by Buddy French

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 2005.......budm16@juno.com....

"GOOD TIMES" REVISITED

By Buddy French

For the last several years I've dreamed of going back to Gary and reliving some of my childhood memories. In reality I had pretty much concluded that would probably never happen. So I thought of writing the "Good Times" story, enabling me to visit there through my writings. Then my son Tim and daughter Teresa were in for a visit during Christmas and read about my adventures of growing up there during the good times. At their insistence we made that trip back to my memories in Gary and I'm sure glad we did. They seemed intrigued at the thought of standing on the same spot where their dad played when he was a little boy.

We arrived in Gary at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning just two days after Christmas. We were warmly dressed for a trip to the mountains and I had brought along a sharp machete. Although it has now been condemned and barricaded, we first visited the Iron Bridge. Oh, what memories of playing on that bridge and waiting for the train to come. I remembered how we would stand on the top beams that were only about ten inches wide and walk the length of the bridge.

I noticed that the old Sycamore tree that once stood at the end of the bridge was gone. Only the rotting main trunk, standing about ten feet high remains today. It was a very large tree, perhaps 80 feet tall. When I was about ten we would wait for a really windy day to climb it. As we neared the top, the main trunk was no more than six inches in diameter and you could experience a great ride. It seemed like it would sway five or six feet back and forth when the wind blew hard. I sometimes wonder how I ever survived childhood.

Next, we climbed the hill to where the Nativity scene was erected at Christmas. Of course there's nothing left there today and it's all grown up. I did find the telephone pole with the large light box mounted on top that represented the star that the wise men followed. We were able to take some great pictures of Gary at this location.

We then climbed up to the water tank and discovered it's no longer in use today. I was surprised how it seemed so much smaller than what I remembered. Then we began following the ridge behind the tank until we came to Big Rock. I was really flabbergasted when I realized Big Rock had shrunk from the size of a dump trunk to that of a Volkswagen Beetle. It's amazing how large things seem to an eight or ten year old kid. I still remember how we would crawl up under the sides of it and pretend it was a cave.

As we continued up the ridge you could see where a bulldozer had been through several years earlier and changed the lay of the land along the ridge. It was obvious my mountain playground had been timbered and the only evidence of the large oak trees I remembered were now rotting stumps. For the most part the forest was now thinly populated with young poplar trees. When we had climbed about half way up the mountain we encountered an inch or so of snow on the ground that made climbing a little more difficult. It's quite a long ways to the summit ad my kids began to question if I was sure I could still find Camp Randy. Of course there was never a doubt in my mind, but it did seem twice as far as when I was a kid. I remembered there were times when we kids would decide to go camping as late as eleven o'clock at night. On one occasion the flashlight batteries went dead about halfway up the mountain and we managed to find the campsite by only the light of the moon. After that I always used a kerosene lantern. My dad is now 88 years old and he had that old lantern when he was a kid and we still have it today. After a lot of huffing, puffing and sweating we arrived at Camp Randy. My son and daughter really seemed thrilled that we had found it. Tim even suggested that we go over the hillside and look for that quart beer bottle that I had thrown as far as I could after getting sick that night, but I wasn't about to do that :)

There's nothing left at Camp Randy now. The lean-to and table we had built were long gone, but in my mind's eye I could still see me, Gail Jasper, Tommy Herlovich and many others sitting around a roaring campfire and listening to the night sounds of the forest back in 1957. I will forever be grateful for my kids insisting that they bring their dad back home to the carefree times of his childhood. Places may change and never appear the same again, but in my memory they will be captured in all their grandeur for the rest of my life.

By Buddy French - Copyright 1006- budm16@juno.com

Thanks go to Buddy French for his permission to post his Good Times and "Good Times" Revisited on Country Roads website. bssims