MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XXIII

UP THE BRANCH

Part VII


And speaking of the strawberry patch, this was where, for a time anyway, we tried to grow a garden. Back in the late forties, we were a family of eight trying to live on a very few dollars. Times were hard and so we had to do anything we could to keep body and soul alive. And it was difficult. The place we tried to grow the garden was was on a hillside above the house. The land was probably about seventy-five to one hundred feet wide and went from one end of our land at the trees to the wash about two-thirds of the way to the other end. We owned four acres, about two hundred feet wide and almost 900 feet long, alongside Maple Creek Road, all steep hillside. On the other side of the wash was where an old barn had stood in earlier times. There were a couple of small plots of garden land near it that were fairly flat, the only flat land we owned.

But raising food for eight people required more than that, so we had the larger, steeper land plowed and tried there, as well as using the two small plots. We called this larger area the flat but it wasn't. We tried potatoes, corn, beans and so on. Our harvests were not great. The land had been used for corn so many years that the fertility was gone long before we tried. It was also so steep that we joked that when we dug the potatoes they just rolled out and over the hill and we could walk along the ditch at the road and pick them up. It reminds one of the tale of the mountaineer who planted his corn with a shotgun (if you've heard the tale, you know what I'm talking about, if you haven't, you just did.)

There were a lot of wild strawberry plants scattered all over the land, so we gathered all we could find and began planting them in rows in some of the more fertile areas of the hillside. As strawberries will, they reproduced well and soon we had enough to cover three sections of the hillside just above the house. After a few years of replanting the newer plants, we had about all we could handle to pick those patches clean each year. We had plenty to sell, and people would come from all over, even as far as town, to get our fresh strawberries. We sold them for a quarter a basket, a dollar for four baskets (we used quart baskets.) We younger boys picked basket after basket to sell and we received a nickel for each basket we picked and sold.

During the peak seasons, after the season had ended, the entire family went to Camden Park with some of the profits we made. We would get up early on a Saturday morning, catch the Logan Bus into Huntington, and there we would board the Ohio Valley Bus Company bus and travel all the way down to the park. We would stay until about five or so and then make the trip in reverse.

When I was in the fifth grade, that would have been about 1952, my teacher wanted some strawberries for his mother to use for jam, so I picked a gallon for him. I hit the patch about four-thirty and then discovered that most of the good crop was gone. I didn't want to give him scrawny berries so I picked and picked and looked and looked and picked and picked. I had promised him the berries the following morning so I couldn't let him down. Finally I had five quarts of good berries. The extra quart was our dessert that evening, and the next morning I went off to school taking his berries to him. I got to keep the entire dollar for myself and felt like a king having that much spending money in my pocket all at once.

Back then seemed to be a magical time for me. I was young enough to be innocent but still old enough wish I wasn't, I guess. But even then, as young as I was, I could remember some things that had happened earlier in my life. For instance, what do younger kids do when all the older ones have gone off to school? My earliest recollections, whether real or imagined or told to me by someone else and thought of as my own remembrance starts at about age three or four. They center around the back yard of our home or around the cellar door. Why, I don't know, but there they are.

The older boys had all gone to school and I was there by myself with Mom. My father had gone to work and Mom was napping on the bed in the front bedroom. It was early fall, warm and sunny. I went outside, looking for trouble, and I found it, too.

Winter was coming on and I knew we needed wood for the stoves. I walked over to the the chopping log and there was the double-bitted axe. Sharp on both sides. Ready to chop that kindling. I put the log on the chopping log, picked up the axe and let it fall. It went about an inch into the log, three more drops and I'd probably get it apart. Wouldn't Mom be surprised and happy when she saw that I could help the older boys get the wood in for winter?

I pulled the axe out. It was hard to do but I got it out. Now to lift it and let it fall again. Missed the log. Try it again, this is hard work. Let it fall. Hit the log and fell off right onto my foot. Oh, no! My toe hurts! Look at the blood! MOM! ! ! MOM! ! ! Run into the kitchen and slipped on my bloody foot. Went right past Mom coming through the door.

She almost fainted, put my foot into the water bucket--oooh, that was cold water. She got sugar and cloth and tape. Wrapped my toe in cloth and taped it after putting sugar around it. Terrible hurt for a few days, but it got better and the only permanent result was a split toenail for a few years, then a rippled toenail for the rest of my life.

The next spring, I got stupid again. Fell off the back porch railing onto the mowing scythe blade. I hit it with my left pinkie finger between the first and second knuckle. To this day, I have a puffiness in that part of my finger. She used the same treatment for the finger as she had for the toe.

I also remember being in the front bedroom and seeing the older kids coming up the road from school one day in the spring. The girls from up the road were wearing dresses that flowed in the wind. I remember yellow and green. I remember some of the girls' names but not others. The same with the boys. When I was a kid, boys in the country seldom wore undershorts at such a tender age. It was just too expensive. And we were poor. Mom made my clothes all the time. I'm not sure I ever had any store-bought clothes until I was nine or ten, if then. If I did it was probably just pants, as Mom could make really nice looking shirts.

So, here I go. Out of the bedroom, out of the front door and around the path in front of the cellar, right above the road. Why? I don't know--I began removing my shirt. The kids yelled and hollered. I went ahead and removed my pants (actually I was wearing shorts Mom had made me, blue, from feed sacks) and stood there stark naked with all the girls pointing at me and laughing. And Mom at the window telling me to put my clothes back on. But I didn't, until the kids had gone on up the road.

There were no televisions, computers or modern day entertainment back then. Just what could be done by individuals interested in having fun, and we did have fun.

Guitars, banjos, and fiddles--and the more the merrier; no booze, unless it was kept in the jalopies the musicians or guests drove; cold cuts (we just called it lunch meat back then) and hot food (which was always cold before it was eaten) like fried chicken; a warm summer evening where you could sit out on the front porch and listen to the raucous music and conversation going on inside; friends young and old; good hillbilly music--there was no such thing as country music, it hadn't been invented yet; sounded a lot like bluegrass, swing and old-time folk music played by a string band.

Some memories just get better with age. Back when I was a kid, maybe five or six, we had the music at our house. Mom and the older kids worked for a couple of days to get it in shape, not only the house but the grounds, too. That meant cutting the grass and sweeping the dirt in the yards so that not a stray clod was anywhere to be found. It also meant making sure the chickens were in the pen before dusk turned to dark. At the same time, having music meant that the food had to be prepared early and kept on ice or in a refrigerator until time for the music to arrive.

But as the time got closer for the folks to get there, there was a renewed feeling of anticipation in the air. All the local family except Grandma and Grandpa had gotten there and had a bite to eat (didn't want to eat while the company was there, that food was strictly for the company, the musicians who needed it to keep the music going and the dancing men and women to keep them strong.)

Everybody sitting on the front porch high above the dirt and rock road which stretched for about a mile farther up the hollow to where Grandma and Grandpa lived. There you could get out of the car and hike up the old road to the ridge to go to the church in the old schoolhouse if you wanted to (but who did unless they had to?) The house sat perched on oak and locust posts set on rocks, a small four room board and batten cottage that normally held eight souls from father and mother to the youngest of six children ranging in age from sixteen to six. But tonight--tonight, there would be many more there, more than likely somewhere between forty and fifty depending on who did the counting and how many times they counted each person--everyone kept moving about and it was pretty hard to get a handle on the exact number.

The sun set about a half hour ago and we are all ready. We've invited a few of the neighbors but most are family and musicians from all over the county. There aren't many chairs for all this crowd but we did borrow a few extras, and, besides, who wants to sit anyway, unless it is to sit on the bannisters on the porch where it is nice to be outside away from all that heat inside.

Of course, this is all for the old folks, us kids just were wide-eyed and wondering that such a thing could happen here at our house, AT OUR HOUSE, and us as poor as dirt and there's all those big shiny cars and trucks stopping in the dirt road at the end of the path and women in frilly dresses and men in fancy shirts and string ties getting out and opening up big black trunks with locks on them and there's those beautiful guitars and banjos and fiddles with the pretty wood and funny shape and there's Uncle Lee and old Bumgardner and nobody plays as sweet as Uncle Lee and there's Frank and Ab and Ab's dancing with Mom right there in the road and Mildred's just laughing and there's Bud with his new Cadillac and his old wife and now Grandma and Grandpa are getting out and Bud's helping Pa up the hill to the house and could there ever be a better night in the whole world and I never dreamed it could be this good and I hope it never ends.

But, it did, of course. And for a few days, the glow lingered. Eventually, it faded entirely and the reality that we were still dirt poor and, while we would never forget entirely all the fun we had, we also knew that we needed to work the garden truck and get it canned and get the wood in off the hill for the winter and re-dig the coal lot so we could get a load to burn later on when it got so really cold in that drafty old house.

That drafty old house got torn down and burned sometime in the late sixties. We had moved out in 1959 when I began college in town. The man who bought the place from Mom and Dad wanted to put a trailer there for his boy and his wife. I guess that was okay, and even though the trailer is still there, every time that I come up this hollow I still see that ramshackle old place with the front and back paths and the privy setting on the bank and I hear the strains of that wild hillbilly music in the air.


(Next--Play Ball)

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XXII

UP THE BRANCH

Part VI


Back when I was in grade school, it was located on the hard road a little more than a quarter mile north of the hollow road. And most years while I went to that school, we had tinder dry summers followed by the hills burning . Some said that people lit the fires. And they probably did. The state or county would pay five cents an hour for folks to fight those fires. Admittedly not much, but more than the nothing some of these people got while sitting on their backsides doing nothing. So we always suspected that the people who lit the fires were the very same as those who were first to volunteer to fight them. We had a pretty good basis. The fires were always close to the residences of the firefighters and were recurrent from year to year. It was not unusual for the same patch of hillside to burn two or three times within a month or so.

There was one year, I think I was in the fourth or fifth grade then, that the hill across the hard road from the school was on fire at least five times in the space of a month or so. This, in and of itself, would have been strange. But even stranger was the fact that there were no homes located anywhere near where these fires started. The start of the fires was near the top of the hill. The hill itself was one that started near the Forks and went all the way over the ridge to near the cemetery, a distance of about three or four miles. How fires could start in the middle of the top of the hill would need to be explained by someone else. I can't. You might say that it was fox or coon hunters, but these fires started in the middle of the day, long after any such hunters would have gone home for the day. Just a mystery, like a lot of things that occur and those responsible keep their mouths closed.

And speaking of hunting, we all liked to hunt when we were kids. Squirrel hunting was the favorite kind of hunting, although we did rabbit hunt, grouse and quail hunt, too. But we all looked forward to the second Saturday in October because that was when squirrel season began. It didn't end until mid-January but the prime hunting, after the season officially started, was up until Thanksgiving. After that it was rabbits. Many of the young bucks went out after squirrels before the season started, including my oldest brother, but most waited until it was legal. Of course, you know when the very best time to hunt squirrels is--when the horse weeds bloom, around the end of August to late September. Usually by the start of the legal season, some of the guys had fifteen to thirty tails already--they had to be careful who they bragged to, though, word might get back to the game wardens.

Being kids with not a whole lot to keep us busy after we got the wood in for the winter and got rid of the strawberries in the late spring, and since baseball only took a couple of days a week, we decided to get ready for the season's hunting by clearing the paths in the woods that we would use that fall. We made regular maintenance trips to keep the paths clear each week. The paths were cleared to a pretty much uniform width of two feet and we didn't stop with just the floor of the woods. Oh no, we also clipped branches off that we thought might impinge upon our silent movements.

After these major improvements, we were sure we would reap a large harvest of squirrels. Well, to tell the truth--if you went hunting in the morning, you were in the woods and seated before daybreak, so you didn't need to have those clean paths. If it was damp, again, you didn't need clean paths. Only in the dry daytime or in case you hunted while walking--we did not, usually--were the cleaned paths of much use. The idea was great and kept us occupied , with the persistence known only to kids, for a number of years anyway.

The first time I hunted with a gun, I was about eleven years old. We got up early and went back behind Bub's place on the hill across the road from where we lived. We went over the hill of course, much safer and much shorter than walking down the road and up the branch, then up the hill in the middle of the night past the dogs and landowners with guns. I positioned myself about ten or twelve feet uphill from the path that traversed the break of the hill. Just in front of me, on the downhill side of the path, was a sapling of perhaps eight inches in thickness, with an old rusty fence of barbed wire attached to it. Where the top strand of wire was attached, there was an enlargement of the bole, probably caused by the attachment of the wire a long time ago. It was circular and about a foot or so in diameter.

I was using a .22 single shot rifle with long rifle hollow points for ammunition. We had borrowed the rifle from a friend as we only had three guns in the house and my brothers were using them. I had shot a rifle probably fifteen or twenty times before and really had no idea whether I could hit a squirrel with a shot or not.

About an hour after daybreak, a squirrel came up the hill and perched on the sapling, astraddle of the enlargement. I raised the rifle to position, aimed and pulled on the trigger. Nothing happened. It took me a few seconds to remember--the safety was on. he squirrel remained quiet on the tree, waiting on me I suppose. Silently I removed the safety and then re-aimed. I couldn't keep the gun steady. Buck fever at its' shaking worst. Hands and body shaking, teeth chattering--just a mess. I breathed in and out heavily two or three times and the shakes were gone. I re-aimed and fired. Nothing happened, the squirrel just stayed there, didn't twitch, didn't fall off, didn't do anything. Just sat there as it was before.

Well, nothing to do but do it over. Up with the gun after reloading, aim and fire. Okay. Nothing happening again. What is going on here? I aimed for the head and I didn't see any wood chipped away. Could I have missed the entire tree? Am I that bad a shot? Once more, up with the gun, reload, aim well and shoot. Still no action by the squirrel.

Only one thing to do now. I got up as slowly as I could. Walked slowly as I could. I poked the squirrel with the barrel of the rifle. Nothing. But I can see the bullets have hit one on top of the other right through the head of the squirrel and the last one is shining in the sunlight lodged in the head. I pulled the squirrel by the tail and it came loose. I carried it back to my spot, sat down, laid the squirrel beside me and waited for my brothers to finish their hunt, because I was finished. I couldn't possibly feel any better than I did sitting there that warm morning with a squirrel by my side. One morning on the hunt, one tail for me.


(Insert Bombs Away here)

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XXI

UP THE BRANCH

Part V


Thinking of that old woman who lived across the bottom in that old shack who watched her privy float away and be destroyed by hitting the bridge reminds me of some other zany things she did or was a part of--

We all had fun when the postman came by in his truck. We were on a rural route and the mail was delivered every day by a short little old guy from up the hard road. She could see the intersection of the hard road and our branch from where she lived, and we always knew when the driver had turned into our hollow road because she would suddenly burst out of her house and practically run to the mailboxes down by the bridge going up the branch where she lived. Poor old Joe was shanghaied every day for about an hour talking with her. She would stand there for a few minutes, then put her foot up on the running board and gab for an hour or more. All the time, Joe was trying to get out of the conversation by easing the truck forward. She would take her foot off the running board momentarily and grab hold of the mirror on the truck, effectively stopping him. This would be repeated time and again, until the truck was twenty or thirty feet beyond the mailboxes, and, finally, she would let him go.

Up on the hill in the woods, just before our house, we had put old bedsteads and springs out in the woods as we had gotten new ones. We would go out there in good weather and play. There was a path going around the side of our hill out to the place where we had put them and we'd go out there and hide when we thought Mom was about to tan our hides. But, woe unto us, if she found us out there hiding.

We eventually got smart and placed leaves all over the springs that we had turned on their sides to make a fort so that she couldn't see us. One day, in the fall when leaves had fallen all over, my two next older brothers, Bob and Lee, came back to the house and told me of a trick they were doing. I wanted to see for myself and we all three went out to the fort. Bob lit a match t the leaves on the side of the fort. The idea was to blow the fire out before it got big. We did that a few times and it was really fun. But the last time, we weren't quite quick enough. Boy, did that fire ever get big fast. Before we knew it, the entire fort was flaming and we ran back to the house to tell Mom. By that time, the old woman across the bottom was out yelling that she was going to call the sheriff unless we put the fire out.

We couldn't get it out, of course, and she didn't call the sheriff. The fire took off up the hill and got to the gas road where it stopped without damaging any more of her property (actually it wasn't her property, but her brothers', but he had moved away a long time ago so she thought it was hers. What a rude awakening when a couple years later it was sold and she didn't get a dime out of it!) But it did go through a small hollow where there was a path from our house to a basketball court we had built on top of the hill. At that one place on the gas road, it had jumped it and gone over probably an acre or two of open field to the top of the hill overlooking Clint's house. At this point the fire would have had to go downhill to keep burning and fires don't do that too often. We were lucky on that one, because if it had gone downhill, it would have gotten into a broom sedge patch and then gone all over the hills. Other than our backsides, the only casualty was my brother's cap. It had fallen off some time previously, I guess, and we found it lying smoldering by the path near the top of the hill.

One night our father came home from work about one o'clock in the morning and got us out of bed to go fight a fire that was burning near the gas well. It was probably about five in the morning before we got that one out. We took hoes with us and cleared lines around the fire then went back inside the lines to put out any of the fire that was still burning. After we got back to the house, Mom fixed us biscuits and eggs with cereal for breakfast and let us go back to bed. We did not go to school that day.

There was another time that a guy over on another adjoining ridge let a fire get away, supposedly from his moonshine still. The fire burned up the hill from his house and came over the ridge and down toward our house. It had gotten to the top of the hill just above our house and we got five gallons of kerosene from the store to set backfires with. There were about eight or ten of us, neighbors included, that went up into our strawberry patch and we set fire to the broom sedge at the edge of it all along the entire line, all at once. Whoosh. The fire caught in the broom sedge and took off up the hill so fast that it didn't have time to get into the trees but stayed on the ground like we wanted it to do. After the fire was out, we did a walkthrough to make sure there were no hotspots and found three rabbits that didn't make it out of the way in time.

JUST AN UPDATE

Life around the old ranch has been a little hectic of late. With the advent of spring and all the attendant work required to get the place spruced up, there has been precious little time to do much of anything else. And this will continue for a while longer. But I will try to blog a little more often.

I may have located the outfit through which I may publish my book(s). I haven't made up my mind yet, but it is a good possibility. The production costs seem better and the arrangements are more to my liking than what I've found previously. And I would not be in the distribution business nearly as much.

We had the entire family, less one granddaughter, here yesterday for my wife's birthday celebration.

The redbud trees are gorgeous and the dogwoods are beginning to show a lot of white and red. The grass literally grows an inch a day it seems. I got the garden tilled for the first time last week. The pear trees are off bloom now, but the plum tree is just beginning. Lots of bloom this year on my Granny Smith apple tree.

I will be out looking for mulch today. I need about 100 to 150 cubic feet so it will take a number of trips.

The birds are getting a lot of food from nature now, so I'm scaling back the filling of the feeders somewhat. I thought I saw the first hummingbird last week but it was just a passer through if I did. It has not come back. When it does, the feeders are ready for them.

It is 8:36 AM and the sun just came through the window. Time to get about todays' business. More another time.

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XX

UP THE BRANCH

Part IV


DEDICATION

This collection of memories is dedicated to Karen and Ron, Mike and Tammy, Kristen, Christopher, Katelyn, Benjamin, Michelle and Erin--children and spouses and all six of the grandchildren, all of whom inspire me to do what I enjoy doing--writing. And especially to Mary, my wonderful wife who puts up with me everyday, and keeps me as sane as I am.



PREFACE


UP THE BRANCH

So.
Here I am.
And what has it been, forty years or more since I last stood on this road? Sure, I've driven past it hundreds of times on my way here or there during that time? I've even driven over it a number of times, but have never gotten out and walked on it, like I did when I was a kid, for too long.

But here I am.

And I'm so glad that you chose to be with me today. Having a grandchild with me today just makes this trip extra special. I would have enjoyed it on my own, but you add so much to the occasion, for memories are better when shared with someone you love. And you other folks can join us if you want to share in those memories.

Come along, and let me tell you some things I remember as we walk up the branch. And you know that each memory that comes will bring another one. And probably not in the order in which it occurred, either. But let's start up the branch and discover were I used to live and what may have made me the person I am today. We won't walk fast, we've got all day.

You don't need to say anything, unless you want to. I'll do the talking--I always am, anyway. And, sometimes, I'm going to forget that you are here beside me and just ramble on. I'll stop here and there, to rest and remember. Most of the places that I'll stop at are very dear to my memories. And a few of those memories are so special, I'll probably just not share them with you--I'll just stop and smile--and you will know then that I am happy.

You will have memories like that too, my child. When you get a little more age on you. But stay a child as long as you can. And when you are all grown up, you will have those wonderful memories to last you the rest of your life.

A wise man once said that youth is wasted on the young. From an old mans' perspective, he may have been right. But I would not want to be young again without the knowledge that I have gained by growing older, and the memories that keep me company. And you children are what keeps me forever young, if not in body, at least in spirit. To hear your voices, to share your hopes and plans, your dreams--what more could a grandfather ask for?

So walk with me for a spell. Indulge me for a while. Perhaps we will both be richer for it.

Papaw


(Final date here)

FAMILY TIES AND OLD TOM T.

As I was in town today, I stopped by to see my brother who lives in Guyandotte. He was still sitting in that old straightbacked chair in the kitchen watching tv when I walked in. I think I may have surprsied him by walking in. Don't think he expected me. Of course I didn't call as I was already at 31st and Fifth before I decided to go see him. Well, a block or two before it but it took me that long to get into the right (left) lane to make the turn to get into Guyandotte. Wish to hell they'd get that bridge replaced.

We rambled over a lot of territory, like we always do. From kids to grandkids to other family members. Spent time on the genealogy, discussing my blog, his and my writings and how easy it is if you have the touch and how very difficult it can be if you don't. And how some people are storytellers by mouth and some are by the written word.

We talked and talked about everything and nothing. But we finally got a handle on the world. And decided that we'd give it to the squirrels. (Thanks, Tom T. Hall, you are a lifesaver and a hell of a poet, boy.)

After I left I came up Route 2 to Little Seven Mile and went across the connector to Route 60, back to Alternate 10 and on home, forgetting to get the prescription filled so I'll have to do that in the morning, along with all the other stuff, before the girls get here between noon and 12.30. Supposed to have both Shellie and Kate for the afternoon 'til their Dad comes to pick them up.

I may get another story off tomorrow morning, or maybe just a poem or two. Depends on the time I imagine.

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XIX

UP THE BRANCH

Part III


I see the Highway Department has never gotten rid of the old concrete bridge just fifty yards or so up the hollow. It is one of the few remaining ones with the high concrete walls on the sides. The WPA built it when they improved the road back in the Thirties.

Two branches meet just south of the bridge and then go beneath it on their way to the Forks. The main branch comes out of the hollow and the smaller one drains the hills to the south. At this point the branch is about two thirds of the way to the Forks where it meets the northern branch coming down from Ferguson Ridge to form the major creek that flows on to the river which is about a half mile to the northeast from the Forks.

Standing on this old bridge again reminds me of the time the school was having its' usual Fall Social. At that time the school was housed on the same land where the transmission shop is now located. As was normal, every time there was a social, the same old prank was played. Someone would stand by the hard road, across from the schoolhouse, and wait for the Logan bus (actually it was either a Consolidated or Trailways bus, but we always called it the Logan bus.) The driver would be flaged down and was told there was a man who needed to catch the bus to get home, to get to work or whatever tale could be thought of quickly. The driver would let the bus idle there for five or ten minutes, getting impatient to be on his way, blowing the horn repeatedly, and then finally driving off, while we laughed and laughed.

Later, on our way home, we had all reached this old bridge just at the start of the hollow. There were seven of us from our immediate family, my five brothers, myself and Mom. My father always worked evening shift and was never able to go with us. Then my two bachelor uncles from up in the head of the hollow were along. There were many more folks walking with us, practically all the parents and kids from up the hollow, maybe twenty-five or so more, strung out in front of us and behind us. When the school had a social, everyone came, whether they had any money to spend or not.

We were sitting on the walls of the bridge, or just standing, talking. It was a warm fall evening, everyone having a good time. We noticed a car pull of the hard road into the hollow but we didn't pay all that much attention since it was moving very slowly due to the large number of people there. Although it took some time, we all moved over to the side as far as we could and continued the talk and laughter. Just country folks having a chance to get together in a friendly atmosphere.

As the car got closer, we could see that it was Jim and Norma. Now Jim was not the best liked guy around. He was tolerated, as was his wife, a pinch-faced, sharp tongued woman. As the car rolled slowly past the group on the bridge, my oldest brother (Bill was probably about seventeen or so and I was probably seven or eight) suddenly yelled that Jim had run over his foot and took off after the car. He reached it at the end of the bridge and slammed his fist into the rear fender of the car, making a huge dent. Jim never stopped, just accelerated slightly and rolled on up the road.

Of course, he had not driven over my brother's foot, that was just a ruse to let Bill do something. And Jim had to know that. Off to the right of the bridge was the narrow road that led to Clints' house. He and Aldine bought the house and lived there while I was growing up. I can just barely remember the old woman who owned it before Clint and Aldine took it over. They had a kid, a boy, and I cannot for the life of me remember his name, I think Gary, but not sure. The house itself was a white frame, five rooms, small, and had huge cedar trees flanking it on both sides of the front entrance.

Clint owned the hillside behind the house, up the run to the north and up the hollow road for a good distance, nearly a quarter-mile. He bought a brand new Ford sedan, 1952, yellow and either brown or black. It sure was a good looking car (Aldine was a good looking woman, too.) They moved out after we did and went to live around Ona, somewhere up there. That was about 1960 or so. The house and grounds have sure gone downhill from then on. The house has been all different colors; the cedars were cut down; junk, cars and litter has been placed all over the garden areas; four wheelers have run over all the yard areas so the yard is pretty much of a mess, especially when it rains.

Now, just around the curve from the bridge and Clints' house, there was a small wet weather swamp, on the same side of the road as Clints' house, but down in a gully. Maple Creek flowed on the other side of the road, hugging right up against the road. There were all kinds of paths through that swamp, which could be used in dry weather, but water accumulated to four or five feet deep in hard rains. There was a series of small knolls above the water level on the hillside. The knolls were used for various purposes by various people. One was pretty well set aside for the gamblers and drinkers use. They'd light a campfire and spend most of the night there sometimes. A couple of others were for the lovers in the community. Both licit and illicit. Just let it be said that if a car or cars were parked in the curve, you kept your eyes on the road and not on the hill. It was just amazing what you could find around these knolls in the daytime, but I leave that to your imagination, also.

Two curves farther on up the road was where Jim and Norma lived. The rented the old George Pinch house, a board and batten tiny little frame house. Old George and his wife raised nine or ten kids in that house. It had three bedrooms, all small, and a kitchen, outside privy, and a lot of land around it. But the land was no longer farmed and was covered hip high in broom sedge every summer.

Jim and Norma had rented the house just after they were married, and, for a time, were able to get their car across the old timber bridge. But it had rotted to the point where he was afraid to drive across it anymore. As we approached the house, we could plainly see that the car was parked there on the road, knew they had just gotten home, and should be preparing to get their little girl in bed. But there were no lights. And that seemed a little strange. We had been talking all the way up the road about what Jim might do about the dent in the car that Bill had left. Bill and a few of the others called out to Jim but there was no response from the house. So we continued on up the hollow toward the house. We never heard a word about the dent, but he did get a different car shortly after that.

Every now and then the river would flood and cause backwater to come up the creek. This part of the hollow was almost three miles from the river itself and I can only remember one time when we actually got backwater that far up the creek. That was in 1956, I believe, it was a long time ago, but I do remember that the water was so high that it covered the hard road all the way up past the Fire Road entrance, completely covering the bridge there on the road by Virgil's house. The water was so high that it got into the little field we farmed for Grandma and Grandpa and almost got into the road leading off to Clints' house.

Between the swamp and Jims' house, the road went up a slight grade and at the curve between them, was some twenty feet above the level of the creek. As a result, all the water that fell on the hill and the road wanted to pool on the road between the swamp and that first curve. This was a fairly long straight stretch of road, about two hundred yards, and had always been a nice solid stretch. But one year, about 1957, late in the year, we had a spate of terrible rains. Not enough to flood, but enough to keep the ground soggy from late fall into winter. Then we had a very wet winter on top of the fall rains. and the bottom fell out. We, along with some others, put tons of rock into these holes but never were able to keep them filled. Cars and trucks got stuck in the mud constantly. Then the weather broke and they graded it back flat just as it dried out and it was fine through the summer. The next winter was just as bad or worse. Freezing, thawing, snow, rain and the road broke down again. Even the school bus had a difficult time negotiating the road. Finally, after repeated calls by residents and the school board, the state came in and put truckload after truckload of rock and gravel on the stretch and finally got it stabilized.

Around the curve from there, was another straight stretch of about three hundred yards, past Jim's house, and then it curved around the hill again. Directly across from Jim's house, was a gas company road that led off Maple Creek Road and wound up the hill to a gas well and pipeline near the top of the hill behind our house. The road was only used to company jeeps up the hill for right-of-way maintenance and for growing boys to use to get where they wanted to be.

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XVIII

UP THE BRANCH

Part II


I met Jake at the grocery store the summer before I started the first grade. He was there with this Dad and Mom getting a pair of shoes for school just like me and my brothers. His brother, Mel, was there too as was his sister, Rhonda. His Mom was a medium sized woman with a lot of blonde, frizzy hair and Rhonda had the same kind of hair. Jake had blonde hair and Mels' was brown, like his Dads'.

My brothers and I all got what we called brogans for school, high topped boot type shoes, but Jake got a pair of patent leather loafers and I wished I could have a pair like that. My father told me he couldn't afford them and, anyway, when winter got there, Jake would be wishing he had some brogans too. I don't think my father was too impressed with Jake or his Dad, they talked funny and had such high airs and Jake's Mom, she was worse than both of them, always talking about what she had in Michigan and what she would go back to as soon as Marcus was called back to work in Detroit.

When school started, Jake and I became good pals. He brought marbles from home and we'd play every day. He was better than me but we still liked to play. He'd give me twenty in the morning and they had to last me all day. If I lost them back to him, I could only play with the ones I had left. At the end of the day, I had to give them all back to him anyway so he could take them home. Sometimes he'd forget to bring them in the morning and we'd run to his house at lunchtime and bring them back to school so we could play at afternoon recess.

Jake and I did everything together and in the evenings he and Mel would come around to our place and play. We would rip and chase all over the place, climb hills and playing the creek, race up the trees and down again. He got a bike for Christmas and I got to ride it a few times before he moved away. Mostly though, he and I would get on it and it would fall over with us. His Mom got so mad because we scraped and scarred the paint on it but his Dad just laughed and said he'd put some more paint on it.

Jake and his family moved away, back to Michigan at the end of first grade. That was a sad time for him and me but his Dad got laid off again about a year-and-a-half later and they moved back. They didn't get to move back into the same house and had to stay with his grandpa at the top of the hill. But that was okay, he still attended the same school as me. We didn't play much marbles, though, but a lot more tag and softball. By this time Mel had started school, and that made it just that much more fun. Sarah had started playing with the girls more, too.

At recess, one day in spring, Mel had to go to the privy really bad, and he took off at a dead run. The school had just had new gravel paths laid down between two-by-fours and Mel was moving fast. At the fork of the new walks, the boys had to turn right and go up the hill to the privy. If you went straight ahead you ran into the coal house, turn left and you went to the girls privy. Mel didn't make the turn quite quickly enough, realized his mistake, made a quick right turn and tripped over the two-by-fours. He was wearing lightweight pants and so his knees, both of them, were scratched and small gravels embedded in his skin. Lucky dog, he got to stay off school the rest of the week.

Again at the end of the school year, their Dad got his recall to the Detroit and they moved away. They returned just before the start of the sixth grade. Jake and I were inseparable that year in school, taking on all comers (they had consolidated three smaller schools into ours the year before.) Mel made new friends and quit hanging around with us. Sarah never hung around with us, except going to and from school, when she walked between us most of the time. And just as all good friends do at some point, Jake and I had our one and only fight that year.

After school was out one day, I had to get a dozen eggs at the store. Red put them in a small bag that barely held them, since he didn't have any cartons for them--he bought the eggs locally, sometimes from us in years past, and no one had cartons unless they were a grocer or whatever. Jake and I were going up the hard road, almost to the hollow entrance, when he said something I didn't like, out of the blue. Sarah was walking behind with her sister. I told him to not say things like that and he repeated it and began to tease me. As we turned into the hollow road, I got him over to one side and, with the eggs in one hand, delivered a good swing at him. Missed him completely. Off balance, I swung again. Didn't miss. Bloodied his nose, he's saying he's sorry and crying. I'm doing the same. Then Sarah has her arm around me and telling me that he shouldn't have been teasing me and asking what it was that he was teasing me about. You know who and what it was about. I made up a story on the spot, Jake swore by it. And I didn't break a single egg.

I never told Sarah what he was teasing me about. The one and only time he ever had. Jake and I made up. Sarah hung around us for a few weeks to make sure we were okay. We were best pals when he moved back to Michigan, not to return. I never saw him again after my sixth grade year.

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XVII

UP THE BRANCH

Part I

You know I grew up in this old hollow. Didn't leave it until I was a freshman in college. And some of my most precious memories come out of here. Of course when I went to school at the local elementary, I had to walk out of this old hollow for six long years. And like all old men, I'll tell you right now that the spring rains were harder, the winters colder, the snows deeper, and everyone knows that the summer days were always hotter here in this hollow. "It was two miles over and three miles back," as Roger Miller told us, and uphill all the way, coming or going.

I parked my old truck down where the tavern used to be. It was torn down about thirty years ago while I was somewhere out west. The tavern was the drinking hole around these parts for as long as I can remember but I guess it just got to be too much for the community. Or maybe it got too expensive to run. Or maybe there were other places to go when it was closing down. I don't know. I wasn't around these parts then. But when I was a kid, I drank my first beer there. I was only thirteen or fourteen at the time but the guy sold it to us anyhow. I think the oldest one of us was only around seventeen or so. We'd go in there and drink Coke most of the time, and shoot pool. The pool room was off to the side of the tavern itself, in a separate room, and they let us play pool without having to be eighteen. At that time you had to be eighteen to buy beer or wine, and twenty-one to buy liquor. Usually my three brothers, a friend and me were the ones who played, and it wasn't very often at that.

We sure saw and heard some strange (to us) things while in there as kids. They used to have cabins out back in the field behind the tavern. I'll leave it to your imagination as to what may have gone on in those cabins, but I will tell you that one cabin was reserved for the gamblers in the area. The others were used for what you are probably imagining.

One time, I couldn't have been more than seven or eight I guess, they had a country music group come out from the city on three or four successive nights. They set up a stage on the creek bank across the field from the tavern to use for playing the music so the crowd would have a fairly large place to sit, stand or whatever. My memory fails me as to what the leader's name was, but my brother told me lately that it was Anderson, but that is not important. The group was made up of six or seven people who appeared regularly on the local radio station. Every evening they had some sort of game they got the kids involved in. The last night they were there, they were going to have a cracker eating contest. Somehow I got put up on stage along with three other kids about my age. The trick was that you had to eat eight or ten crackers and then whistle to win the game.

Of course, you didn't get anything to drink with those crackers until you had whistled. We all started eating those crackers, and I can tell you they were dry as toast. It was hard enough to chew them, dry and stale as they were, much less swallow. But I got it done and finally my mouth got enough spit back in it to let me get out a short whistle before any of the others. So I won. My prize was a small box of candy that you could buy at the store for less than a nickel. Big deal. Then as I was walking down the stairs off the stage, the emcee let the crowd in on the fact that I was the only one of the group that knew how to whistle--and then he gave them a bottle of pop to drink. But I didn't get any. All I got was that danged old box of candy. Can you say "upset?" But I managed to go around behind the stage and found their carton of pop and pulled one out and drank it, while they were busy singing and playing.

Later on, when I was in the ninth grade and after, we had a pickup baseball team. We played other pickup teams from around the area on a field next to the drive in down at Ferguson Ridge Road, or occasionally, at their fields, though usually at our field since it was a regulation field and didn't have stumps and wires and trees and crops to interfere. New baseballs were a little expensive for country boys, so we put out donation jars in all the local stores and the like. We got a pretty good response to our jars (and had fairly good crowds at our games), usually picking up three or four dollars a week at each jar each week. After buying a couple of new balls, we would generally have a few dollars left over, and we would spend it on playing pool or at other stores in the community. I guess we figured we needed to keep the local economy going.

Looking around here at the intersection of the hollow and the hard road I can see there have been a lot of changes, but some things seem never to change. And there on the hard road is the evidence. It looks like a vehicle pulled out of the hollow and was headed north toward Huntington, probably going slow, when a car came around the curve and couldn't get stopped in time to avoid a rear ender, then swerved right, into the ditch and up the side of the hill. I saw it happen at least once a year while I lived in this hollow, and I guess things just never change. At least this one hasn't in the last forty years.

The hollow road is different though. It is now asphalt with gravel along the sides. But not much gravel--not much asphalt either, from the looks of it--and the road is narrower than it used to be. The graders used to scrape the road before elections, and they graded it right over to the fence and to the top of the bank on the other side. Now it must be six or eight feet narrower than it used to be. Back then it was just sand rock, sand and mud. But it was one of the better roads the WPA put in, good drainage and lots of sand rock pounded into it for most of its' length anyway. The elementary school had been relocated up this hollow from out on the hard road after I moved away and the gravel only is along the side of the road up to where the entrance to it was located. The school was closed fifteen or so years ago and is now a community center. Past there, the road narrows even more as there is no gravel side and the scrapers don't come this way anymore.

Looking south from the intersection, I note that Frans' and Eds' place has been torn down and a new mansion has arisen from the dust of where it sat. Must be ten or more rooms in that new place, two story and a huge landscaped yard. Ed used to have a really nice place there, two story, frame, white, long driveway, tall cedars lining it, neatly kept lawn and beautiful flowering bushes around everywhere. Just a beautiful old farmhouse.

The new place looks good, but seems too modern. Plus, too many other buildings have been erected, like the old school building and some sort of garage-type building that is out of place. All the grass is gone, there is no paving, only old ugly dirt and gravel and lots of ruts. The nice small pasture where Ed kept his cow between the hollow and his house is gone, bulldozed over with nothing in it, just an ugly scar on the land.

And looking north, the field that served in my youth as a truck garden is now an equipment yard with heavy machinery in it. What a waste. You didn't even have to fertilize that field. The tomatoes just grew like crazy, and the potatoes and sweet potatoes, too. Squash, like everywhere, grew rampant on that field and the corn was great. Yellow and sweet, you didn't even have to cook it to eat it, it was that good. Now it's just weeds and rusting machinery that someone has abandoned here.

When I was a kid, Grandma and Grandpa rented the field for a few years. All of us kids helped set out the plants or seeds as the case was. We also hoed and weeded for them as they were getting rather old and Pa couldn't see much anyway. One year we had so many tomatoes that we couldn't eat them all, can them all or even give them away. We got into a tomato fight with each other and when we got home, we all looked like we were bleeding to death. Even our two old bachelor uncles were in on the fight. Thank God, they were, or we would probably have gotten some licks if they had not been as red as we were.

Here at the intersection is also where I had a fight with my best friend when I was in the sixth grade. The reason for the fight is no longer significant, only the fact that two really good friends could actually come to blows over some real or imagined wrong the other was doing. I am still glad that it didn't cause any long term problem between us.

NOTICE TO LURKERS

I appreciate greatly your interest in my blog. And I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it. And I must admit I sometimes wonder who you all are. But just knowing you are there is a plus for me, for I know that I am not writing in vain. So if you will keep reading, I will keep writing. And if you ever feel the urge to comment, please do so. I'm not a mean person--I will publish it just as you write it, with the exception that I do not allow cursing or smut. I do not consider a damn or a hell as cursing, by the way.

Welcome back and keep on keepin' on.

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XVI

THE BIKE

I've got five dollars and it's...

We were poor. We walked everywhere we needed to go. Or bummed a ride with someone or rode the Logan bus into town. Most of our friends had bicycles. We didn't. We were poor.

And then we suddenly had some cash in our pockets from selling strawberries and decided we just had to get ourselves a bicycle. There were four of us, so if we pooled our money we thought we could probably get us one. But not a new one. Those things cost too much, twenty-five to forty dollars. While we had a little cash, we didn't want to spend it all.

And the the god of kids looked down and smiled. One of our friends had just gotten a new bike from his parents and was willing to let his old one go. So we negotiated. And the price was right, almost unthinkable. We had about thirty bucks between us, but he was willing to let his old bike go for only five bucks. Even back then, in 1954, that was a pretty good deal. And it still had both fenders, even if the tires were old. It needed brakes and could use new bearings in the wheels. Shucks, the tires would last a little while longer. We could rebuild the brakes, and putting new bearings in was cheap to do. And five bucks? Sure.

So the deal was made. No warranties, no help to fix it up. Just a flat five and walk away with it. And we did. Walk away with it, that is. The tires were flat so we pushed it the two miles to the house, stopping on the way to pump up the tires. Which were flat again before we got it home.

The two older boys weren't too much into riding the bike, but they still coughed up their $1.25 each and we alternated riding it for about a half mile, until the tires went flat on us, using our feet as drag brakes. We discovered that repairing the brake was was a job we really didn't want to do, and it only cost a few more dollars to get a new coaster brake and put it on. So the next time we went to school, we stopped at the five and dime and got a brake and bearings for the front wheel.

Ah. Rode like a new one then, and it would stop too. Next job was to paint it. So the next time we had cash, we stopped at the five and dime and got a half pint of paint and smeared it over the rusty metal. Made it look better. We had a lot of paint left over so we knew we could redo that paint job whenever we wanted to. But pushing it down to the store to pump up the tires really got to be a drag. We asked around and some other friends supplied some old worn out tubes. We patched them and put them in. It worked good for a while. But then we discovered that one tire had a small hole in it and pinched the tube which let the air out. So we got some old tires from those same friends and doubled them up on the wheels.


We now had four tires and two tubes on that bike. Not a good idea, I can tell you. Coming home from the store one evening with a full bag of groceries in one arm and holding the handlebar with the other, a tube blew out. The inner tire had shifted allowing the tube to be pinched between the two tires. Rats. Now I had to carry the grocery bag and push that #*(T%$ old bike too. All the way home, all the way uphill. Back on foot again, I found two fairly good tires at a friends house, paid him a buck for both and demounted the old and remounted the new. You know what was next--push it down to the store and pump them up. But it solved the tire problem for as long as we had the bike.

A few months later, the handlebars broke on one side. Just tore apart right at the barrel. We sawed it off to get rid of the snags, right against the barrel and rode it one armed from then on.

Now I was a pretty competitive little fellow when I was a kid, and my next older brother knew it too. He was always getting me to do stupid things because he said he could do it. And I was dumb enough to believe it most of the time.

One afternoon he came into the house and told me that he had ridden down the front path, into the road, pumped all the way down the hill and made a right turn across the bridge at the bottom that went up Finney Creek. Without braking. A ninety degree turn. I told him he couldn't possibly have done that. He insisted that he just had.

Sure. I tried it. Boy, you really go fast down that hill. And I just knew he couldn't have done it. But he said he had. So here I go. Here comes that turn. I made it about three quarters the way across that old wooden bridge before it laid down in a skid. I'm on the deck of the bridge on my right side sliding toward the edge. The bike has already gone across the bridge and is upsetting in the field. Wish I had. I hit the side board on the bridge, rolled over on my stomach, slid right on over and down into about eight to ten inches of water.

Wet, disgusted and just plain mad at myself for being such a fool and allowing myself to be taken in again, and at my brother for having done so, I still had to push that (*^$ bike back up the road to the path and then up it to the house. I looked all around for him. He was nowhere to be found. And by the time he was back I had cooled off enough not to start the fight I had contemplated walking back up that hill.

We have both laughed a lot about that little incident over the years, when one or the other brings it up. And I can't honestly remember how we got rid of the bike. I remember riding it when I was about seventeen, just before I got out of high school.

And I still have a scar to remind me that you don't have to be stupid, no matter how much someone goads you to be so.

HOOTIE SAYS, "MORE POETRY, NOW"

So who am I to argue. The first is a cold and snowy one. Better get a blanket!


A SNOW AT GRAMPA'S


Cold and bright the morning dawned
Over the hills near Grampa's home,
Giving just a little hint
Of the snow that was to come.

Just before the first flakes came
Drifting slowly as the fell,
From the pasture came the sound
Of Betsy's old cow bell.

Betsy knew what was to come
As she began to move toward the barn.
The world would be white in no time.
The barn was dry and warm.

The horses followed Betsy's trail,
Their breath as white as snow.
The sheep moved closer to the shed
Down by the bungalow.

Snow was falling faster now
And covering the farm in white.
Wood was brought into the house
Against the coming night.

The stock was fed, the old cow milked.
The barn door closed. The old bull tethered.
The dog and cat were brought inside
To keep them from the weather.

The house was full of cooking smells,
Fried chicken and apple pie.
The old folks sat before the fire
And remembered snows gone by.

The snows they'd seen in fifty years
While raising kids on the farm,
All grown up now with kids of their own.
The fire and their memories kept them warm.

All night long the snow came down
And covered all in white.
Next morning we gazed out upon
The snow in the sun so bright.

Two feet high outside the door
And three feet high in the lane,
The old man pushed his way to the barn
To feed the stock hay and grain.

The snow lay on for four more days
But it was snug and warm inside.
A memory for them to share
Another time when the kids came by.


The next was written one day when I was feeling kind of low about this old world and what we are doing to it. And the problems seem to be multiplying.


STEWARDSHIP

There are times I just want to be by myself,
Just to be with my thoughts,
Not being social, not talking at all,
To think what mankind has wrought.

We've conquered the land, conquered the seas,
And think we're kings of the earth.
We've even taken steps in space,
For whatever that may be worth.

The earth is ours to command,
To do with as we please.
But we have made an unholy mess.
Believe me, friend, God sees.

We've dumped our trash in oceans deep,
We've done just as we wish.
But God has seen the way that we
Have destroyed most of His fish.

Out in space there's lots of room
For Man to put his mess--
Satellites, space stations, where will it end?
We can only guess.

The Bible says there'll come a time
When God again will take command.
Then fires will burn and waters boil,
Uncontrollable by man.

Stewardship is what we need
Of all that has been given to us.
Until that time I'll use my pen
To quiet all this fuss.

And with that, have a good day.

TICK RIDGE FACES THE SOUTH

Late last fall, I purchased a book entitled "Tick Ridge Faces The South" by Danny Fulks, author of "Tragedy on Greasy Ridge." It is a soft cover issue and the price I felt was quite reasonable. Mine cost only $14.95 plus tax. And I bought it at a supermarket in Barboursville.

After I had read it, I let my daughter have it to read. I don't think she ever did. But in any event it is back in my possession now. And I have again glanced through it just to make sure my original thoughts about it were correct. And they are.

His dedication tells quite a bit about both him and the book. It reads "This book is dedicated to men and women who work for the Man." Pretty straightforward. Just like his book.

In the book he tells some of the older tales of life in this area. But the real meat is his descriptions of the people who inhabit this area. His work as a teacher and a citizen of this area is brought forth to illustrate the backwardness and the beauty of the people who inhabit his book. Down to earth country people. College students just learning about life in the real world. Hopes. Dreams. Successes. Failures.

He includes a section on Floyd Collins who died after being trapped in a cave in Kentucky back in the 1920's, of the efforts to free him and of the circuslike atmosphere around the cave while those efforts were ongoing.

He tells of the hillside coal mines, of hunting and fishing, of his own life and his search for who and what he was and is. And perhaps more importantly, of why he is what he is. Country music. That godawful rock and roll invasion. And going back to the roots.

His book rolls on like that Buick Roadmaster one of his characters drives. And it rolls just right. A good read on a rainy day or a cold night before a fire. Laughter comes out whether you want it to or not, and an occasional tear as you recognize all your old buddies and your old girlfriends, and you are no longer old but young and remembering the good times.

All in all, a good read for anytime.


"Tick Ridge Faces the South", by Danny Fulks, published by Mountain Press, Ashland, KY, 2006

BLOGGERS REJOICE

Now for those of you who who have been told repeatedly that constant use of the keyboard will lead to carpal tunnel syndrome, take heart. It aint so.

A blurb in the April 17, 2008 issue of "Family Circle" magazine dispels such an idea. Using as their source the Arthritis and Rheumatism journal, the magazine says:

TYPING MAY NOT CAUSE CARPAL TUNNEL SYNDROME AFTER ALL

In fact, the more time you spend in front of the computer, the less likely you are to develop the condition, according to a recent study that surveyed 2,465 people, ages 25 to 65. It appears the repeated low-force muscle activity can decrease the risk of edema, swelling caused by a buildup of tissue fluid, which sometimes leads to carpal tunnel syndrome.

Page 56.


So what do we now do with those hundreds and maybe thousands of typists who have filed claims with workers compensation boards across the country claiming carpal tunnel syndrome was caused by their work? Sounds like we have an industrial injury that is not an industrial injury at all. And I wonder how many of those cases are simple arthritis and rheumatism, caused primarily by heredity in the first place. How many misdiagnoses are we paying for? How many employers have suffered and are suffering higher premium rates for these misdiagnoses? And how many of those misdiagnoses have been caused by workers who do not want to work, but would rather suck the public teat instead?

Interesting little blurb.

WEST VIRGINIA COMMONPLACE BOOK

It happens. There are days like this. Days when you just do not really have anything to write about. And you feel bad, because you know there are things that need to be addressed. But your heart just isn't in it. Today is such a day.

It is a dull, gray overcast day this morning. I had my breakfast at a little after 5 AM, have done some reading, a little book put together by Jim Comstock, past editor and owner of the WV Hillbilly newspaper. It is called "West Virginia Commonplace Book." And he didn't do a bunch of writing in it. It is mainly composed of hundreds of news articles reflecting on the early days, and even some more modern, of West Virginia people and places.

But what is most interesting is the 1,000 Questions feature. On every page there are five or six questions pertaining to people, places and events unique to West Virginia history. I always thought I had a pretty good grounding in the subject, but I find that I can usually only answer one or two per page, and have to look at the answers he gives at the end of each set of questions. Here's a sample from page 158--

496. Your grandparents could have attended what college in St. Albans that you can't?

497. Where in West Virginia is nickel plate made from matte, an ore from which all impurities, except sulphur, have been removed, and which is brought into this state from mines in Ontario, Canada?

498. The county seat of Cabell County was moved to Huntington in 1887 from what town?

499. What West Virginia woman almost got dunked for being a "common scold?"

500. There must have been some good reason for pouring a barrel of James River water into the Ohio River at Huntington in 1873. What was the reason?

Easy, huh? I knew three of them right off. I had heard of the incident in #499, but did not know her name. And had no idea of the answer to # 496.

The answers--

496. Shelton College
497. At the International Nickel Company in Huntington.
498. Barboursville
499. Anne Royall
500. Celebration of the completion of the C & O Railroad to the Ohio River.

Interesting little tidbit from page 206--HOMECOMING-Back in the early 1950's a man was arrested for being drunk on the courthouse lawn in Huntington. Arraigned before a local judge, he threw himself on the mercy of the court, explaining that he had run into some friends who he had not seen for years and had been celebrating with them. Sounded good, but further investigation proved that he hadn't seen his friends because he had just finished serving a term of several years in the State Penitentiary at Moundsville.

OK, the questions above really aren't quite fair to some. But everyone knows our famous presidents, right? So here's some presidential trivia questions related to the Mountain State--

394. This president owned more of West Virginia than Jay Rockefeller and the federal government combined.

395. This president sat down on a rock at Harper's Ferry and said that what he saw from where he sat was worth a trip across the ocean.

396. This president took his last train ride through West Virginia.

397. This president's John Henry snipped West Virginia's umbilical cord.

398. This president said "I will" in West Virginia.

399. This president allegedly left a wood's colt in Lewis County.

400. This president who really gave a dam for West Virginia, dedicated it-the Summersville Dam.

401. This president, traveling over the Midland Trail, reportedly stopped to attend a funeral in Ansted, because his name was the same as the woman's being buried there.

402. This president, without the fanfare which would go with a present president's presence, did his fishing in the waters near Weston.

403. This president, writing the chronicles of winning the west, started with West Virginia.


And while you think about those, here is a question that many know the answer to, particularly if they really studied much West Virginia and colonial history--

404. In West Virginia there is a marker which indicates the line which George III drew, beyond which no settler could settle. Where would you find this marker?

Of course the answer is in in Mineral County, near the crest of the Allegheny Front. And the more obvious response from the settlers was a big "Yeah, right" and they kept coming, sometimes going the route of over to the New River and down it to the Kanawha Valley, or continuing westward into Kentucky through what is now the southern coal fields or through the area which is around what is now Grundy, VA.

Here's the presidential answers--

394. George Washington
395. Thomas Jefferson
396. Dwight Eisenhower
397. Abraham Lincoln
398. James Madison
399. William McKinley
400. Lyndon Johnson
401. Andrew Jackson
402. Grover Cleveland
403. Theodore Roosevelt

And we all have heard of the silver tongued orator, William Jennings Bryan. He came to West Virginia one time to visit the graves of his grandparents. Were did he do this?

The graves are located at Ona, Cabell County, WV.

Larkin McDowell applied to secure a post office at the place he lived in Summers County, WV. As attestation at the end of his letter of application, he made the statement, "Now this is true." Sure enough, his application was approved--to open a post office at True, WV.

I have to hand it to Comstock, he has a neat little book. I have enjoyed it tremendously. If you want to have a looksee, you might find it in any West Virginia Public Library. I chased my copy down at the Barboursville Library and will be returning it in a few days.

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XV

BIG OLD SCHOOL BUS

Part VI

The principal of our junior high school served his last year at the end of my ninth grade year. He had finally made it to sixty-five. He was somewhat rotund and as bald as a peeled onion. Quite naturally, his nickname was "Baldy" or "Chrome Dome." He and I never liked each other very much. I think it probably sprung from the time I was in the seventh grade and had a bad experience with a hot dog I had eaten for lunch. I had been back in class for about fifteen minutes or so and just knew I was not going to keep it down. Now, I've had a gut like an iron pit all my life. I felt really good all morning, but that hot dog was really working on me.

I told the teacher and took off for the bathroom. I was in the "B" building at the time and had to go down the stairs, across the driveway, up the steps , down the walk, into the main building and down the hall to get to the bathroom. I made it. But just barely. I spewed into the first lavatory, right by the door. I cleaned myself up, swished a lot of water and spit it out, then sat down on the stool. Up and do it all over, this time in a commode. Flush and clean up again.

About five minutes after the second time, Baldy walks in. He asked me how I felt and I said weak and nauseous. His response was that I needed to clean out the lavatory, that I should have used the commode, and that "You country boys are going to have to learn to use the bathroom properly." And I thought, "Yeah, and there are privies all over this town?" Well, what a hoot!

I told him that I ws not going to clean the lavatory, that that was the janitor's job, not mine. I told him I was lucky to have made it into the bathroom at all and didn't spew it all over the hallway. He replied that, yes, I was going to clean it. He also informed me that I needed to come to the office when I had gotten it all cleaned up. He walked out. I pulled off some toilet paper and put it on the end of a pencil I had found, placed the toilet tissue at the bottom of the lavatory and ran the lavatory about half full of water. Then trudged down the hallway to his office.

When I got there, the secretary told him I was there and he called me into his office. He asked if I had cleaned it up and I told him that the lavatory was stopped up somehow and the water wouldn't go down in it. He had me sit down and told me he was going to call my parents to come and get me. I said he'd have to have aloud voice because we didn't have a phone and neither did we have a car. He was just about to blow a gasket and was fingering that old paddle in his right hand, but he got himself back under control. He let out a great sigh, the telephone rang, and the bell rang for us to change classes. He waved me out, I retrieved my books and went to the last class of the day. From that time on, it seemed that every time I turned around, old Baldy was watching me.

Being kids, we loved to bait him whenever we could get by with doing so. And the very best time to bait him was when the buses lined up on the street out in front of the school at the end of the day. On our bus, we at the junior high school were sometimes the first to load, sometimes the high school kids were on the bus when it pulled up out front. And there were times when we were the last bus in line, right in the middle or the very first one in the line. We always liked it best when we were in the center or last. But the center was really prime time for us.

Being in the center put us right at the steps leading from the street to the walkways that led to the front doors of the school. Baldy loved to stand on the steps, leaning on the rail and observe the loading of the buses. Weather permitting, which was just about all the time unless it was pouring the rain, the windows on the bus was either partially open or wide open. A busload of kids creates a lot of heat inside the bus, especially when it is not moving.

And the windows being at least slightly open was ideal for our favorite pastime of Baldy-baiting. I never knew of a driver who ever said the catcalls were coming from his bus. In fact, they laughed as much as we kids did about it. And every bus had its' good and its' better catcall artists. Acknowledged by all the kids as the very best, was a kid who lived on Upper Buck Creek and who rode our bus. He could change the sound of his voice from a deep bass to a high tenor in an instant, so Baldy never knew who he was looking for. This kid would move from the back of the bus to the front and back again making his music--"Hi, Baldy,", It's Mr. Chrome Dome," "Fat and bald, that's the man"--and he would vary the call up and down, high or low, from each end of the bus.

One afternoon, hot October, windows all down on every bus, it started as the first bus rounded the corner and continued from every bus as they lined up--a constant chorus, with our guy orchestrating the song, it seemed. Baldy was getting more and more upset. He finally exploded and jumped onto the steps of our bus, climbed on up into the bus and yelled that he would get the persons expelled who were making the calls. Our guy was hunkered down near the back of the bus, Baldy turned his back, and the kid yelled out, "Baldy, Baldy, Baldy" really quick. Before Baldy could get turned around, the kid was sitting in the seat as if nothing was going on.

He started back into the bus and suddenly, from the bus in front and the bus behind us, there arose a continuous hoot of "Baldy" and "Chrome Dome". He jumped down off the bus and went to the one in front, then to the one in back, and as he passed there were a lot of calls from our bus. Frustrated he went from bus to bus telling all the kids that they were going to get expelled if the catcalling did not stop, that he would catch every one who was doing and make sure they got expelled.

No one ever did. And the catcalling continued for the rest of the year, if anything worse in the spring than it had been in the fall. He retired that year from that principalship and took a job as a teacher in Logan County. But the thing I remember most about him was his constant reminder to all the males who attended the school, "Boys will be men." He lived to the age of about 90 or 95, after finally retiring for good at about 80. His daughter died a couple of years ago.

MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES XIV

BIG YELLOW SCHOOL BUS

Part V


The school board, in its' infinite wisdom, attempted to send me and a group of other kids in the neighborhood to Southern Junior High one year. None of us had been made aware of it prior to school starting so we naturally rode the bus to our regular school the first day. We were all called to the principals office at the start of the day and were given notes to take home to our parents informing them that we had been transferred to Southern for that year. We were not allowed to attend classes that day so we all ended up spending the day at the local library.

The note directed us to catch Shorty's bus the next morning. We did, and attended classes at Southern that day. During the day, the parents of each of us went to the board and had us transferred back to our regular school. All except me. We did not have a car and so my parents were unable to get into town until they could get a neighbor to drive them in. So I attended Southern for two more days, hated it, and my parents sent me back to the regular school again. Of course, as I was enrolled at Southern, I still could not attend classes at the regular school and I spent most of the day in the principals office that day. The following day I returned to Southern and my parents shanghaied Harry to take them into town. I returned to my regular school the next school day and finished junior high there.

As my tenure at Southern was so short, I really didn't get much out of the experience, but I did learn that you did not have to keep your eyes open to drive. Why I ever noticed this I cannot say, but at every curve on the road we came to, Shorty would close his eyes. Now I do not mean that he would blink. A blink only lasts a blink, less than a half second. But Shorty would close his eyes the moment we started into a curve and keep them closed until we were coming out of it. Maybe he was just resting his eyes, but it scared me. One morning we were headed south on the hard road and were approaching a long but fairly sharp curve, just south of Jones Creek Road. As we started into the curve, I glanced up into the mirror and Shorty had his eyes closed.
I began counting and it was one, two, three, four seconds and his eyes popped open and then shut again for a count of three and we were out of the curve and on the long straight stretch. All the way on the straight, he simply blinked his eyes, but he did his closing act again on the curve at the bottom of the hill, too. That got me curious, I guess, and I began watching him, and it happened on every curve. I couldn't wait to get off that bus. Fortunately, I had only one more day on his bus. He drove bus for all his life and as far as I know, he never had a wreck. But that was scary.

What bugged me most as a kid was that we got to school at about 8:10 AM for the start of school at 8:00AM. Not a good sign, and then we had to wait in the evening until Shorty had completed all his other runs from town over Lower Buck Creek, through Bugtown and over Hardy Creek. We were the add-on to his route (he lived in our neighborhood.) And he was irritated that the route had been added. And it was really galling to him I guess when, after only one day, I was the only passenger he had on the route. So he got there about 4:15 PM, and I was the only person left around the school when he got there, everyone else had gone home by 3:30 or 3:45 PM. My brothers had ridden the bus home from high school and had gotten home about 3:30 PM and I never made it until about 4:30 PM.

Oh, and as a side note, about three weeks after I had gone back to my regular school, my parents got a letter from the school board that told them that the board was considering transferring me to the town school because of the lateness of the driver getting home in the evenings, and the extended length of the runs he was making. The board asked if that would be acceptable to my parents. Now that was really strange, as I was already back at my regular school, had been for three weeks and Shorty was complaining about the length of his run? Was he really still making that morning run? That had to be the only one in contention since the evening pickup only took him off the hard road long enough to make the pick up and return to the hard road and continue on to his home, dropping me off at the road I lived on. I never got the straight of it. It didn't matter to me, I was back where I wanted to be anyway.

As can be imagined, we had a lot of fun while riding back and forth to and from town. One of the real joys was the Sandy bridge. I noted in the paper a few months ago that they are still arguing about whether to demolish that old bridge, since they built a new one about four years ago. Some folks are saying it is an historic bridge, while others, like me, say blow it away as it is an obstruction in the river. I have no idea who is going to win that argument. As far as I am concerned, it should have been replace about fifty years ago.

At that time, the road made a sharp right turn onto the bridge, regardless of which direction you were going. The road was so narrow and the approach so short that there was only room for the bus, barely, to make the turn onto the bridge by going off onto the dirt on the west side, or almost scraping a tree on the east side. The west side was also a blind entrance as there was a store building on that side. The bridge was a one lane bridge so there was the constant occurrence of having to back up if there happened to be another vehicle on it at the time of your approach. This could occur on both approaches due to the store on one side and the presence of high brush and trees on the other blocking the view until you swung onto the bridge.

The bridge was old and not structurally sound most of the time. We had it both ways during my school bus years--there were times when it was judged to be sound and we drove right on across, and there were other years when it was judged so unsafe that we were forced to get off and walk across while the driver waited until we had crossed before he would bring the bus across, where we would reload. And, of course, there were the car and truck drivers that were in such a rush to get across that they would pull out onto the bridge while we were making our walk across, and the driver would be forced to back up to allow them to pass, as he usually pulled right up to the bridge before letting us off. That could get a little tricky as there were always vehicles following the bus, and they had to back up also.

I never like heights. So it was terrifying for me to walk across that bridge. At one time, the bridge still had the wooden plank flooring so it wasn't too terribly bad, except where boards were missing. And there were a lot of missing boards and broken boards that would trip you. Then, they stripped the boards and left only the steel mesh flooring. Now that was really scary to me. You could look down through the steel grid and see the river flowing by underneath you. When the water was at its' regular flow, it wasn't so bad, but when we had floods, and we had them often, I was absolutely terrified to make that walk. And when there was ice on the steel gridwork, it was doubly scary.

When a river rises, a normally placid stream can make a terrific noise. The river was usually contained into its' banks and was only a couple hundred feet wide. When it was in flood it was from one high bank to the other high bank, completely covering the fields under the bridge, and sometimes rose to where it was only eight or ten feet below the deck of the bridge. And sounded like a freight train going by underneath you. At those times, even some of the older kids wee scared to walk across it. So we ran. And as we ran we could see all the trees and trash floating by just under our feet, and hear that loud sucking sound of the water as it rushed by. Brush, trees, chairs, sofas, jugs, cans, you name it, all went by in the more than yearly flushing of the valley.

We got to walk across that old bridge come rain or shine, snow, sleet, ice, whatever. And it was not a pleasing experience. I always felt bad for those kids who had to cross bridges like we did , after I got out of school and was a little older. You could never wear good clothing to school since you didn't know what the weather was going to be like. But you wore the best shoes you could afford to keep out the water. The crossing always added an extra ten minutes to the trip. And, on the way home, we would unload, cross the bridge, reload and then drive fifty yards or so to the Sandy Elementary school and pick up the kids there to take them on home.

We were a pretty close-knit group of kids. Riding the same bus for six years with the same group of kids will do that. We generally looked out for each other at school. Fight one, fight them all. Occasionally, however, just as in most families, there would be a dispute that boiled over now and then. Most of the time these were little tiffs that were settled with just some mean talk back and forth, either at school or somewhere else, but sometimes they would erupt into something a little rougher.

And who knows what starts a fight--jealousy, a boy, a word twisted, gossip--two girls from out on Ferguson Ridge had been slinging words back and forth for a while, with murderous looks, and then one had had enough. The fight started while the bus was in motion and the driver failed to notice it until it was full blown. When he did realize what was occurring, he immediately pulled to the side of the road, but by that time the hair pulling, slapping, gouging and yanking at various parts of the anatomy was in full force. It took him a minute or so to get them apart, with all the clawing, biting and anything else to get an advantage. The penalty ended up being both of them sitting on the front seat of the bus for a while, a short while, a week or so, and everything was calm and back to normal again. As far as we all knew it went no farther, the school administration was never informed about the incident.

Gosh, I can't remember whether it was the eighth or ninth grade when this occurred. My cousin and I had the same home room teacher. At that time, we ended the school day by going to home room for dismissal. She and I drew the daughter of the principal for our home room teacher, a dried up old prune, probably about forty, looked sixty, and she knew who her father was. She taught English and was dry as toast in class.

Our bus was always the first to leave the junior high school, as it had to go back through town to pick up the high school kids. It was late winter, early spring, and we had all attended a basketball game in the gymnasium that afternoon. It ran a few minutes late and we were all late getting back to home room. The teacher called the roll, then made announcements, ad nauseam, until I told her that we had to go, that our bus would leave without us. She replied that no bus ever left the school without all the students being aboard to which I replied that that was not true, that ours left at the appointed time, students aboard or not. Of course, that precipitated another long tirade about what students knew and what truth really was. Despite all that, I pointed to our bus just making the turn down the street to head back to the high school.

The teacher said she would call the high school and tell them to hold the bus there until we could get there, as it was only a short walk--yeah, all the way across town, about twelve blocks or so. we asked for a ride over there, but to no avail, we had to hoof it. We got our things together and started. My cousin and I ran practically all the way, but as we started up the alley to where the bus was parked, the bus pulled out, heading towards the Sandy Road.

What to do, what to do? We talked for a minute or so, and decided to hoof it on home if necessary. My folks did not have a car. Her family had one, but her Dad worked evening shift and was at work by that time. No one was left at the high school, we tried all the doors, even the guys in the bus garage were gone. We got out to the Sandy Road and had walked probably a hundred yards when an older fellow, probably in his sixties, came along in a ten-ton flatbed farm truck. He stopped and asked where we were headed. I told him and he said he was headed that direction, to climb aboard, that he was going to turn off onto another road than that which we were going , but that it didn't make any difference to him how he got where he was going, and that he would try to catch up with the bus for us. Like manna from heaven.

We thought we would be able to get on the bus at the Sandy Elementary, but the bus left just as we came off the bridge. We followed it on out to the hard road, but the road was clear and the bus pulled out before he could get the driver's attention. A few stops up the road was where my cousin normally got off the bus, so she got out when the bus stopped in front of us. I stayed in because it was only about two miles on to where I could get on the bus at the Maple Creek Elementary School. And if I didn't make it onto the bus, it was only about three quarters of a mile farther to my house. When the bus stopped at Maple Creek Elementary, I got on with the elementary kids and everyone kept asking where I had been. And I had a tale to tell them.

When we got to school the next morning, our home room teacher sent us to the office. The principal said he had a note that we were not on the bus the afternoon before and he wanted to know why. we both spoke up and told him the same story, about how we thought his daughter was responsible. He said that was not the story he had gotten but he would look into it. She and I both had assumed we were going to get paddled for the way we talked about his daughter, but it didn't happen. When we got into homeroom that afternoon we were dismissed but were told we needed to go to the principals office. We thought, uh, oh, we've had it now. He handed us a letter to take to our parents in which he apologized for the incident, accepting all the blame.