Family fun before mouse world

Last week I went with my wife, daughter, nephew, and sister-in-law to Disney World in Orlando, Florida. We were fortunate to get a condo at a resort inside the park and avoided all the stress of driving, parking, ticket buying, etc. We had a wonderful time filled with "mechanical" magic for the whole family. On the trip home, I began to think about my family outings of long ago and how much simpler (and less expensive) they were.

During my early childhood, our most popular form of family recreation was to go on a picnic. On many hot summer Sundays our entire family would pile into several cars and head up the mountain via highway 176 to Melrose, an area midway between Tryon and Saluda. We called the place, "Picnic Park", located above the river on a plateau between the mountains. The park was on the left just before the road that goes to Pearson's falls. Across from the park was (and I think still is) a long building that housed a gift shop and store.

The picnic area consisted of a trail going through the woods down to the river. I remember the rock-filled river and the swimming hole at the end of the trail. Along the trail were massive boulders where we could spread out our picnic blanket if no wooden tables were available.

The day's fare usually consisted of fried chicken, potato salad, pork and beans (cold, not baked), and my mother's great devilled eggs. For some unknown reason, food tastes better on a picnic. We usually cut a watermelon for desert, but occasionally the men would take turns cranking out a tub of homemade ice cream from a wooden churn. Our only worry at Picnic Park was watching out for the tiny red bugs we called "chiggers". Even they could not spoil a wonderful day of swimming, wading in the cold river, and stuffing ourselves with food.

For younger adults in the family, Rainbow Lake was another weekend getaway to enjoy with their young children. I am not certain where the lake was located, but I think it was near Spartanburg (maybe someone out their in cyberspace can tell us its location). Rainbow Lake was situated below a tiered, sloping hill that had concrete steps that led down to the water. The tiers were bordered by short concrete walls that gave the place an amphitheater look. Sunbathers spread out on the tiers on blankets and lawn chairs. At the top of the hill was a refreshment center where one could buy drinks, burgers, hot dogs and popsicles. Large speakers at the center blared out old rock and roll hits such as Fats Domino's "Blueberry Hill". The lake itself was small, but it had a huge floating dock that one could swim out to. My mother, brother and I spend many wonderful days at Rainbow Lake.

If we didn't want to drive up the mountain or down to the lake, Harmon field was close to home, and was a great place to have a picnic especially if the threat of rain was eminent. There was (and I think still is) a long wooden shelter with a tin roof that housed a number of picnic tables lined up in several rows. On many Sundays our small church would have what we called "dinner on the grounds" under the shed at Harmon field. Each member of the congregation would bring a delicious covered dish to share. The women would lay the spread out on the tables while the men would fill large metal wash tubs with ice and bottled drinks. Before and after the meal, children and adults would spend leisure time together, wading in the Pacolet River, playing softball, riding on the steel merry-go-round, or swinging.

Today, our families have a myriad of recreational options; so many that, ironically, it sometimes becomes stressful just in deciding what to do with our leisure time. Long ago, our options were fewer, but simpler and, I think, more restful.

Please sent me your comments and reflections, and have a restful summer. shefner@savcps.com.

‘Johnny B, a good man’

Sometimes we don't realize who our true friends are; especially when the friendship is brief in time and when social and peer pressures prevail over what our heart tells us. This column is about one such man. My friends and I called him "Johnny B." I am still not certain what his last name is. Time has erased his image from my mind, but I will always remember Johnny and one day in 1964.

In 1964, I was a sophomore at Wofford College. My "running buddies" were Phillip Davidson, who also attended Wofford, along with Jack Layne and Roger Dale Morris, who attended Spartanburg Junior College. During our summer breaks, we would often hang around McFarland's funeral home on highway 108 in Tryon. I know this may sound strange, but another friend, Jimmy Sawyer, worked there part time in the summer. This is where we met Johnny B. Johnny was a "jack of all trades" at the funeral home. One of his unenviable tasks was to assist in digging graves (this was before the advent of backhoes to do the back breaking job).

Johnny B. was a black man with an ingenious mind and a dry sense of humor. Jack, Phillip, Roger and I would stop by the funeral home to joke around with Johnny and Clarence Scoggins, a man who fulfilled the oxymoron of being hilarious while working all of his life at such a serene place. We filled many summer hours outside the funeral home laughing and playing practical jokes on one another. That all changed in 1964.

It was a cold Saturday night in February. Jack, Phillip and I drove to the Beacon Drive In in Spartanburg to eat and to cruise around in Jack's Pontiac GTO. Roger met us there. Roger Dale Morris was the nineteen year old son of "Cotton" Morris who ran a flower shop in the little red brick building near Barnette's Esso service station in Tryon ( I believe the name of the shop was Lilly Flower Shop). Roger's dad and step mother had a boat house in the basin on Lake Lanier. It was one of our gang's most popular gathering places. While in college, we spent many summer days swimming off the dock there and playing cards on the deck.

On that fateful night in February, Roger pulled up beside Jack's car at the Beacon and asked if we wanted to play Poker all night at the lake house. Normally, we would have said, "sure", but that night we declined the offer.

Jack, Phillip, and I decided to spend the evening cruising around Spartanburg. Later we would go up to Pat Pruitt or Carolyn Smith's house on Markham Road to watch television.

The decision not to go to the boat house to play poker was one that would haunt us for years to come. That night Roger went to the boat house alone. In the early morning hours on Sunday, February 10, 1964, he decided to travel to his mother's house off Sigsbee Road near Spartanburg. Roger never made it to his mother's house. He apparently fell asleep at the wheel of his Corvair, overturned several times and was killed instantly.

Several days later Roger Dale Morris was laid to rest. I remember the graveside service like it was yesterday. Hundreds of people attended. The majority were young, college students. Jack, Phillip and I were pallbearers. Though we grieved over the lost of our best friend, I must confess that we also had a dark sense of being in the spotlight at the service. We were being noticed by all the other people, and felt "special" even in our moment of sorrow. Other people were shedding tears, but we were men and were not supposed to cry. That is until we looked up on a hill near the grave site.

There on a hill above the grave site, but away from the crowd, stood a lone, muscular black man leaning on a shovel. It was Johnny B. As I looked at him, I could see tears streaming down his cheeks.

When the service ended, Jack, Phillip, and I walked up the hill. We embraced Johnny. Jack questioned the fact that Johnny had to fill in the grave.

A smile broke through Johnny's tear stained face, and he said, "Don't worry I'll tell Roger a few jokes while I'm doing it. He would like that."

We never stayed in touch with Johnny B. after the funeral. My research indicates that he may be still living in Chesnee, South Carolina. Johnny B. this column is for you.

You are a good man.

I hope to hear from other school friends and classmates. E-mail me at shefner@savcps.com.

Remembering ‘mill town’ in Tryon

Lately, I have been reading with interest about the conversion of the old Adams Mill into luxury condominiums. The articles brought back memories of another textile mill in Tryon back in the mid 1950s, but first a little history lesson. In the early to mid 1900s, textile mills sprang up across the south. To lure farmers into the industry and to better control their labor force, many of the mills built living accommodations on mill property for their workers. Employee's rented these small, wood frame houses that surrounded the mill. Even though the textile mills were located inside a town, the mill and the worker's houses that surrounded the mill took on a social and geographic dimension of their own. Thus, the term, "mill town" came into being.

Tryon had a mill town and to a small degree still does. In the mid 1950s the mill was Southern Mercerizing. It was located just off highway 108 on Scriven Road. I remember riding my bike there to play with my cousins, Fredia and Linda Porter. I would ride down Rector Street until it came to a dead end at a creek. After pushing my bike across the creek via a foot log, I followed a steep path up a bank onto highway 108.

A short distance away was the entrance to mill town marked by a small mill pond covered with green algae and water lilies (I understand that the pond is still there and is home to many ducks and other fowl).

After getting onto Scriven Road, my ride started going down hill towards the mill that lay at the bottom. On the hillside on my right were a series of wood framed houses differing in size but similar in appearance. The first house that I recognized belonged to Albert and Arlene "Cooter" Sawyer. The Sawyers had two children, Jane and Jimmy. I understand that Jimmy now lives in Thailand. To my knowledge Mrs. Sawyer is one of several matriarchs of mill town that still live there. The next familiar house belonged to Mr. David and Minnie (sic) Laughter. Minnie was known by all as "big mama." Further down on the right was a house where I would stop quite often. The house belonged to Lum and Margie Peace. They had a small store in the basement of their home. I would stop there to buy penny candy or bubble gum. Continuing on my journey, I would pass by the Owens' house perhaps pausing to wave at Gene, Gary, Punch, or Elaine.

As I approached the mill, Scriven Road split off to begin an oval course around the large structure. The mill was a large brick compound that was several stories tall and surrounded by a chain link fence. I remember narrow windows that, I believe, were either painted over or darkened by some manner. Steam rose from several sources both inside and outside the compound.

I passed by numerous houses as I approached the first turn of the oval course around the mill. In the middle of the curve, a road veered off, breaking the oval. I followed that road, crossed a bridge over a small creek until I reached the Corn residence. Orville and Bea lived there with their children, Gerald and Jean. Then I reached my destination, Uncle Fred's house.

My Uncle Fred Porter and his wife Ella Mae worked in the mill for the greater part of their lives renting the house from Southern Mercerizing (When the mill closed they bought the house for a few thousand dollars). On many days Fred worked third shift (11 p.m. to 7 a.m.) at the mill. In fact, he dug out a tiny space underneath the house and built a concrete block bunker. It became his daytime sleeping place that was cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and, most importantly, devoid of light and sound.

The purpose of my journey to mill town was to play with Uncle Fred's two daughters, cousins Fredia and Linda. Often we would go to the creek beneath a small bridge near their house to catch minnows. Our "minnow trap" consisted of a mason jar and a yarn cone from the mill. We would cut off the smaller end of the cone, place a piece of bread into the jar, and stick the small end of the cone into the jar. Miraculously, the tiny fish would swim into the big end into the jar, but could not find their way out of the smaller end!

Late in the afternoon, after a day of minnow trapping, tadpole catching, and creek wading, I would get on my bike and continue around the mill toward my home. I passed by several other houses to complete my lap around the mill. The Bradley family lived near my uncle. Bill and Ruby Bradley had several children including Charles, Ernest, Kay, Barbara and Frank. Further down the road, I passed Brenda and Fred Gibbs' house. I remember their son and daughter. I think their names were Jimmy and Carolyn. As I approached the final turn of the oval around the mill, I passed the Belue house. Joyce Belue, a classmate at Tryon High School lived there. Joyce later married Shank Hipp, "Mr. Harmon Field." From the Belue house, I began my uphill trek up Scriven Road toward highway 108. I passed by other houses including my Uncle J.B. Porter who lived in mill town but did not work in the mill. There were many other families that lived and worked in mill town. I regret not being able to mention them all, but would appreciate e-mails from other mill town residents.

I will always remember my trips to mill town. In the early sixties, unionization and cheaper wages overseas led to the demise of the southern textile industry (even thought Carolina Yard still operates in mill town). When the textile mills closed, their empty buildings became vacant eyesores. Their demise also signaled an end to the close knit mill town communities. This is sad, but I am delighted to see mill buildings such as Adams Mill being refurbished as condos. Perhaps, in some small way, this will bring back memories of mill towns for people. It did for me.

Footnotes: Kudos to my cousin, Fredia Porter Morse, for providing information on the families of mill town. Frieda still lives there not far from her childhood home. Without her description of mill town, this column could not have been written.

Thanks, "cuz"

My "bulletin buddy" Linda Frieze has solved yet another mystery from my last column. The little log house behind the "new" Tryon High School gym was used for Brownie Scout meetings. Thanks, Linda.

Pedagogy on a pedestal, part two

By Stephen Hefner

In "Pedagogy on a Pedestal Part One," I fondly recalled my early school days and the great group of teachers I was fortunate to have. In 1958 I was forced to leave the cocoon of elementary school and clumsily fly into the wind blown courtyard world of Tryon High School. Fortunately, there were many wonderful teachers there to catch me and to tether me on stable ground.

I have many flash back memories of Tryon High School, but a few images linger longer in my mind. In present times it seems appalling, but I can picture teachers and students taking a smoke break together in the high school courtyard between classes. The cigarette commune consisted mostly of male teachers and students. In those ancient days the macho male gender could smoke, dip snuff, and even chew tobacco without social or institutional consequences. A few females joined the courtyard cluster, but they were branded as being "bad" girls.

I remember the "new" gym with the gravel parking lot where students
– fortunate enough to have one (I wasn‘t one of them) – would park their jalopies. In the fall of my senior year, I boosted my ego by playing on the basketball team in the gym. We wore shorts that would seem ridiculously short today. The playground reserved for high school physical education classes was beside the gym. I can picture an old log or wooden house on the playground behind the gym. I don‘t remember its purpose.

I had many excellent teachers during my tenure at Tryon High School. To name all of them would take several columns. Thus, I will limit my recollections to those educators that stand out in my memory. Every student that attended Tryon High School in the 50s and 60s (and even earlier) will remember Ms. Myrtle Baldwin. I remember her as an elderly, tall and thin woman who wore her hair up with a huge ball in the back. I envision there being a pencil stuck in the ball of hair, but I my only be picturing a stereotypical teacher. I won‘t say that students hated Ms. Baldwin, but most of them dreaded her history or Latin classes. She was a stern teacher who expected the best from her students. Her dry sense of humor was not recognizable by most people. It was only when I got to college that I fully realized that she was probably one of the best teachers than I had in high school.

My Biology teacher in high school was Mr. Jack Kirstein, a tall, red-haired man who wore black horned rimmed glasses. He wrote in my annual, "My best to a student who is friendly and has an excellent brain" (so you see he was a very smart man!). Mr. Kirstein‘s Biology class highlight consisted of students dissecting a fully grown cat. If I recall correctly, my partner in doing this dastardly deed was Joan Hall. I remember taking one of our cat‘s kidneys and secretly placing it in another team‘s feline. They proudly pointed out to Mr. Kirstein that their cat had three kidneys!

Billie Metcalf was my basketball coach and physical education instructor. He was a handsome man who believed in staying in shape (if he could see me now!). I remember running wind sprints during basketball practice to the point that the entire team left their lunch on the steps leading downstairs to the locker rooms.

For senior English I was fortunate to have Elizabeth Correll as a teacher. Her room was next to the cafeteria overlooking the courtyard. In her class, I wrote my first footnoted term paper. That exercise prepared me for college more than all my English courses put together.

There were many other great educators at Tryon High School during my four years there. Teachers such as Mr. Bobby Joe Harris, Mrs. Isabel Hines, Coach Frank Maennle, Mr. Jeff Pyatte, Mrs. Margaret Rawlings, and Mrs. Margaret Swann helped me immensely in my quest for learning.

My final collage of Tryon High contains scenes of a trip taken by a small group of closely knitted seniors. Each year the senior class traveled to our nation‘s capital. Being a small group, our class rented one railroad car for the trip to Washington. It was probably the first time many of us had ventured north of the Mason-Dixon Line. I remember snapshots of the trip such as: Elizabeth Rhodes (Burrell) walking through the train pretending to be a veiled princess; Rion MacDonald and several other boys (maybe even me!) getting caught sneaking up to the girls floor at the hotel; a boy (maybe me!) putting toothpaste in Phillip Davidson‘s hand while he was asleep, and tickling his nose; and finally the group picture in front of the U.S. Capitol building (trick photography made me appear at both ends of the class); The trip was a great end to my four years at a great school with superb teachers.

Lost and found department:
In my last column, I noted that two long lost friends, David Hall and John Oakley, have been reunited through this column. To my great surprise and joy, I, too, have been reunited with my elementary and high school buddy, Charles Fishburne after 46 years. Charlie had been searching for my whereabouts on the internet to no avail when he came across the bulletin website. He read the column in which I mentioned him in "Tryonite Trivia." Charlie saw my e-mail address and the rest is history. Charlie has retired from the television broadcasting business and now has a film production company. He is married to his singing partner, Willye, and enjoys taking care of his ten-year old granddaughter, Jessica. Charlie and I are enjoying reminiscing about our days in school. Charlie also has been in contact with Jimmy Flack, our Tryonite buddy who now lives in San Francisco, California.

I hope to hear from other school friends and classmates. E-mail me at shefner@savcps.com.