LIVING HISTORY
85
REMEMBERING
BUSTER A nurseryman recalls the days when he
built a chickee with the Seminole who was
the last to dwell in one on the Treasure Coast
Idon’t remember exactly how I met
Buster Tommie, but it was in the
early 1980s and it undoubtedly had
to do with chickees. Buster lived in one
at the Tommie family camp on Midway
Road about a mile west of the I-95 exit
and I wanted a chickee built on my property,
which was less than 2 miles from
Buster’s.
My plan was to build one for posterity’s
sake and to record the process. I
recall driving into Buster’s camp, with
his family dogs announcing my arrival.
Buster, who spoke broken English, was
happy to assist with my construction
plans for a price of which I was happy to
pay.
Buster’s first order of business was to
correct my Creek mispronunciations.
Although everywhere I read or heard
that an indigenous Seminole home is a
“chickee,’’ Buster sternly and proudly
shared that the correct pronunciation
was “chi-goo.’’ He continued my lesson
by telling me that Yeehaw Junction
should actually be pronounced “yah
haw,’’ not the cowbody-sounding “yeehaw’’
and that ya haw was the Seminole
word for wolf. I thought maybe he
meant coyote because I was not aware
that Florida ever had native wolves. I
further pondered the possibility that
Buster might have been pulling my leg.
When invited into Buster’s chickee, I
couldn’t help but think how difficult it
must have been to live there, with no airconditioner
or fan and no mosquito netting
to fight bugs. His only nod to
modernity seemed to be chicken wire he
arranged around his four cypress
uprights to keep critters out. Besides a
well and a pump in the middle of the
camp, I could find no other essentials we
all take for granted.
By the time I visited Buster’s family
camp, only about three or four chickees
remained, each about 20 feet apart. Each
open-air lodge was about 18 by 16 and
stood about 12-feet high at the peek,
with the traditional raised platform
about 4 feet high in the interior middle,
which served as living room and bedroom.
While building my chickee, I picked
up Buster on Saturday mornings. Buster
didn’t drive. Our first weekend was
spent locating a dense native bald
cypress hammock in a friend’s ranch to
select tall, thin and straight specimens
about 8-10 inches at the base. The stouter
bottom would create the main corner
poles and the thinner ends made up the
structure’s connecting cross beams. We
got the materials back to our construction
site, and Buster showed me how to
swing a machete to skin the small
branches and bark off the hammock
hardwoods so termites would not
destroy it later.
After erecting the cypress poles, our
next task was to collect the roofing materials
— native green fronds from cabbage
palms. We traveled to another
friend’s ranch and along the way Buster
pointed out the general area of Seminole
burial grounds. He wouldn’t disclose
exactly where his ancestors were buried,
but he indicated that he still walked several
miles there to remember and honor
them. Buster lamented that the burial
ground was now on private property
and he could not understand how people
could “own’’ land. “How far down
and how high up could they own?’’ he
asked rhetorically.
I was surprised at the amount of
fronds we needed for the roof. It took at
least four truckloads one day and a
return on another weekend to fulfill the
required quota. When attaching the roofing
materials, Buster showed me how
the first and bottom row went down
with a special fold and how tightly
together the rest lined up. Each frond
was evenly spaced and lined up vertically
about three inches apart. The frond
stalks are connected to 4- to 6-inch thick
cypress crossbeams and overlap the row
below with each new row above.
Job done, we both stood admiring our
completed work. To me it looked perfect,
but I sensed he saw a few imperfections
he wasn’t happy about. Buster told me
the thatched roof would last for five to
seven years before needing to be
replaced, but the cypress framework
would last for many years.
After the chickee project, I returned to
Buster’s camp several times. On one occasion,
I gave him a gift and he returned the
favor, sauntering out to his garden to pick
the choicest tomatoes he had grown.
Buster’s life at the camp did not continue
much longer after our time together,
as the property that was promised to
his Seminole princess mother was taken
away by lawyers when the land’s value
became too great. Buster later moved to
the Brighton Reservation and lived in
traditional housing. He died a few years
ago. The thought of him living within
the confines of four walls was a disturbing
one.
Gary Roberts is a former columnist for The
Tribune and is the owner of Gary Roberts
Nursery & Landscape in Fort Pierce.