The Martin House

Returning from Apalachicola yesterday, crossing the narrow strip on Business 98 that divides Parker from Millville, and Lake Martin from St. Andrew Bay, we passed the Martin House on the hill where it has stood since before memory. It was the home of the Martin family. My third and fifth grade teacher, Miss Ruth Martin lived there with her brother Will Martin, and perhaps another single sister, whose name escapes me. There was a sister, Catherine Martin. They were members of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, and the sisters came regularly, but Mr. Will was never seen at church, only perhaps glimpsed elusively at the House. 

One of the Martin sisters was married to Mr. Wills. He and his family, and the Wills boys, Richard and his brother, were active at St. Andrew’s as acolytes and members of the youth group. But the Martin House was home to the unmarried remnant.

Once a year, Miss Martin took her class to the house for an Easter Egg Hunt. The immense property with many shade trees was perfect for it, and it was a day of fun. At the close of the school year the class helped decide whether the End of Year Party would be at the beach or at Indian Bluff, and we may once have gone to the Martin House again for that.

We were not allowed inside the House. Don’t even think about it. Discussing how the restroom need was addressed, at least for the boys, does not need to profane the Sabbath. 

Miss Martin was a strict, stern teacher who sensed when my homework had not been done and took sinister delight in calling on me in class. A person of the essence of the word spinster, her attention and gaze were to be avoided at all costs, most especially at school, but also at the House, and even at church although my grandparents and the Martin family were long years friends. My joy and relief at finishing third grade at Cove School was beyond description, especially as come September we were going into dear Mrs. Watson’s fourth grade. However, my year with Dante began the instant, first day of school September 1945, walking into the classroom to see Miss Martin behind the desk: she had been shifted from third grade to fifth. Fifth grade Inferno was even more fiery than third.

A star in Miss Martin’s crown was that whenever the city dogcatcher and his truck were seen circling Cove School, she sent me out to the playground to bring my dog Happy inside and put him in the cloakroom.

There’s a baptismal font in St. Anne’s Chapel at Holy Nativity, dedicated to Miss Ruth Martin. The memorial plaque surprised me: as our teacher, she was in her fifties, not into her late nineties as we had assumed.

TW