Times Jimmy Kelley, 76, recalls that his father used to allow Slim to sleep in the bait house on the Pier from time to time. . See SLIM, 3E JEFF KLINKENBERG Real Florida BY DREW HARWELL Times Staff Writer T he honey buns enter lockup the same way anyone else does: bound, escorted through halls and sally ports, and secluded in small boxes solely opened from the outside. From there the honey buns languish for days, maybe longer, until they’re gone. They are a lowly, sturdy food designed for des- perate cravings and vending machine conve- nience. They can endure weeks of neglect and even a mild mashing in a coat pocket or back- pack. They are, it should come as no surprise, especially beloved by a similarly hardy but disre- spected population: Florida’s prison inmates. Inmates in the Florida prison system buy 270,000 honey buns a month. Across the state, they sell more than tobacco, envelopes and cans of Coke. And they’re just as popular among Tampa Bay’s county jails. In Pasco’s Land O’Lakes Detention Center, they’re outsold only by freeze-dried coffee and ramen noodles. Not only that, these honey buns — so puffy! — have taken on lives of their own among the criminal class: as currency for trades, as bribes for favors, as relievers for stress and substitutes for addiction. They’ve become birthday cakes, hooch wines, last meals — even ingredients in a massive tax fraud. So what is it about these little golden glazed snacks? Is it that they’re cheap, which is big, since the prisoners rely on cash from friends and family? That their sugary denseness could stop a speeding bullet? That they’re easy, their mise en place just the unwrapping of plastic? What gives? Maybe considering the honey bun can help us understand life behind bars. • • • Jailhouse cuisine is a closely calculated sci- ence. A day’s meals inside the mess hall must be hearty enough to meet the 2,750-calorie count, healthy enough to limit fat and sodium, easy enough for prison cooks to prepare and cheap enough to meet the state’s average grocery bill — about $1.76 per inmate per day. With all criteria met, meals behind bars achieve an impressive level of mediocrity. The portions are reasonable, the nutritional content adequate, the taste ordinary, the presentation dull, the blandness as inescapable as the facili- ties themselves. The meals are made to guaran- tee very little except survival. Problem inmates don’t have it any easier. Their punishment: “special management meals” of Nutraloaf, a tasteless lump of carrots, spinach and grits that resembles a sad fruitcake. In slammer, honey buns sweeten the situation For a variety of reasons, inmates develop a passion for the prepackaged pastries. BRENDAN FITTERER | Times A Zephyrhills Correctional Institution inmate picks up his canteen purchases — four honey buns and three packs of cigarettes. . See HONEY BUNS, 5E
Transcript of Lure of the unknown - Amazon Web...
EDMUND D. FOUNTAIN | Times
Rafael Martinez-Ybor sits with a detailed document of the late 1800s holdings of his great-grandfather, Vicente Martinez-Ybor.
BY JOHN BARRYTimes Staff Writer
T ampa’s last Ybor recently was asked to come by Tampa Antiquarian
Books to check out a carton from Cuba. It appeared to be full of century-old papers related to his great-grandfather, Vicente Mar-tinez-Ybor, the founder of Ybor City, eulogized as the Great Bene-
factor when he died on Dec. 14 114 years ago.
Great-grandson Rafael Marti-nez-Ybor, 81, met up at the book-shop with Andy Huse, a librar-ian in special collections at the University of South Florida. Huse asked him to look through the box from Cuba — and to pay extra attention to one item.
Most of the contents appeared
to be letters and photos saved by Ybor relatives who remained in Cuba after a young Rafael fled the Castro takeover in 1961. But digging deeper in the box, he found a yellowed, typewrit-ten document, folded in thirds, about 40 pages long.
Martinez-Ybor’s eyes widened.It was the legacy the great-
grandson never got.
• • •
Before Vicente Martinez-Ybor died in 1896, he had — over a frenzied 10-year span — turned malarial swamp into Cigar City. All the locks, stocks and beer barrels in Ybor City had been his doing — from the cigar fac-tory to the bank, to the brick fac-
Recently discovered papers detail the grand beginnings of the family’s cigar and beer legacy.
Accounting for Ybor’s true value
. See MARTINEZ-YBOR, 6E
A new girl in a red poncho learns an early lesson about fitting in. 6E
tampabay.com/features Sunday, January 2, 2011
Pop Life: One more Top 10 list: best singles of 2010. PAGE 2E • Beware: Angry Birds is deceptively simple, devilishly addictive. PAGE 4E
ST. PETERSBURG
I n 1977, when I was new in town, I saw a giant on the downtown pier. He lurched out of the dark toward the bait house like Frankenstein’s tormented monster. At first I thought he was 8 feet tall. On second glance he seemed only slightly smaller. Towering over the pier rail-
ing, he hurled a spear into Tampa Bay with a mighty grunt.An instant later he tore a flopping fish from the prongs of the spear as
if he intended to devour it raw. Instead he tossed the plate-sized prey into a shopping cart that carried his meager belongings. He seemed more feral than human and walked with a hor-rific limp. As he vanished into the night a chill ran up my spine.
“Who’s that?” I asked the bait monger.“Slim,” he whispered from the doorway.“Slim who?”“Just Slim.”The bait monger didn’t know his real name. Nobody
I talked with in the following weeks did either, even though Slim had been a waterfront icon for generations.
But they had stories. Slim is a nice enough guy, some-one told me, but he has a bad side. He is the best fisherman on the pier, more than one person said. Slim is a bum who sleeps under the pier, Slim has no friends, Slim limps because of an old bullet wound in the hip, Slim hates tourists — watch out, he’s quick with a knife.
Everyone seemed to have stories about Slim without really knowing him. From anecdotes and hearsay they had constructed a life history.
A few weeks later, I had another chance to talk to the giant himself.I saw him on the pier around twilight, pushing his shopping cart with his
left hand while carrying his spear in his right. He leaned over the water, let fly and roped in a corpulent striped fish, a sheepshead.
My notebook and I stepped into his path.
A curiosity born 33 years ago still dogs a reporter to this day: Who was that giant of a man catching fish at the St. Petersburg Pier?
Lure of the unknownPhoto courtesy of JoAnn Mendenhall
Many people knew of the towering man named Slim who frequented the St. Petersburg Pier downtown for about four decades, hauling in fish with a spear, a hand line and a casting net. But, a reporter wonders, did anyone actually know the man?
LARA CERRI | Times
Jimmy Kelley, 76, recalls that his father used to allow Slim to sleep in the bait house on the Pier from time to time.. See SLIM, 3E
JEFF KLINKENBERGReal Florida
BY DREW HARWELLTimes Staff Writer
The honey buns enter lockup the same way anyone else does: bound, escorted through halls and sally ports, and
secluded in small boxes solely opened from the outside. From there the honey buns languish for days, maybe longer, until they’re gone.
They are a lowly, sturdy food designed for des-perate cravings and vending machine conve-nience. They can endure weeks of neglect and even a mild mashing in a coat pocket or back-pack. They are, it should come as no surprise, especially beloved by a similarly hardy but disre-spected population: Florida’s prison inmates.
Inmates in the Florida prison system buy 270,000 honey buns a month. Across the state, they sell more than tobacco, envelopes and cans of Coke. And they’re just as popular among Tampa Bay’s county jails. In Pasco’s Land O’Lakes Detention Center, they’re outsold only by freeze-dried coffee and ramen noodles.
Not only that, these honey buns — so puffy! — have taken on lives of their own among the criminal class: as currency for trades, as bribes for favors, as relievers for stress and substitutes for addiction. They’ve become birthday cakes, hooch wines, last meals — even ingredients in a massive tax fraud.
So what is it about these little golden glazed snacks? Is it that they’re cheap, which is big, since the prisoners rely on cash from friends and family? That their sugary denseness could stop a speeding bullet? That they’re easy, their mise en place just the unwrapping of plastic? What gives?
Maybe considering the honey bun can help us understand life behind bars.
• • •
Jailhouse cuisine is a closely calculated sci-ence.
A day’s meals inside the mess hall must be hearty enough to meet the 2,750-calorie count, healthy enough to limit fat and sodium, easy enough for prison cooks to prepare and cheap enough to meet the state’s average grocery bill — about $1.76 per inmate per day.
With all criteria met, meals behind bars achieve an impressive level of mediocrity. The portions are reasonable, the nutritional content adequate, the taste ordinary, the presentation dull, the blandness as inescapable as the facili-ties themselves. The meals are made to guaran-tee very little except survival.
Problem inmates don’t have it any easier. Their punishment: “special management meals” of Nutraloaf, a tasteless lump of carrots, spinach and grits that resembles a sad fruitcake.
In slammer, honey buns sweeten the situationFor a variety of reasons, inmates develop a passion for the prepackaged pastries.
BRENDAN FITTERER | Times
A Zephyrhills Correctional Institution inmate picks up his canteen purchases — four honey buns and three packs of cigarettes.
. See HONEY BUNS, 5E
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