Federal Relief Administration workers do repairs on Duval Street in Key West in 1935.

Throughout the 1920s, the people of the little tropical island of Key West shuffled along in a torpid daze of not-so-genteel poverty. Relatively untouched by Florida’s boom, they were content to eke out a tenuous existence mainly from the meager coin of fishing and sporadic tourism, supplemented now and then with a little furtive rumrunning to Cuba.

Sailing into the town harbor in 1928 (for a 12-year stay), writer Ernest Hemingway dubbed the island “the St. Tropez of the poor.” Puzzled islanders figured, well, he got that second part right.

Thus, when the Great Depression rolled over the nation in the 1930s, no one was surprised to see the two-mile by four-mile island shattered to its coral rock bottom, laid low by an economic coma that officials called “more acute and oppressive” than any other in the country. By 1934, some 80% of Key West’s 11,600 citizens were on relief, a bare relief at that. The city government, which already had defaulted on several millions in bonded debt, no longer could afford fire, police or sanitation services. City employees were paid in script (merchants accepting the script used it to pay their city taxes). Instead of selling apples, men peddled coconuts on town streets or tried to catch sharks —$1.50 for a seven-footer. Children sold Spanish limes or dove off the Mallory docks for pennies tossed by occasional tourists.

Otherwise the men — native Bahamian-descended “conchs,” black and white, or Cuban sons of early cigar workers — sat at tables in Pepe’s Cafe or Sloppy Joe’s, munching penny “bollos” cakes (black-eyed peas) and bewailing the times.

The historic city had taken a long spiral down from its colorful shipwrecking days, barely a century ago, when it was the richest city per capita in the country. Much later, its thriving sponge industry would be pre-empted by the Greeks at Tarpon Springs and its flourishing cigar factories, beset by labor rifts, would scurry to Tampa. Even its Army and Navy installations, its economic bedrock before and during three wars, were cut to skeletal status after World War I.

But the town’s darkest days coincided with the arrival of President Franklin D. Roosevelt and the New Deal, and the little island was about to become an “experiment” that would capture national attention.

The experiment began dramatically enough. In an unprecedented act on July 2, 1934, the town sparked national headlines when desperate city fathers “surrendered” their powers of city government to the state. A sympathetic Gov. David Sholtz, declaring a state of emergency, promptly authorized Julius F. Stone Jr., Florida head of the Federal Emergency Relief Administration (FERA), to set up a local body, the Key West Administration, and implement a relief program.

An able, perceptive and imaginative New Dealer, Stone faced three alternatives. He could pump in a $2.5 million relief program; he could simply dump the island and relocate its 3,000 families; or he could give the town a job by which to create its own economy as an attractive tourist resort. With its native charm and tropical seclusion, plus the finest winter climate and fishing in the country, Stone envisioned a city that could more than rival Bermuda, a place where “there would be no blatant race tracks, no blaring night clubs attracting people who cannot appreciate the beauty, quiet and subtle charm of the city.” Instead it would draw “the tired businessman, or woman, the convalescent and the artist in the broadest sense of the word.”

Assisted by a bevy of bright, mostly young FERA men and women and armed with a $1 million allocation for the first 18 months — much of this to provide direct aid to the needy — Stone plunged into the task. The infectious enthusiasm of the group fomented an intellectual excitement that soon enveloped the whole town.

Keenly aware of the need for national exposure for such a resort plan, Stone kept the momentum of the initial national publicity sustained with the aid of FERA publicist M.E. Golfond, who sent out a steady stream of news and feature stories to the national media. The project was highlighted with Stone’s brainchild of calling for a “volunteer work force” to donate 25 hours a week to get the town in shape for the visitors.

The response was instant, and soon most of the town, including the mayor, was out cleaning up the streets and gathering the piles of uncollected garbage and rubbish to be burned. Eyesore shacks and scores of unsanitary outhouses were razed and teams went in to beautify parks and build cabanas for beaches. Flowers, shrubs and palm trees were planted everywhere and shabby gray houses were renovated and slapped with new paint. A Hospitality League and a band were formed to welcome visitors, and boat owners were given loans to repair their boats to take them charter fishing. Homeowners were urged to make over rooms and apartments into guest quarters, and the receivers were persuaded to reopen Flagler’s plush Casa Marina Hotel; a guarantee given against losses proved unneccessary. For a resort, most rents were a steal — $35 to $50 a month.

Federal artists and writers were brought in to paint historic murals on public or private buildings and write descriptive guidebooks and attractive brochures. Teachers, also employed by the federal government, were sent down to instruct men and women in vocational skills utilizing native materials and enabling them to operate handicraft shops. An outpatient medical and dental clinic was provided, with special health programs for children. And weekly shipments of fresh vegetables and surplus relief commodities were also distributed.

Cultural activities flourished. The town’s distinctive architecture was repaired and restored, a little theater and a choral group were organized, and classes were held regularly in folk dancing and painting.

By the time the 1934-35 tourist season approached, the entire town had volunteered more than two million hours of labor. Coy. Sholtz sent each volunteer an engraved certificate of recognition for his effort. More importantly, the town’s spirits had soared. As Stone later observed: “Last year, hopelessness and resignation ruled; now hope and confidence are on the throne.”

The sweat and labor — and the publicity — paid off. As the season got under way, tourists began to pour in to the island by boat, plane, car ferry and train, more than 40,000 of them, double that of previous years. FERA statistics cited the record increases: hotel guests up 86%; guest homes, 150%; restaurants, 84%. National luminaries also came down to see the phenomenon first hand. They included Robert Frost, John Dewey, Wallace Stevens, Max Eastman, Hart Crane, S.J. Perlman, John Dos Passos and Archibald MacLeish.

Journalist-newscaster Elmer Davis, a former visitor to “old” Key West, came to see the new one and returned to write an article, “New World Symphony,” in Harper’s magazine, reporting Key West as “the New Deal in miniature.” He added: “The experiment. . . gave life there a fourth-dimensional flavor. Words are poor tools to convey the feeling created by the experiment and the atmosphere of continuous intellectual excitement and surcharged intensity. . . Nothing quite like it will ever be seen again.”

In mortal coma only months earlier, Key West was now on a vibrant road to recovery. Even the devastating hurricane that hit the upper keys later that year and wiped out the FEC railroad did not deter the recovery. The railroad’s bridgework was used later, in 1938, to build the new overseas highway.

By 1936, when the Works Progress Administration (WPA) took over the second phase of the project — new sewerage, electrical and water systems — unemployment was reduced by two-thirds. People were employed at essential jobs and local government resumed control.

Thus, where private initiative had failed, a group of intelligent, dedicated men and women, a renewed community spirit and a benevolent government had restored a city to life. The long-range effects and benefits of that resurrection are still visible in Key West today.