Did you
ever wonder why we sometimes think back to childhood and seem to get lost
in many wonderfully warm nostalgic times of the coal camp’s golden era?
Sure, we faced some tough times too, but are we not better off for it? Why
do we hear so many of those born in a coal camp speak of cherished
memories?
Could the answer be that it’s simply because adolescence seldom concerns
itself with the responsibilities that we as adults deal with? Perhaps we
lived a sheltered life in a place and time when innocence was a virtue.
Was it because we were not bombarded by three or four different TV
networks with horrific doom and gloom news twenty-four hours a day seven
days a week? Or was it simply that we were allowed to just be children?
When young girls played with dolls and made mud pies and little boys
played marbles and explored the mountains for fun and entertainment. Could
the answer be that we were allowed to experience failure and success,
adversity and happiness?
If you said yes to any
one or all of the above I believe you would be correct. Do you
occasionally feel like the pressures of the world are closing in on you
and sometime wish you could just escape to those carefree childhood days?
Well come join me, take a few moments and forget about those car and
mortgage payments, jobs or the worries of life you may face today. Journey
back with me to those childhood times when things were booming in the
coalfields. Pull up some of those snapshots from the recesses of your
mind. Perhaps it’s a picture of the company store where you visited so
often. Or maybe you still see that picture of your dad coming home from
the mines after a hard day’s work. Those dirty “bank clothes” and silver,
round lunch buckets were such a familiar site. And then there was Monday
“wash day” and the wind blowing those clothes as mom hung them on the
clothesline in the yard. So relax, take a deep breath and join me on a
trip back to the “good times.” The following are but a few of the many
good memories I have of a simplistic time growing up in Gary Hollow.
In the 1950’s,
especially during the summertime, everyday was a new challenge and
adventure. One of my earliest memories was what we children simply
referred to as the “Iron Bridge.” It was a steel pedestrian bridge about
fifty feet high and ninety feet long. It was much like one you would see
over a busy city street today, but this one crossed over the railroad
track and river. At about the age of five, it was on this bridge that my
friends and I would play chicken. And for the first year or so it seemed I
was always one of the chickens. At the first sound of an approaching coal
train, we would all run onto the bridge and position ourselves right above
the train track. Some of the older boys would shout, “I dare you, I double
dare you to stay on the bridge.” As the noisy steam locomotive grew
nearer, it appeared it would surely strike the bridge. Then at the last
possible moment, most of my friends and I, our hearts pounding, would flee
to safer ground like our very lives depended on it.
But a double dare was
not something you took lightly and eventually that special day came, as
the sound of the steam whistle had become a rallying call for us kids in
the neighborhood. With great anticipation we all ran onto the bridge and
took up our positions right over the railroad track. The black coal smoke
boiling from its stack was a fearful sight as this steam-breathing monster
bore down upon us. As if it were only yesterday, I remember shutting my
eyes, holding my breath and gripping the bridge rail with all my might.
Some ran, but I held my ground. As the train passed under us, its whistle
shrieked at a terrifying pitch. The hot steam and choking smoke seemed to
consume us, but after a few seconds the air cleared and I was left with a
wonderful feeling and my hair full of cinders. I had met the train head-on
and defeated it and best of all, I didn't have to be called chicken
anymore.
The rugged mountains
around Gary always held a special fascination for me and were just waiting
for a young boy to explore them. Going to the Elbert Theater and watching
Tarzan swing from the grapevines in the jungle probably had a lot to do
with it. By the age of about six, Buddy Heldreth and I had ventured up on
the hillside to the site where the Coal Company erected the nativity scene
every year at Christmas time. I marveled at how those life size figures of
sheep, camels and the three wise men standing near the manger, seemed so
real when illuminated with floodlights at night. In reality, it was
certainly disappointing when we found them to be painted wooden cutouts
propped up with a stick.
I must have been around
eight when we had explored as far as the water tank high on the
mountainside overlooking Gary. Many times the tank would overflow,
spilling water to the ground far below and forming a great man made
waterfall to play in on those hot summer days.
I was probably ten years
old when we had been as far as "Big Rock.” It was a huge boulder sitting
on the ridge leading from the water tank to the top of the mountain. With
no other rock formations in the area, it was indeed a strange sight. Big
as a dump truck and flat on top, it appeared it had been set down on the
spot it occupied. Tommy Charney and I named it Big Rock and used to brag
to the younger kids in the neighborhood about the mysterious huge rock we
had found. I recall all the excitement it generated among my friends when
I told them we had discovered an asteroid on the mountain.
When I was in the
seventh grade, Ronnie Sagady and I had explored all over the mountain
above the Gary water tank and built our own campsite that we named "Camp
Randy.” I don’t recall how we came about giving it that name. It was
situated at the very top of the mountain on a flat knoll. We cleared an
area about 25 feet wide by 40 feet long and used many of the smaller
saplings to nail against the trees, forming a fence around the cleared
site. The remainder of the cut trees was used to build a picnic table and
lean-to and of course, what would the mountains be without a grapevine
swing. Ours was just over the hillside below the camp.
If we’re honest with
ourselves we can all remember some type of mischief we got into while
growing up. For me it was my second trip to Camp Randy. At the young age
of thirteen, two of my friends and I, who will remain anonymous, decided
we would get some beer and have a party at the campsite. Late that evening
before heading to the mountains, we had another friend purchase us a quart
bottle of beer from Page’s Place, a restaurant/beer joint located in Gary
Bottom.
As we made that long
hike up the mountain trail, our mood was quite festive. We were loaded
down with all the camping gear we could carry and were anxious to arrive
and set up camp. I quickly put up my army surplus pup tent that had no
floor or front flap, while my buddies built the campfire. On the menu for
supper were pork and beans and canned biscuits. Since we had no way of
baking, I had been told that biscuits would fry up nicely in a frying pan
coated with grease. This is when our problems began since no one brought
along grease, but I did have a stick of butter. I unpacked the big black
iron skillet my mom had given us to use and promptly cut off about half a
stick of butter and dropped it in the pan. With the campfire roaring, the
biscuits fried up to a nice golden brown in just a short while. But what
we were really excited about was taking that first drink of beer. After
all, we had seen adults in the movies and on TV drink beer and they seemed
to get so happy and have so much fun. As I passed a biscuit to my two
friends, we each filled our cup with what was by now, very warm beer. When
I took that first drink, I had never tasted anything so disgusting in my
life. I must have gagged with every drink, but not a one of us would dare
lose face and not drink that cup of beer.
Well of course we all
had to act out what we thought it would make us feel like and within just
a few minutes you would have thought we were all “higher than a Georgia
pine.” But then reality set in and we came crashing back down to Earth. I
will never forget all three of us hanging over the fence and throwing up
those butter soaked biscuits and warm beer.
My experience doesn’t
offer a pretty picture, but it taught me a lesson that night. If my two
buddies happen to be reading this, I expect they would admit they learned
a life lesson also. Many of my friends and I continued to visit Camp Randy
until I was in senior high school. I have many wonderful memories about
those trips to the mountains and it’s been forty-plus years since I’ve
been back. I keep saying I’m going to go back for a visit. Someday, I will
return there to relive my youth again.
Thank you for
accompanying me on my journey back to the good times. Funny how a
half-century ago can be so long, yet in some magical-like way seem like
only yesterday. Although those times have now passed into history, their
memories are but a thought away. Perhaps for just a moment or two a
wonderful nostalgic feeling filled your heart as you were reminded of some
of your good times. Tell your children and grandchildren about them or
write them down. Don’t let them fade away!
Buddy French......Copyright
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