Someone said I should write a blog or blab, whatever it’s called, but

I figure people probably don’t care what I think about most things.

So I decided just to share a few short stories about growing up in a

small rural town 40 years ago. I’ll try to write up a few of these

accounts every week or two. Before I get too old fogie on ya let me

tell you about one thing that has changed in that little town.

On my last visit I noticed the names of the rural roads have been

officially changed now with number designations. Even numbers for

east west roads, odd for north south or something like that.

According to the desecrators of my personal history, this is done to

help emergency vehicles and delivery persons find rural homes.

Makes since I guess, but, as for me I’ll miss the local history and

color of the area that is quickly being forgotten. I asked my

20-year-old nephew if he had been fishing down at Browns Ford or

McTaggerts and he looked at me like I was crazy. These places are

known and named for the persons that originally settled the area,

most with stories of minor triumphs and/or tragedy.  I said “you know

you turn south on Poor Farm Road”, again a look of puzzlement.  I

said “get in the car”.  I drove him to see the place where I had spent

a good portion of my childhood.  A place where just 25 years prior to

my arrival men who had no jobs, no money, and for most no hope

came to work for food and lodging. As we made our way through

the brush and weeds including a very nice mulberry bush (mmmh),

we found the floor and partial walls of the rooms. They are smaller

then the closets at my house and none had plumbing.  Today we

would say this was cruel and unusual punishment. In the grasp of

old memories, I was compelled to mention another of my old

haunts, Lahunt cement plant, which closed down in the 30’s. He

had never been. We drove out on Peter Pan Road to Lahunt Road

(oh, I’m sorry, Road 201?? whatever), but an 8-foot fence with a sign

that said No Trespassing blocked our way. Hard to believe but they

had closed the access to my old stompin’ grounds, a place of many

epic adventures. In the late 60’s, while exploring, I walked into a

clearing filled with gravestones. There was no longer a road, no

signs, no fence, only these small generic gravestones. Of the

markers that were still legible most seemed to belong to children.

That night when I asked my dad he told me of the cemetery and a

family member buried there and somehow got on to the influenza

epidemic that had taken so many. He said that some in this tiny

cemetery were probably victims of that flu The tunnels and buildings

of the cement plant were also off limits with a promise that

trespassers would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law

(whatever that is). The shadows of those broken walls were the

inspiration for many stories including the one always told at dusk of

a man buried in the wall during construction of the plant in 1890’s.

He fell into the concrete mix while it was being poured. Too late to

save him, they left him there, in the wall, with his pickaxe and shovel

embedded in the concrete, a marker for all to see. (I know this is

malarkey now but when you’re 12, wow!) The point is I would guess

only a few in that area know of the old poor farm (or why it was

needed) and fewer still know of the grave yard.

Maybe it’s because my Dad (a great story teller) worked for the

county for 46 years and as a kid I spent a lot of time with my Dad in

his truck (it had a little fan on the dash board, worthless in the heat

but very cool). On most weekends we would travel old, now

forgotten roads, setting up barricades to warn of bridges that had

been washed (warshed) out and roads that needed or were under

repair, We would set out and light up yellow dogs (large cannon

ball sized metal lanterns filled with kerosene) that would burn 12

plus hours and served as warning beacons to those traveling dark

roads of problems that lay ahead. These trips were always full of

stories and accounts prompted by questions like, “why is it called

Sweeney Hill, Dad?”  

I understand the need for change and change can be for the better.

It just seems a shame that some things are forgotten, lost to those

who didn’t live it. Especially when just beyond a few feet of brush,

or on the other side of the hedgerow lies something special. By the

way a hedgerow is a row of trees planted across fields in the dust

bowl region of the country in response to the deadly dust storms

that blew across the center of this nation. These rows were planted

as wind breaks to stop wind from carrying away the rich topsoil of

the farm land. ----They’re being cut down!