Collected and edited by Lucy Doll, early Athens supporter and former DeLand resident

The Athens Theatre is one of the few existing examples of classic American theater in Central Florida. Once the centerpiece of DeLand, the Athens Theatre is a jewel of Italian Renaissance architecture. This historic theater was designed in 1921 by prominent Orlando architect Murry S. King and first opened its doors on January 6th, 1922. On January 5th, 1922, the eve of the theater's opening, the DeLand Daily News declared the Athens to be 'Florida's Handsomest Theater” and “a gem of architecture.” Constructed primarily by DeLand craftsmen and laborers, the facility embodied the very best in design, construction, decoration and equipment. The theater's name was derived from the vision of DeLand's founder, Henry DeLand, who sought to create a city that would be the “Athens of Florida.”

During the Depression, “the Athens Theatre was the only entertainment people could afford,” recounted DeLand historian Bill Dreggors. “The DeLand Amusement Corporation charged only nine cents (for children) because if it was a dime they'd have to pay the state entertainment tax,” he said. Later, promotions with RC Cola allowed patrons to enter free with six RC bottle caps.

Originally a vaudeville house and silent movie palace, the Athens Theatre featured live stage shows by touring performers, as well as films of the day that were often accompanied by the theater's Wurlitzer Pipe Organ. Once the entertainment centerpiece of West Volusia County, the showplace evolved through the decades from a vaudeville theater, to a movie house, a place for community theater and prom parties, a dinner theater, a video game room, a restaurant, a pizza, beer and movie house, and a teen night spot. Dozens remember it as the site of their first date, first kiss, and even as the place to go for a midnight matinee after the high school prom. After a renovation in the 1950's, the building deteriorated and eventually closed in the early 1990's.

In 1993, recognizing the vital part played by The Athens Theatre in downtown DeLand's heritage, MainStreet DeLand Association spearheaded the effort of community leaders and residents to restore the theater to its original splendor. In December, 1994, with the help of a Florida Bureau of Historic Preservation Matching Grant, MainStreet purchased the Athens Theatre for the people of DeLand. Ownership was transferred July, 2004 to Sands Theater Center, Inc. With its programming expertise and facilities management experience, The Sands Theater can provide a constructive community-wide purpose for the Athens, while gaining much-needed space for public programs in an historic venue in downtown Deland.

Sands Theater Center is proud to represent the Athens in its restoration efforts. We have provided performing arts and theater programming, with an emphasis on education and quality entertainment for more than two decades, and are excited by the opportunities this important historic landmark will offer to the residents and visitors to our area.

The grassroots involvement with the Athens Theatre restoration which began in the early 1990's is a direct result of public memory and community identity. For over seventy years, the Athens was the social and entertainment center for this area. Oral history 'memories' have been documented and collected from the Vaudeville era of the 1920's to the Athens' dinner theater days of the late seventies. The importance of the Athens in the lives of these 'historians' is undeniable as the theater served as a backdrop for their lives and the events that shaped the Twentieth Century from the Great Depression and World War ll, to the decades of change which followed. The stories link the Athens not only with Volusia County's history, but to the evolution of entertainment and “show business,” and to issues of greater cultural significance such as race and class stratification.

Keith Allen (1997)

The first movie I ever saw in Florida was at the Athens—The Incredible Journey, maybe 1963.

We lived in Daytona Park Estates; somebody would drop off a carload ofus neighbor kids. When the first Batman movie came out in 1966, I saw it along with The Man from U.N.C.L.E. In summer, they hda fun shows, Wednesday or Thursday mornings—Tarzan, Fitzwilly with Dick Van Dyke. The kids would be wild...couldn't hear the movie. There'd be contests, people would come up to the front...once to see who could drink a bottle of soda the fastest. I could have won if it had been Mountain Dew, which I loved, but I always got Coke or Pepsi, and couldn't do it. Where the city hall annex is now, they used to have a fire truck the kids would play on. I remember the vending machine with tiny cups of RC Cola; first the cup would drop down, then the ice, then the soda. I saw The Reluctant Astronaut with Don Knotts. Saw my first R-rated movie there—The Godfather. My mother took me. Dad took me to my second R-rated movie, Walking Tall. I liked it when you could eat and drink theer. I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show there with three friends. One guy was drinking a lot of beer. Halfway through the movie, he suddenly piped up with “ROCK AND ROLL WILL NEVER DIE!”, then he passed out.

Hazel Allison (1995)

I was born in Lake County and raised in Pierson. Pearl Clark, who still lies in Pierson, would give us kids chores to do. As a reward, on Sundays she'd bundle us all up and ake us to the Athens in DeLand. Once Sunday, we were at her house when the radio said Pearl Harbor had been bombed. Later, we were watching the movie and Joe Fleishel stopped it and walked out on stage to tell us that Roosevelt had declared war on the Japanese. Back then people sat in the boxes. The ushers were the law; nobody would disturb others like they get away with today. Our son is a DeLand Police Commander, Steve Edwards. When he was real little, we took him to the Athens, but he wanted to sit by himself. Suddenly, it seemed he disappeared, and then everybody saw this shadow running back and forth across the screen. Joe tried to catch him, but they went back and forth for several minutes before he caught him. The audience roared.

Jim Armstrong (1995)

I remember a New Year's Eve midnight movie. The place was full. All of us kids were up in the balcony as usual. There were two guys in the first row of the balcony. One of them started in with, “Ooh, I think I'm getting sick!” Then, “Yechh!” They poured a can of vegetable soup onto rows below. People were running for the doors. There was lots of making out going on up in the balcony. I remember some of the stage shows; saw Eddie Arnold there; he was sort of the Garth Brooks of his generation. They used to have talent shows. I remember when I was 8 or 9 getting up on stage singing “It's a Most Unusual Day” from a Jane Powell movie. The westerns, serials and “B” class movies played at the Dreka. I remember the remodeling of the Athens' outside in the 50's. Don't know who figure up there is, that came later. Probably Indiana Jones.

Jerry Frierson (1995)

I also remember the New Year's Eve midnight movie. It was a bowl full of beer & vegetable soup. Some kids were shushing the two boy, others were egging them on. After they poured it down, people downstairs were throwing up in the aisles, others running for the doors. Won't mention names. Not my crowd. One still lives in DeLeon Springs. The other one moved to Smithfield, Va. We used to get apple cider in half gallon jugs. Mother would make burlap or flour sack bags with snaps on them, the jugs fit right in; we'd sneak it in so we wouldn't have to pay for the fountain drinks. The front of the theater was just covered with bikes. Tommy Lawrence and I rode motor scooters; had mine since I was 14. Spent every weekend at the Athens. The seat cushions were made of excelsior. We'd tear it out of the seats and drop it on somebody below, they'd think it was a bug or spider landing on them. My past haunts me; Im kind of known for it. They used to have a bouncer; football player from Stetson. Bunch of us would get into trouble up in the balcony. Once he was dragging me downstairs even though I hadn't really done anything. I hollered at a friend, “get him!” My friend jumped on the bouncer and all 3 of us went rolling down 2 flights of stairs. Eventually the bouncer got fired. Mrs. Trezise was the ticket lady. There was one family everybody knew didn't have any moneyl they couldn't afford tickets for all of them. Every week they'd come to the Athens. The father would buy a ticket and go in. The family would wait for him in the park across the street. When the show was over, he'd come over to them and they'd gather around and he'd tell the the story in the movie.

Richard Barnes (1997)

I remember the movies of silly races with bikes or wheelbarrows with numbers say from 1 to 8. You'd get a ticket with a number on it, and if your number in the screen race won, you'd get a free admission or a soda; once a year maybe they'd give away a bike. There weren't necessarily rigged, but the guys handing out the numbers knew what number was going to win, so they'd give the winning number to friends. Doug Wishart used to give me my winning number, more than a couple times. I remember watching movies and bats would be flying around inside the theater. I was afraid they were going to try to swoop down and suck my blood. I was 13 or so. I worked there on Saturday mornings, loading ice and popcorn, which were kept behind the screen. Once a huge chunk of plaster fell from the bottom of the balcony into the orchestra section. Nobody was hurt; it fell on empty seats. In junior high, two of us on cue would go out the side doors just to white out the screen. Old man Schultz would rip the tickets. He always looked mean, glowering at us probably just so we'd behave.

Bob Brown (1995)

My family owned and operated the Putnam Hotel behind the Athens for 3 generations. At the hotel's east entrance, a walkway went right down to the Athens on Florida Avenue. They always had in the hotel's lobby an Athens display for the guests. The Athens was the only theater in town for years; you'd see everybody there. Before Joe Fleishel was the manager, Frank Bell was. If you didn't meet everybody you knew at the Athens, you'd meet them at the Post Office, which was right across the street, on Indiana. I grew up in the house that still sits behind the theater. Family sold it 11 years ago. Very rundown now, sad. Actors stayed at the Putnam, but there weren't that many plays, mostly movies. Sometimes they'd sneak in; somebody'd go in and buy a ticket, go in and up to the balcony and open the north door to let others in. Our family used to get a discount because of the hotel lobby display. Athens was a super nice theater. Knew everybody then. Remember when my senior class in high school had an all-star review there; whole school participated, Melvin Hibbs in particular was a very talented thespian, had lots of ideas; not sure he's still around.

Helen Coble (1995)

I played there once; don't remember which show—toured with lots of shows. The orchestra sat in the front row because the pit wasn't large enough. I was a dancer. We stayed at the Putnam. Always had good crowds. But I didn't save any ads or posters. I toured with different shows. People were glad to have live shows then, in the 30's. I remember when I stayed at the Putnam someone gave me a box of citrus candy. I had it on the dresser and the ants ate it. I ht the road right out of high school in Chicago . We'd get Billboard magazine, scanned cast lists. I went out on my own, but always made friends real fast. When I was with Larry Rich's show (Buddy Rich's father) they had 12 dancers. Most shows had 6 or 8 girls in the chorus and a prima dona singer. The Nicholas Brothers were tap-dancing black kids. I married a musician who played alto, tenor and baritone sax & clarinet. When I was pregnant with our first daughter, we decided not to have a stage brat, to raise a normal kid. So I quit. His parents were from Indiana, but had a home in Lake Helen. We lived in it after WW II, after doing defense work.

Suzanne Neider Connery (1997)

We used to sneak our friends into the Athens. One of us would buy a ticket, then let 2 or 3 more in the side door. Then we splurged at the candy counter. My daughter Debbie went to the same pre-school as Tommy Fleishel—Mrs. Davis' out on East New York. He was her first love; they were 3 or 4 years old.

Dr. Gerald Critoph (1995)

I've lived here since 1959. I performed in the 3 plays the Athens did as dinner theater in the summer of 1978. They opened in May with Teahouse of the August Moon; I played Mr. Oshira. John Evans' daughter was in it, but didn't want anyone to know she was his daughter, afraid people'd think she got the part because she was. We opened in June with The Solid Gold Cadillac. Summer and Smoke played in July and we started rehearsing for Lil Abner. Tom Smith, chef at the Putnam restaurant, used to sneak over to the Athens to do his scenes between duties. We did 7 or 8 performances a week for a month and got $75 a week. Financial difficulties closed it down. Mistakes were made: they put serving tables upstairs; it was too hard for older folks to go up and down with plates full. Food was excellent at first. Actors got supper at discount or free. Dressing rooms a disaster down in the basement below stage. Actors moved their own set pieces and props. Food began to deteriorate in July; the last week they served wieners and beans.

Clarence “Bo” Davenport (1998)

My uncle, Robert Wyche, Sr. worked for Joe Fleishel for the Athens and the Dreka. Cleaned both, at night. I helped and so did Bobby, Robert, Jr., my cousin. So did Virginia, my aunt, and a couple of the neighborhood kids, about 3 times a week. But Bobby, Sr. was there every night. We knew Lefty Gateman, the projectionist—good friend of mine, real liberal guy. We'd come by and holler up at him and he'd let us in the fire escape. Every once in a while they would open the Athens up to the elite blacks of the city for special movies. The teachers, the educators. They'd go up to the balcony. Song of the South was the last one I remember, with Uncle Remos; a family type musical. Gone With The Wind was also opened up for the blacks. Athens was always for the elite. The Dreka was more for the roughshod. Sometimes there'd be groups across the street, young roughnecks would heckle us. Uncle and Joe Fleishel were off to the service at the same time. Worked together at theaters after coming home. We went to the drive-ins and the Washington (Theater). Stayed away from the Athens, as they didn't really want us there. At Washington, we saw the same “B” movies as at the Dreka. I was born in Red City, on East Arizona Avenue. It was the area between Minnesota and Wisconsin, Garfield and Amelia. Another black community was Africa, bordered by Woodland and Amelia, and Ohio and Wisconsin. There used to be a little store, beer garden there and two or three businesses along by the railroad tracks. My uncle lived at 417 E. Ohio. The house is still there. We'd walk to the theater. Nobody had bikes back then. Saturday mornings they always had cartoons. We were not allowed to participate in the contests. But it got to the point where people realized we worked there, so they didn't say too much. Occasionally Tom (Fleishel) would come down with his dad, but he was a stay-at-home sort of kid. The Wright family built the Washington Theater in 1928. There were some real liberal whites who would do things silently to help poor black families. My granddaddy, Cornelious Cook, learned from Lue Gim Gong how to graft and bud orange trees. He had sharecropped in Georgia, but always wanted to work for himself. All these families worked for the white families to get the basics they needed, then went into business for themselves. I can remember the 40's when my grandfather bought his own equipment. He had no money, but promised to pay for it when he could, and he did. Worked for all the big grove owners. I'd write up what they owed him, and go and collect. I serviced his tractor. At age 11, I could rebuild his tractor. He'd be sitting on the stump telling me what to do. He only went through 3rd grade, but he could outcount you faster than a calculator.

Corky Dannals (1998)

When I was just a grammar school girl, the most glamorous thing was to go see Naughty Marietta, with Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald. There wasn't much to do on a Friday night except go to the movies. I dated an usher, Ray Denham. He'd see me to my seat and bring me popcorn. He was good friends with J.C. Bradley and Russell Nahm. There were all two years older than I. After the show, we went to a drive-in on North Boulevard called Georgia Boys...curb service. We'd have hamburgers and chocolate milk. That was a big Friday night in DeLand in 1940-43. By '42 and '43, the fellows had all gone into the service. A big thing in the movies was the newsreel. Showed a lot of the fighting; brought it home, because you didn't get many pictures in the paper and of course there wasn't television. Brought it very close—ships being blown up and that sort of thing. For a long time a bowling alley was next to the Athens. If people had money and time, they would go bowling after school. Don't remember its name. Not that many people owned cars' a lot of kids rode their bikes. You made your own amusements. Going into the service was exciting for the guys. I couldn't wait to get out of DeLand. Was away for 35 year, and back back 16 years ago.

Bill Dreggors (1995)

I've lived here all my life. My earliest memory of the Athens was seeing a silent film with my family—something about salmon fishing in Alaska, maybe with Noah Beery and Henry Fonda. My sister read the subtitles for me. I was madly in love with Shirley Temple. Folks used Athens as babysitter, sometimes theater would close before parents picked up children, who would sit on sidewalk waiting. Remember lots of Nelson Eddy and Jeannette MacDonald. Ziegfield Follies of '35, '36, '37, '38 etc. Ira Gershwin, Don Ameche and Alice Faye in something about the Chicago fire. War pictures with John Wayne. Crosby, Kelly, Sinatra. Sailors in from Navy Base (DeLand Naval Air Station) would take local girls. Saw Sally Rand on stage fan dancing. I was 10 at most. Thought I'd died and went to heaven. Was embarrassed to death, never saw anything like that. Was scared to look up, afraid somebody'd notice me noticing her. But lots of older guys were whistling and hollering. Saw Gypsy Rose Lee at fairgrounds about the same time. Remember it was Vaudeville into mid-1930's. During the depression, every Wednesday was Dish Night. They drew ticket stubs for a set of dishes. Tickets were 9 cents. If they charged 10 cents, they'd have to pay entertainment tax. Guy named Marsh was the projectionist at the Athens. The had girls selling the popcorn and peanuts. Boys were ushers. Pop Kline set up a pushcart under a tree in the park (where there new County Administration Building is now) to sell peanuts to people heading for the Athens. That cart would sit there day and night, nobody ever bothered it. He did that into the mid-50's. Kids' bikes were always left out front, never locked up' they were always still there when you came out.

Wayne Dreggors (1995)

The Athens was my after-school care program. Mom worked at the courthouse 'til 4:30, so I went to the Athens right after school at Dempsey Brewster 'til she picked me up. It cost 25 or 30 cents to get in. I remember there were double features Sunday through Wednesday; new releases Thursday through Saturday. It was either Ben Hur or The Ten Commandments that was the first movie that ever played for a whole week. The last movie shown there before it was turned into a dinner theater was Young Frankenstein.

Roberta Morris Duvall (1997)

I've lived here since 1926. The Athens would hire professional directors from out of town to direct the locals in plays. I remember Here Comes Arabella. Ibby Acree played Arabella. I was in it, with a group of dancing girls, during junior high. We'd wear organdy dresses and parasols decorated with crepe paper. In one, I walked away at the wrong time, and one of the other girls, in the loudest whisper you ever heard, said “HEY RO! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?“ I was so embarrassed. That's how the directors made their livings, and proceeds would benefit the Junior Welfare League or the Women's Club. In one, Dick Branham played Tarzan. He came running down the aisle with Judy Brown as Jane over his shoulder. He was a Stetson student. In another play, I remember Elizabeth Roberts played Gloria Swanson and Margaret Cheatham Pederson was Joan Crawford. The Athens closed for a period of time when I was in grade school; then we all went to the Dreka. There were plays there, too. The Athens reopened when I was in high school. A lot of Stetson boys were ushers in fancy uniforms. Of course we had Bank Night. During the Depression, to get people to come, they'd have games like Lotto or Bingo; gave you a card when you went in. During intermission, they'd call out numbers and you'd mark your card. I never won anything but they'd give away what we now call Depression glass. I remember movies with Clara Bow, and my favorite, Dolores Costello in The Magnificent Ambersons. Andy Hardy movies with Mickey Rooney. Going to the Athens was about all there was to do if you had a date. We'd stop by the Courthouse Pharmacy for a Coke; they even had curb service. It went out of existence about 1939-40, or during the war. I graduated from Stetson in 1939. I remember with amazement that in 7th or 8th grade I went to the picture show alone at night. I lived on East New York across from what was the College Arms Hotel. I had a friend who lived on South Florida across from City Hall. We walked right through town at night, never though a thing about it. Later, dropping my own kids off at the Athens, I knew they'd be all right there. I used to have tons of scrapbooks with all the Athens programs in them. It broke my heart to have to throw them out when I moved.

Mike Dye (1996)

I've lived in DeLand since I was 6; I'm now 31. On my first date--I was 8 or 9--I took Cindy Gamble to the Athens. Our parents had to drag us off. In the early 70's we went to see cartoons and Tarzan movies on Saturdays. They'd wheel out a bicycle on stage and the holder of the lucky ticket stub won it. I never won the bike, but I did win popcorn or free tickets. Kids are different now—you couldn't leave them alone. I work for the Sheriff's Department. In the 80's they served food at the Athens; after work it was nice to go there to eat and watch a movie.

James Fisher, CSP (1996)

The first movie I ever saw, as best I can remember, was The Last Days of Pompeii. I was about six (in 1934) and my chief memory of the movie was a scene of games in a stadium surmounted by an enormous statue of a muscular god. The sign of imminent destruction of the city was when the statue started to shake and the people panicked as it fell over on them.I think there were some Christians about to be thrown to the lions. Naturally, they escaped. (This was Hollywood in the days of the Hays Code and the Legion of Decency.) Growing up in the Depression, I grew up in an era of great movies. They were relatively cheap to produce and they took people's minds off their miseries. For a child, one small dime was a silver token to guide him into enchanted mysteries in the dark cave of the theater, as Greeks were once inducted into Eleusinian mysteries. Only the most insensate could ever forget the experience.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs captivated me in 1937 from the first moment the great book opened and I read “Once upon a time...” I sat through it twice and have seen it 44 times since then—including twice in Italian-dubbed versions—without ever being sated or dry-eyed when the Prince comes to her crystal coffin to lift her up and take her home. Only years later did i realize I was seeing the Gospel in its many disguises. E.T. (which I did not see at the Athens) was another such experience. So was Forrest Gump. But it is Snow White that I keep returning to. 1939 was perhaps the greatest year for American movies. Gone With The Wind thrilled me to no end, though I kept rooting for the South to win. I fell in love with Olivia De Haviland as a virtuous woman and with Scarlett O'Hara's mother as a strong woman. Scarlett I saw as the selfish hussy she was. Again, I was enchanted with the opening credits—the view of Tara and the strains of the incredibly lovely theme. I think that Marie Antoinette came out that same year and the loveliness of Norma Shearer kept me praying for the movie to have a different ending. What a raft of talent was in that movie! Besides Miss Shearer, there was Robert Morley, Tyrone Power, and Joseph Schildkraut—splendid actors all. In 1941, the Athens was one of the few theaters lucky enough to show Citizen Kane, before RKO shelved it in deference to the famed publisher William Randolph Hearst, on whose life iw was—in thin disguise—based. Though only thirteen, I had the sense of seeing a new kind of movie and only regret I could not see it again. Maybe when the Athens is restored, it can bring the movie back as an inaugural event. Ironically, 42 years after seeing the movie, I baptized Heart's great-granddaughter and got invited to San Simeon.

Around 1943 I saw Dragonwyck with a friend and remember how a remark by Gene Tierney to Vincent Price generated a theological argument between us. Besides the movies impressed on my memory by being seen at the Athens, there are other scenes I recall there as well. One occurred around 1939, as I took my accustomed seat (back row because I was farsighted and next to the aisle because I didn't want to stumble over people if I needed to visit the restroom). I was conscious of a lady being ushered into the seat just across the aisle. She was an imposing figure in pearls and a fur boa and she walked a bit gimpily with the help of a silver-headed cane. I don't remember who sat with her, but the majesty of the caned lady's bearing told me that this was someone worth knowing. Before the movie began, I somehow contrived to strike up a conversation across the gap between us. That conversation would lead to an enduring friendship with Katherine Nahm, one of the few women to whom I could apply sincerely the term grande dame. Only later was I to discover that she was my fourth cousin twice removed. Also, my first date was with her daughter, Mary Lou. Where did we go on that date? Why, to the Athens, of course. However, the experience of entering upon a male rite of passage completely blotted from my mind the title of the movie we saw.

Newsreels and especially documentaries like The March of Time acquainted me with the wider world and set me to worrying about what would happen if the Axis powers actually won the War. By 1944, that worry was fading as American victories were chronicled by intrepid cinematographers on a dozen battlefronts. One vivid memory is that of a woman running screaming from the theater as a newsreel depicted a Japanese soldier set aflame by American napalm running in panic from this bunker. That woman made me realize that not all people welcomed the mayhem of the good guys with quite the enthusiasm of an American adolescent male. Not that I realized I was an adolescent. Once, at 13, annoyed by some giggly girls behind me, I came home and declaimed to my sister, a senior at Stetson, “These adolescent girls make me sick. I'm glad I'm past my adolescence.” Memories, memories, O Athens, that you conjure up for me. Don't fade from sight!

Bill Flowers (1997)

When I was little, we couldn't afford to go to the Athens; it cost 25 or 30 cents. Until 7th or 8th grade, we went to the dime movie at the Dreka—cowboys, cartoons. After the war, people had a little more money to spend, so there were little jobs you could pick up—cut lawns, do some handy work, sell some catfish. I'd guide for the guys from the DeLand Naval Air Station. I also sold a newspaper called “Grit”. It was probably a nickel, a tabloid. From about 8th grade through senior year, I'd take Irene Ward to the Athens. We petted and broke up, petted and broke up, off and on. I don't remember any of the movies. She's Bill Dreggors' wife now. In summertime, I'd come to town a few nights a week in my daddy's car, a '41 Chevy. I'd cruise in front of the Athens and the drive-in restaurants. The Sugar Top was one; there was another one on South Boulevard—hell's bells, I can't remember the name of it. I got my own car in 1948, a '33 Pontiac straight 8. It came with a homemade paint job. I painted it volunteer green metallic.

Ann Bell Floyd (1995)

My dad was Frank Bell. The Athens was built as an opera house in 1921. Dad came in 1927. At that time DeLand only had the Dreka Theater. The Sparks Theater Co. bought the Athens and hired my dad to wire it for sound. We had the first talking picture in DeLand. Carl Reynolds says it was The Jazz Singer with Al Jolson. No more silent films. I remember Gene Austen, whose hit was My Blue Heaven. Sally Rand, Tom Mix and his horse. The projectionists were Lefty Gateman, Red Dyer and Freddy Marsh. They're all dead now. On Bank Night we'd have a drawing where somebody could win up to $100 with their ticket stub. Once a month, there'd be a cooking school for the ladies of the town. Frierson's used to put stoves up on the stage for the lessons. It was free. The Elks Club would have minstrel shows, Dad would let them use the theater for free. On Dish Night, they'd give away whole sets of dishes, also drawing a ticket stub. Dad trained Joe Fleishel, who became his assistant manager. Dad was born in Jackson, TN and started working in theaters when he was 14. He moved to Atlanta and worked at the Fox Theater until Sparks Theater Co. sent him to DeLand in 1927. Sparks sold out to Florida State Theaters, which was in essence owned by Paramount. When mom and dad were divorced in '39 or '40, dad went to Ft. Meyers, then Lakeland, then St. Pete, where he was District Manager. He retired in the early 70's. He was a theater manager his whole life.

Before he remodeled the theater for sound in the 30's, there was a large pipe organ in there. He donated it to Trinity Methodist, where it stayed until they traded it in for a new one, recently, I think. I used to go in the storeroom behind Dad's office and haul out the old billboards; kept them for a while. There were 2 offices, his and the one for the assistant manager and a bookkeeper. We lived out at University Terrace. For my birthday parties, Dad always arranged for a Shirley Temple picture, then we'd go to the house for cake and ice cream. Once, Dad got the idea to upholster the inside of the theater. Sparks said fine, if you can find somebody to do it. Mother did it all, burgundy red velvet with gold thread; Dad hired men to put it on the walls. She also made the curtain—a deep navy blue. Dad was a fanatic about the theater. He made the ushers come in early and scrape off the chewing gum under the seats. There used to be a half-wall between the back row of seat and the lobby. He used to stand back there. He always had a doorman and an usher with a flashlight to show you to your seats. Talkers were put out. Dad would tell them, “People paid their hard earned money to hear the movie, not you.” He didn't have to do that very long; word got around. I got caught once. I was about 5 or 6 years old. Little kids liked to run down the aisle, which slanted toward the screen. I thought Dad was in meeting in Orlando, so I thought, here's my chance. I ran down the aisle—right into my father's legs; he had come back early. He took me up to his office and he called mother to come get me. One day he called me at home and told me there was somebody at the theater to see me. Mother brought me down, and we went up to the office. His chair was turned, and he said, “They're sitting there in the chair.” I turned it around and there was a Shirley Temple doll. Wish Id' kept it. I saw one for sale recently for $900. Dad would get home about 10. Every week he'd go to Jacksonville to bid on the movies he wanted. Two men got it in their heads that he was taking money to Jacksonville. So one night, he was heading up 17 and there were two men laying head to head on the road; their heads at the center line, there feet out to the edges. The thought he would stop, but he floorboarded it. He said later he never saw anybody run so fast. Black people would buy their tickets at the box office, but then they had to go up the fire escape to get to the balcony, where part of it was partitioned off for them. The KKK came and told Dad that had to stop. This happened before they built the Washington Theater on Voorhis for the blacks. Early 30's maybe. When Sally Rand was here, I was real young. I was standing at the back of the theater with my mother and dad came up and took me and said he was going backstage for the finale. Miss Rand stood on stage with one fan up and one in front of her. She wasn't naked, she wore skintights. She moved the fan, and there I was in my beach pajamas holding her hand. My mother had a fit. Ina Ray Hutton and her All-Girl Orchestra played there once. Daddy convinced them to stay an extra night and play free for the Junior Welfare League Ball in the Putnam the next evening. Where they took the tickets there was sort of a bucket underneath with a handle. If they weren't going to have a drawing, they'd turn the handle and grind up the tickets.

Sally Rodes Ford (1995)

Joe Fleishel put in lots of extra hours opening for kids after the prom. Midnight show, then Kiwanis breakfast. Had a midnight show once a month. Kemp's donuts next door would stay open, too. Also the bowling alley, where Sid Taylor's office is now. Nancy Hogle worked for the radio station. On Saturday mornings she would interview kids at the Athens. Joe was also an artist; river scenes, bird dogs—he loved bird dogs. When I was little, it always made me mad that the nice black lady who took care of my grandmother wasn't allowed to take me there with her. Danny Gainin was in the baby beauty contest and WON! Only a year old, long brown ringlets and big brown eyes. 1933 maybe? Frank Ford's sister, Jean Ford Penrod, won the Miss DeLand.

Hazel Gateman (1996)

I was born in Savannah, Georgia. My family moved to DeLand when I was a toddler. Lefty was raised at the Methodist Children's Home in Enterprise. He was an artist. He'd draw cartoons and sell them to anybody who'd buy them; that's how he got money for his paints. I met him when I worked at Cowan's Clothing Store (where Betty Dreka's is now). I'd walk over to the taxi office for a ride home, and he'd be sitting there talking to the girls. He lived in Mrs. Leary's boarding house behind Fountain's. We dated for 5 years and got married in 1940 at Reverend Waldrup's house. Before we were married he took me to see Gone With The Wind.

After we were married, if I came to the Athens while he was working, he'd sit in the balcony with me until he had to do a changeover. He'd eat and sleep that movie house. But he didn't watch the movies; he'd build model trains while he was up there.

Frank Gould (1995)

When I was 13, my father and I took the train to Atlanta with Mr. Patterson (L.M. Patterson, the developer of the Athens) to pick up the first movies that were shown there. I also remember that Monso Tatum helped build the theater. He would load up a wheelbarrow with as many bricks as he could; he wanted to get big so he'd make Stetson's football team.

Larry McKelligan (1996)

My parents were Winny Rodes and Joseph McKelligan. I graduated from Deland High School in 1945 and had two years at Stetson. I took tickets at the Athens in 1943-44. We didn't have ushers then, really. I worked in the afternoons. I'd help an older person to a seat, but mostly stayed at the door. Sold candy, too. The older, middle-aged lady at the box office was a dear. She probably wasn't that old, but to me seemed ancient. I remember when people would be asking, “How many times have you seen Naughty Marietta?” It was THE movie to see then; it wasn't long before I'd seen it dozens of times. My only startling memory is when I was just a kid of 16. An elderly lady asked me if I could help her friend, who seemed to be in trouble. I went in and saw her slumped over in her seat. When I pulled her up I knew she was dead. I carried her into the ladies room. Joe came up and asked me if I was alright. I must have been green in the face. The newspaper merely said that so-and-so “passed away downtown”. I lived in New York for 40 years. My first memory of being here and alive was seeing Smilin' Through with Norma Shearer, Frederic March and Leslie Howard. I remember Miss Shearer in a white, hooped wedding gown, being shot at the altar. The boyfriend was aiming at the groom. I was at the Athens when FDR died. I remember Since You Went Away with Claudette Colbert, Jennifer Jones, Shirley Temple and Joseph Cotten; Honkey Tonk with Clark Gable and Lana Turner. I was very excited about that horrible marquee coming down.

Lauren Mickle (1995)

I was born here. I was the doorman for 2 years, '38 and '39. Before that, they used to have Bank Night and play Screeno. I remember they had the Major Bowles troupe there; he was Ted Mack's mentor. When it was hot, they'd open the big doors in the back and a fan would run. In the winter, there was a wood furnace we'd stoke with 5' timbers for steam heat. The janitor would feed the furnace during the day and until 8, then the doorman would do it. They used Stetson football players for ushers. They wore two-tone blue jackets with brass buttons and bow ties. The balcony was partitioned off and the black people sat on the south side. They weren't allowed downstairs.

Bobby Munshower (1996)

I'm 29. I liked the Summertime Fun Shows—there'd be a coupon in the paper for 25 cents. We'd save candy bar wrappers; once I won a Big Wheel. When I was 7 or 8 I made friends with the manager, Old Man Schultz; he always let me in for free.

Gary Munshower (1996)

I was an usher at the Athens in the early 50's. Old Man Healy was the assistant manager. Mrs. Healy sold tickets, my future wife Melanie Owen and Betty Folkman sold candy. Betty's dad Hal owned Pure Oil station on Florida and New York. He also drove a school bus. “Corny” (Cornelius VandeVoort) was the ticket taker. Keith Milheim is the one who poured the vegetable soup over the balcony rail. Shows were continuous from 1 o'clock on. Kids would sit through them over and over. The little kids always sat in the first six rows. There were 'prize boxes'--the tickets were numbered inside. On screen, there'd be an old black-and-white movie of a bike race; the winner's number would win for the child with that number on his ticket. I watched Bride of Frankenstein there. Smoking was allowed in the balcony; later it was allowed only in the lobby. The balcony was only open on Friday and Saturday. The downstairs was always at least three-quarters full. “Integrity” was the key word for Joe Fleishel. He wouldn't mince words. I loved him like a daddy. He kept a lot of kids from running away; kept them out of trouble. The home office in Jacksonville fired him; maybe they didn't like his frankness. His first concern was always the theater. He didn't want to show The Blackboard Jungle but the home office made the final decision. Fonda Mason took over after Joe left, about '62 or '63? Portly lady, masculine but very sweet. She also wanted to run a clean operation. Now, it's just 'can't it make money?” Back then, road shows charged a flast rate on the honor system—pay per view. For 'B' movies, you had to report the number of admissions and pay on that.

Up behind the right box (as you're facing the stage) was the ushers' dressing room—with wooden lockers. The uniform was dark blue with a light blue stripe up the sides of the pants. The coats were also dark blue, with a wide light blue cuff. Below that were the controls for the flats, curtain and lights. Off the left side of the stage was the 'letter room' where we kept the marquee letters. The second floor on that side was all ventilation equipment—a blower pulling air out of the theater. There were 10 speakers behind the screen and you could see the audience through the screen from the back. The screen could move up as needed. When it was back in place, the doorman and ushers 'framed' it with black velvet to fit it for a regular movie or CinemaScope. I think the balcony held between 180-210 people; the orchestra somewhere between 460 and 520. Under the stage were three dressing rooms and the 'drawing tables where we would letter our own signs--”Coming Soon” and that sort of thing. If somebody rolled something heavy over the stage floor above us, we'd be showered with grit. The ceiling was burgundy and gold. The brocade on the walls was gold with a fern leaf pattern. The proscenium was white or cream—the footlights highlighted it. To the side was a clock lighted in purple. For years, the sign on it said, “This Space Available”. The water fountain had a blue light bulb in it. The projectionist had his own 'crapper' with a tiny window in it so he could watch the movie from his seat. We used to come out of the booth through a window behind the facade and climb down a ladder that went to the top of the marquee. We could get down to the office that way. I'm one of the few people who have actually been up above the catwalk. The projection booth became the kitchen for the dinner theater that was here in the 1970's. The office was 3 rooms. The paperwork room, where we kept the 'six sheets' (movie posters) was under the balcony. The reel room was outside on the left. There'd be 3 reels in cases left there unlocked for Benton Brothers to pick up. Next to it, chained to the wall, was a ladder with a platform on wheels we'd move to the marquee to change letters. We had The Ten Commandments before Daytona Beach got it. Sold out every performance for two weeks. Florida State Theaters gave it to the Athens for a boost. Joe would have a couple of kids come down Saturday mornings, give them spray bottles and have them scrape the gum off the carpet, then give them free passes. Next door was Polly Cox's doughnut shop with apartments upstairs. Admission was 50 or 60 cents, 35 cents with a student pass. Even though everybody knew everybody, you still had to show your pass. Little kids called the Dreka Theater 'the stinky' because kids sitting in the front rows would urinate on the floor rather than miss part of a movie going to the restroom. Some kids used two sticks—one to keep the seat up one to keep rats off their feet. There were chrome window boxes all over town. We built a robot for The Forbidden Planet and Robert Battaglia got in it and walked around downtown. For Elvis Presley's Jailhouse Rock, we made a dummy Elvis and put him in a 'cell' on top of the marquee. We had heavy elastic attached to his hips. A windshield wiper motor made them shake. I went back to the Athens after years in the Navy. It was all changed; I felt like I didn't belong.

Melanie Munshower (1996)

I remember when Steve Kaplan set his pants on fire in the lobby. He was smoking a cigar when his parents came in, so he shoved it down into his pocket. After they went in, he did a two-step over to the water fountain to put the fire out. Betty Folkman and I had a shower for Mrs. Fleishel when she was expecting Tommy. When Joe left the theater for good, we all left.

Steve Nash (1997)

Every Saturday, Dad would go to town to shop and drop me and my sister off at the theater. We'd always go next door, to Kemp's doughnut shop for glazed doughnuts. When I was in 10th grade, they were having some kind of fashion show and I was asked to be one of the models. I declined. I liked that we could sit through a feature more than once. We watched 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea over and over again. It cost 25 cents to get in. Florence Healy's parents sold the tickets; one sold them the other would rip them in half when you got inside. They were little bitty people, always dressed in white. She had red hair, he was balding. They were there forever. You'd see them walk together to the theater.

Mike Orr (1995)

During Athens' dormancy, early 80's, I was the Jaycee's chairman of the haunted house committee. Just so happened the Athens was available; it was the first Jaycee's haunted house. Perhaps the best we ever had. Used the whole thing including the basement; did our best work there. Had mummy, coffin, Dr. Frankenstein, spooky but clean cut. One guy had on surgeon outfit, fake blood, but a real calf's liver; got a little smelly after the first couple of nights. Had people lined up all the way to New York Avenue to get in. George Lyons became real active in Jaycees during that project; last year he was named No. 1 in the nation for Jaycee's presidents. During the late 50's, early 60's, on Saturday mornings we got in free with something like 6 RC Cola caps. There'd be a Tarzan movie, then Our Gang type kids in a crazy, silly race, like bikes vs old soapbox cars, etc. Different winner every time. You'd get a prize if your number won. Everybody got a lucky number; don't remember where we got the numbers from.

Don Page (1997)

I lost my wallet once, and was pretty sure it was at the Athens. I looked and looked. Two weeks passed and went to look one more time. There is was, jammed into the seat.

Gordy Pierson (1996)

The Athens was the only place back in those days to ever go. There was nothing else. Mr. Fleishel really ran a tight ship. He was a great guy. I started going there when I was 8 or 9. We moved here in 1955, moved to Blue Springs in 1956. The Athens was the only place I ever went to with a date. My first one was Nancy, she was 9 and I was 10. It was secure then to let kids go alone. The Athens was for people who didn't have cars, their parents would drive them. As soon as you were old enough to drive, you went to Boulevard Drive-In if your parents didn't know. Then go to Sugar Top, which is now Hampton's.

Norma Jean Ryals (1996)

I think it was 1978. I left Greenwich Village to be with my parents in Deltona. There wasn't much there, and they never told me DeLand even existed. I was looking for something to do and saw in the paper auditions for the Athens Dinner Theater Summer and Smoke. Hardly anybody showed up. With some of the actors, I lived in the carriage house behind the Athens, one I remember was William Cline, a student at the Florida School of the Arts in Palatka. It was August and DeLand was just dead. Nobody came to the show. The director, who was from Alaska, announced to us in the middle of the run that the show was closing. She and her husband left town the next day. I have really gotten into my character, my life had many parallels to hers. I was shocked at the closing, I stayed at the carriage house a few more days, but they turned off the electricity. WETO interviewed me about the closing. I broadcast news for them for a while...and I always ended my broadcast with “the Athens stands closed for now....”

Tim Sweeny (1996)

I remember the orchestra pit. Last time I looked you could see where they filled it in when they remodeled the theater. Had drapery around the railing. I remember Eddie Arnold up on stage singing. They pulled the screen up. It was counterbalanced with sand bags. It took four men to move it. I remember my senior prom movie Wake Me When It's Over, I think with Ernie Kovacs. My wife's was Don't Go Near the Water. The Daytona Theater was cleaner. Even as a youngster, I had interest in 8mm film. I was watching Freddy splice film one day and said “I'd like to know how to do that.” He said, “Well, I'll teach you.” I worked as a projectionist helping Freddy and Lefty Gateman. They, not the theater, paid me. Between the two of them, they must have had 80 years there. Lefty also worked for the Dreka. Mrs. Gateman was in the theater quite often, but didn't stay for the movies. They called her husband Lefty because he had polio. He built model trains up in the booth while the movies were running. Once in a while he'd get so engrossed, he'd forget to change reels and the movie would run out. Everybody would scream “Stop!” and beat the chairs. It only took 10-15 seconds to change. We used welding rods in the projector. They were so bright used with the mirror, if the booth didn't have walls, they'd light up the whole balcony. They had to be set with a pretty exact space between them to get the light right. Joe Fleishel loved kids, he'd give them odd jobs after school or on Saturdays. The Jaycees had pageants there in the 50's and 60's.

Monso Tatum, Jr. (1996)

Snow White is the first movie I remember seeing. When I was about 6 I saw The Beast with Five Fingers with Peter Lorre. I always went to the Dreka for the Saturday afternoon matinee—westerns or serials--'B' grade. The Dreka didn't have a balcony. Where SouthTrust Bank is now was Mr. Dreka's store. He had a loading ramp that went from New York Avenue to the basement. He enclosed it and had a theater, which actually opened a few months before the Athens. According to my father, the Dreka's opening first is the reason the Athens didn't make it on its own and was sold very shortly to Florida State Theaters. My father claimed carried every brick that's in the Athens building. He was in high school then, and he did help build it.

Sidney Taylor (1996)

It was magic—like a fairyland there—beautiful chandeliers. The season generally ran from January through March. The New York companies would be on their way to Miami and they stopped to play DeLand, not Daytona Beach. I have a program for the 1926 DeLand Concert Series. (Ed. Note: the front cover shows violinist Albert Spalding. “Prices $2.50 plus tax. Having 5 concerts $7. Ticket sales at Bushnell's Music Store, Jan. 4th. Mail orders sent to Mrs. O. A. Morse, Box 816, DeLand.” The same program for Monday, January 18th features tenor Rhys Morgan singing classic and Welsh tunes, with Mr. O. A. Morse at the piano.”) I remember the operetta Robin Hood. “Oh Promise Me” came from it; I can't remember the composer's name. My mother and I and my little brother were sitting in one of the boxes. The Sheriff of Nottingham's men were creeping up on Robin Hood, the music was appropriately stealthy ('ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum-dum-dum!”) as they crept. My little brother couldn't stand it anymore, he yelled, “ROBIN HOOD! LOOK OUT!” Mother was embarrassed, but when Robin pranced off the stage he waved at my brother. Later, everybody congratulated him for 'saving' Robin Hood. In 1926, I think it was the sesquicentennial, naturalization ceremonies were held at the Athens. All the circuit judges were there. Civic organizations were handed invitations to come, including the KKK, which accepted, but under an oath of silence. The public was warned not to talk to them. Boxing matches were popular in the Athens. There were Shakespeare's plays, Ruth St. Denis, Ted Shawn and their dancers, operetta's galore. Before the Stover Theater was built, some Stetson plays were at the Athens. Birth of a Nation was there. The American Legion or the Elks had a minstrel show there once a year. There were lots of local shows and 'the season'--we got high class New York shows. They took private Pullman cars to the College Arms Hotel. The interior of the theater changed so many times. The glory of the Athens was its staged shows, the movies were just fill-ins.

Norm Wedekind (1996)

I was born in 1917 on North Hazen Road. When my daddy died, my mom and I moved into town, West Ohio, off Adelle. I”d ride a bike or walk to the theater. My older brother was the assistant manager there. There were four boxes on each side, I think. They changed the whole configuration for the dinner theater. I got in free. Saw movies and a magician one time. I was down in front, so he called on me and pulled an egg out of my mouth. Lots of whispering of directions. I'd see a scary movie and go home by myself, running from streetlight to streetlight. The Lions Club used to have a minstrel show, you can't do that anymore. Mrs. Dyer used to play the organ for silent movies., the music would follow the excitement of the movie. On Bank Night, they'd draw for a set of dishes. Went on into the Depression. I worked in the ice cream factory on South Florida, where Don's Garage is now. A double scoop was worth 5 cents. When we'd see the automobile headlights coming down Florida from the Athens, we knew it'd be busy for half an hour—curb service. Would hold five cones with one hand. I remember when Lindbergh landed in Paris in 1927, the Dreka had a banner draped over the front...”The Lucky Fool!”

Debbie Pell White (1996)

Cascadian's was a Mom and Pop grocery store on East New York Avenue. Mrs. Cascadian would save RC Cola caps in a shoe box for us kids. You could get your six, but no more. We went every Saturday. There were drawings once a month, they gave away bicycles. My sister and other teenage girls loved going on the Saturday afternoons when the boys from the Florida Military Academy out by the airport would be bussed in. It was a boarding school for 7th grade on up. Steve Nash graduated from it. His sister was Miss DeLand in the pageant at the Athens. Mr. Fleishel used to work at Fountain's for Men when I was in high school. We always wanted to sit up in the balcony, but when we first moved here is was reserved for blacks. The stigma sort of wore out, so we would go up there, but with the feeling that we really shouldn't. The whole town used to close on Wednesday at 1:00, we couldn't understand why. In junior high, a friend and I decided to skip school and go to McCrory's for cokes. We walked past the Athens and right under my dad, who was up on a pole (he worked for Southern Bell). I didn't see him, but he saw me. Asked me at supper how school was that day.

Billy Wilson (1998)

I started out in Jacksonville as an usher at age 16. I used to try to sneak off the job to go to school. The company, Florida State Theaters, transferred me to DeLand to manage the Athens and the Dreka Theaters. Frances Slaughter assisted me. She was on the payroll as the manager of the Dreka. She did reports for both theaters, but worked at the Athens mostly. It was 1944-45. I was rejected by the armed service the first time for having a heart murmur, the second time for a hernia. I wanted to do my part, but was rejected a third time. Pleasant Holt took my place at the Athens for 6 weeks, then they sent him back to Jacksonville. In 1944, I saw a beautiful woman crossing Indiana Avenue to the post office. I asked Frances who that was and she said it was Geneveive Kepler. I said I wanted to meet her. Her family had orange groves on Kepler Road. The trees are gone now. She was on summer break from Wesleyan. We were married in 1945. Then Joe Fleishel came back from the service and the company moved me into Orlando. Stayed there a while then four years in Clearwater. Television started making an impact, and business wasn't doing well I had a division manager job in Houston; went to open three twin theaters. I opened 25 new theaters in Texas, also New Mexico and Louisiana. Retired at 62. I'm 79. Got to stay busy. I'm not going to sit down. We were married 47 years. I really do miss her. We had 2 sons, 3 granddaughters and a great grandson. I was single when I was first in DeLand. I tried to date every girl I could. Did pretty well. Connie Tatum, who worked in the drugstore; Jinx Cheatham, Margaret's sister; Frierson girl, her uncle had Frierson's on the Boulevard. Then dated some Stetson girls. I just enjoyed going out and dancing in Daytona Beach. That was the place to go. We did dance out at Brooksie's on the right going out toward the RR station. Had a jukebox. Brooks lived upstairs over it. That was a favorite hangout in those days. I was 27 when I got married. My mother had given up on me, but she liked Geneveive. But she was named after a woman named Genevieve Gessner, who is buried in the same cemetery. Just noticed the different spelling. Gessners were a very prominent family. Donna Smith, another date, played xylophone on stage. The bandmaster was John Heney. The band won a lot of awards. He had played with John Philip Sousa. He ran a tight ship, he was a disciplinarian. They all loved him. I know my wife did. If they were taking the bus somehwere and you were late, running for the bus, they didn't stop. I remember the war bond premieres. People donated their talent. A $25 bond was $18.75. There were people singing, playing instruments. Margaret Heney could tell you the name of every student John had, and all about their families. Boone Lipscomb was VP of Barnett Bank. I used to play golf with him. Jenny was going with Bobby L., their son. I dated Dotsie, their daughter, but then I married Jenny. She died March 18th, 5 years ago. Buried in Kepler plot at Oakdale Cemetery.

Jenny's grandfather owned a company in Eau Claire, Wisconsin called the Kepler Company. He sold it to Sears. Her dad roamed around the country; his dad sent him to DeLand and Palatka to manage groves. Her mother was from Minnesota. I lived a home til I moved to DeLand. Stayed at the Putnam. Then at Mrs. Bauman's boarding house. I had the only private bath. Very nice room, 3 meals a day, $15 a week. She died and her sister, who lived on Lake Winnemissett, came to take care of it. She took a shine to me, invited me to come out there for $12/week. Huge bedroom. I was skinny, she tried to fatten me up. Maude Bauman and Will, they were like parents to me. I started smoking in DeLand. Smoke for 10 years, then quit one day, then gained the weight. Jack Johnson, mayor of DeLand, City Manager for a while, still lives there. He worked for Max Acree. He married Lucille Clark, who father was a professor at Stetson. We double dated a lot. When I was at the Florida Theater in St. Pete, I lived in a dressing room. Nothing spookier than a big old stage. Couldn't have done it if it weren't for the old St. Pete Times building right across the street; it kept me company. Once, we rented our house on High Street out to the Stetson ROTC guy. Jenny said let's take our tent to Alexander Springs and just live there. Had a ball. We'd bathe in the water; didn't have all the restrictions. She was good looking, a classy woman and you'd never think she'd do something like that.

Rachel Wimer (1995)

My mother, Ann Trezise, took tickets there for 11 or 12 years, starting maybe in 1950. She loved the kids. I was the candy girl for 5 ½ years. I remember when they put up the new marquee with the comedy/tragedy masks in the 50's, it was very exciting. The McFerrin kid, now a judge, was real noisy. Eddie Sanders, also now a judge, was a little better....maybe. We were robbed one night. Once, promoting a new western, we got on our western clothes, put bandanas over our faces and rode our horses from the Athens to downtown and 'robbed' the Barnett Bank, where they gave us fake money bags. My fondest memories are of the cookouts Joe Fleishel would have for the employees once a year. He was a big fisherman, and he and Lefty, the projectionist, and Fred Marsh would get the fish. They'd open up the big back doors and grill the fish and have swamp cabbage cooking in a big old pot. During the last show, all the patrons could smell the food. When the show was over, he'd pull up the screen and the employees would go up onstage and eat.

Lillian Wright (1998)

I was born in Georgia. Parents moved here in 1923. I was 3. Moved away for a little bit. The Negro population here wasn't allowed to go to the Athens. When they were allowed, they had to sit in the balcony. I only remember going there once. We had our theater here in the black community. Silent movies only. Had to go to Athens for sound. I was 10 or 11 when my parents took me. Never went back. Lot of people put it out of their minds. It was so restricted, people really didn't want to go in. When you become accustomed to a certain environment, you tend to withdraw thinking about it. There were a lot of things that could have been done together. Never in DeLand.

Georgia Wyche (1998)

I worked at the Athens quite a while. We weren't integrated. Had to go into the balcony. I loved Clark Gable in Gone With The Wind, Imitation of Life with Claudette Colbert. I was there every night. I was what you'd call the maid. When I wasn't cleaning the bathroom, when there wasn't anybody in there, I'd manage to watch the movies. The ladies' lounge was downstairs. Henry Kitchens cleaned the mens' lounge. He'd dead now. I liked Joe Fleishel, he was a good boss. Didn't think much about the Washington; it was fine. Worked at the Dreka, too. Leslie Dye worked there, too, with Freddy Marsh and Lefty Gateman, the projectionist.

Tim Tew (1999)

We moved to DeLand from Archer when I was 5. Back then, '57-'58, the only thing for us kids to do was go to movies. On Saturday if you had 6 RC Cola caps, you could get in free. There'd be movies, then some stage act, maybe a juggler, and they'd finish with cartoons. Or you'd pay 25 cents. Of course, we all drank RC Cola back then. They used to have a little raffle; you'd check your ticket number and win toys. In junior high, our band would be at the Athens for a talent show on Saturday afternoon.

The Athens is where most of us at DeLand High School kissed our first girl. They used to rope off the balcony. But we'd have one or our buddies distract the lady at the concession stand. Drop popcorn; as soon as it hit the floor, 6 or 8 of us would jump over or duck under the rope. If we jumped, we'd miss half the time and she'd catch us. If a girl agreed to go up to the balcony with you, you knew you were gonna get kissed. You'd sit downstairs in the back row to hold hands, but when it was time, then you'd go up to the balcony. Holding hands in the theater back then was pretty cool. Now kids do it a lot more.

I remember my first date was with Beth Furlong. They lived behind the Holiday House. I was in Mrs. Best's 4th grade class at George Marks Elementary. My father grew orchids as a hobby. I took some orchid blooms to class and put them in Beth's desk, and she agreed to go to the Athens with me. Mom dropped me off, Beth met me there. We smuggled in two cinnamon twists I got downtown at the bakery near where Paul Hunter's is now. But my first kiss wasn't until 7th grade. I was so scared. It was Patricia Colormore.

Carl Ward (1999)

The Saturday movies were fun and a novelty. After mowing a couple of yards, I'd use my jackpot and head to the movies to see a good show and buy concessions. My shoes stuck to the floor from all the goo. As a teenager I recall a few dates and the nervous, first smack-a-roo. As a younger child I always wondered what was behind the curtain. There just had to be someone or some evil creature just ready to grab little kids. Growing up in DeLand was like the end of an era. I would typically ride my bike into town as an 11-12 year old and check out the newest model at the Hobby Shop. By the way, they always had the coolest bikes in town. The movies were just around the corner.