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13 GREENBENCHMONTHLY.COM Above: Detroit Hotel, St. Petersburg, Fla. circa 19-- who watched as “Mattie”, the first locomotive of the newly completed Orange Belt Railway, huffed and puffed its way to a stop near the corner of 9th Street and 1st Avenue South on June 8, 1888. Behind Mattie were one empty freight car and a single coach, carrying a single passenger, a salesman from Savannah, Georgia. Since there was not yet a proper depot, he stepped off the train onto a shaky wooden platform fronted by dusty streets. You can imagine his confusion as he looked out at the crowd carrying signs stating ”Welcome to Wardsville”. He thought his destination was called St. Petersburg. His confusion was understandable since the only building in sight was the combination general store and post office owned by E.R. and Ella Ward. In actuality, he had truly arrived in St. Petersburg. Peter Demens, a Russian immigrant who controlled the Orange Belt Railway, named the area St. Petersburg in honor of his hometown in Russia. Soon a petition signed by five people made its way to Washington, D.C., where it was approved by the U.S. Postal Service, signaling the birth of St. Petersburg, Florida. Demens had negotiated with John C. Williams, a wealthy land owner whose property blocked the line’s progress, for the right of way to finish his railroad. Their relationship was less than amicable, but they eventually came to terms and shared the cost of clearing away countless palmettos and pine trees to make way for the town’s grid of streets and avenues. In a coin toss, Demens won the right to name the town, while Williams built the first hotel in St. Petersburg and named it The Detroit Hotel, in honor of his hometown. The old gentleman told me that he had been there on February 29, 1892, when St. Petersburg was first incorporated as a town, and again when it was reincorporated as a city in June of 1903. As I sat mesmerized by the old man’s tale, my parents, who had been shopping for souvenirs, returned. Sadly, it was time to go. I could have listened for hours, but I thanked the gent for a wonderful history lesson, shook his boney hand, and bid him good day. As I turned to leave, he called after me to let me know I could find him sitting there on “his” bench most Sunday afternoons.


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