Making mud for a master

For college students, summer employment is vital not only for monetary reasons, but also for learning about the world of work. I worked at Hatch Mill during the first two summers of my collegiate years. My mother was a cloth inspector at Hatch and helped get me the jobs. The summer of my freshman year I worked as a yarn boy loading spools of yarn onto forty or fifty looms for a weaver. The weavers were paid according to their production in cloth yards and got very belligerent if their yarn boy was tardy with the yarn or put it on wrong, shutting down the loom. The next summer I worked as a Frequency Checker in the Quality Control division at Hatch. The title sounds fancy, but it encompassed writing down each time a person spinning yarn took time off from the task at hand. I timed their lunch break, their conversations with other spinners, and even their bathroom breaks. Needless to say, I wasn't the most popular man in town that summer.

The third summer before my senior year at Wofford College I got a job that was physically demanding; yet, rewarding in many ways. I worked that summer for a true craftsman in the art of bricklaying, George Parker.

Each morning that summer, George and his son, John, would come by my house about six-o'clock in their somewhat dilapidated pickup truck. I would jump into the back and jam my skinny body between a concrete encrusted wheelbarrow and other tools. After a short bumpy ride, we would arrive at the building site.

I had two primary tasks during the day. I made and mixed the concrete known in bricklaying jargon as "mud"; and I carried the "mud" and bricks to Mr. Parker and his son. The fancy motorized mortar mixing machines did not exist at that time. I had to mix the right amount of sand and cement with a big hoe that had two large holds in the blade to allow the mix to flow through it. After mixing the sand and concrete in a wooden boxlike trough, I had to slowly mix water into the dry ingredients to the exact consistency that Mr. Parker demanded. If the "mud" did not meet his standard, I would receive a strong reprimand and the bucket of mortar would be thrown behind the newly constructed wall.

In between the "mud" making and carrying it to mortarboards along the brick wall, I had to keep Mr. Parker and his son supplied with bricks. This involved grabbing a stack of six or eight bricks with a hook and carrying them up a scaffold that varied in height.

Usually, I had barely caught up with the brick supply when one or both of the Parkers would yell for more "mud". While I made a new batch of "mud", the call for more bricks would ring out.

The job was hard and nerve-racking; however, it had its rewards. I made a good salary and I was able to observe a master craftsman at work. Mr. Parker would slap an exact amount of mortar on a brick and delicately lay it in perfect alignment by gently tapping on it. But, his true genius was demonstrated when he built corners and arches. For some reason unknown to me, bricks must be cut in half sizes to construct a corner. Today, most bricklayers use a water saw to cut bricks in half. George Parker could hold a brick in one hand and strike it in a certain place and at a certain angle with his trowel. Amazingly, the brick would break into two perfect halves. To build an arch, modern bricklayers use a plywood form to shape and hold the arch in place. George formed the arch using a keystone brick and several delicate procedures that only a true artist could maneuver. I am certain that many of the area's finest examples of brick work came from his hands.

Each afternoon around six o'clock, I returned home in the back of the truck exhausted and looking like one of those Australian natives that rub mud all over their bodies for ritual purposes. Yes, I had other summer jobs that were easier on my body, but none as aesthetically rewarding as working for the Parkers, true artists in a rustic setting.

Footnote: I received an e-mail from Gene Green who lived in "Mill Town" for most of his young life. His brother, Leon, was in my high school class. Gene expressed his appreciation of the column and related information about "Mill Town" and his father, Romey, who worked as a mechanic for Guynell Smith for fifteen years. The senior Mr. Green later fixed cars at his home in "Mill Town" and would sometimes fix cars in return for people working in his garden!

At the age of eighty-five, Gene's mother still lives there in the family homestead. Thanks, Gene and keep those memories coming in to s.hefner@comcast.com.

End zoning

Now that the title has gotten your attention, let me say that it refers to Friday night football games at Harmon field during the late fifties and early sixties.
Before Polk Central High School was built, most of the county's populace gathered on Friday night at the field to watch the Tryon High School Tigers battle a Western North Carolina foe on the gridiron. In fact, had I been on the shady side during this time ( I wasn't), Friday night between the hours of seven o'clock and ten o'clock would have been an ideal time to rob any store in town since most of the store owners would have been at the game.

On game night tickets were sold at the two entrances to Harmon field on both the visitor and home sides of the field. Many people arrived early to stake claim to a parking space directly in front of the fence on the visitor's side of the stadium.
The bleachers on this side were small, leaving ample room for cars to park "up close and personal". Being able to park in this "box seat" area had two advantages.

A person could protect himself from the frigid winter air by cranking up the car heater. The second advantage involved off the field "huddling up" in the car with one's significant other.

On the home side of the field, fans sat in the bleachers or stood at the fence that ran along the sidelines. Those standing along the fence were either coaching "wannabes" or middle aged jocks wearing faded, tight fitting Tryon High School letter jackets.

Near the end zone was a section that was probably unique to most high school stadiums. A barrel similar to an oil drum stood just outside the fence. Every Friday night, logs were placed in the drum and lit to make a makeshift fireplace. Older men huddled around the fire watching the game and spinning yarns. Now and then the barrel would sizzle as chewing tobacco was spit into the flames.

About seven-thirty, the Tryon High School tigers would run onto the field and form a circle for their pregame warm-up. They were dressed in blue and yellow jerseys, blue pants with yellow vertical stripes, and blue helmets with a yellow stripe down the middle. Visiting schools such as Edneyville, Spruce Pine, Drexel or Rosman, came on the field next. After one half of an old fashion running game football led by players such as Phillip "Smokey" Pack, Jim "Zorro" Kolb, Gary "Dynamite" Durham, "Buck" Preston, and others, the players jogged over to a grassy area near the concession stand and knelt down on one knee. There, they received an uplifting talk, a scathing diatribe from the coaches, or a combination of both. The "wannabe" coaches and aging jocks crept as close as they could to the circle of players in an attempt to hear the lectures.

Another half and the game ended. The seemingly endless trail of headlights snaked its way out of Harmon field some headed home, some headed to the Dairy Barn, and most to the Willows in Pacolet Valley. The next day Monday morning quarterbacks discussed the game as well as the next opponent.

While Harmon Field is still a great place for family outings and equestrian events, the old football field remains hallowed ground to old timers like me. I will always cherish the memories of Friday night football there s.hefner@comcast.net.

Footnote: Many thanks to Mr. J. Floyd Sauve for correcting my grievous error about the "Screaming Eagles". He is absolutely correct. The 82nd Airborne Division was referred to as the "All American" division not the "Screaming Eagles". I was careless in my research into my uncle's background. I have the utmost respect for all of our men in service. Thanks again, Mr. Sauve for the nice letter.

Edney family: A lineage of logging

Rarely these days do you see a family where generation after generation has worked in the same vocation. Most of the "baby boom" generation left their families seeking their fortunes in some other form. In recent history, many of these young people have wanted to "escape" the rural life of small towns such as Tryon to live in large urban areas. One family in Tryon has rejected the lure of the "outside" world and has continued a family business that has spanned at least three generations.

The Edney family in Pacolet Valley has owned and operated a logging business near Tryon for over fifty-one years. James Marvel Edney started harvesting timber in 1955 with his four sons, Carl, Carrol (a.k.a. Boonie), Douglas, and James. Mr. Edney started his business with three horses and one mule. Much of the Edney's early harvesting came from the mountains above the twin bridges on land owned by the late Lloyd Panther. With no modern machinery, it was a slow and tedious process dragging the heavy logs down the mountain.

In 1957, James Edney built a sawmill in Pacolet Valley on highway 176 near the family home. To my knowledge, the large rock building still stands on the same site today.
The family also replaced the horses and mule with a Fergueson tractor; however, they still had to load the heavy timber by hand.

It was a backbreaking job that would challenge the strongest of men. One son, Carl, left the business, but James and the other three sons continued on cutting timber in all parts of Polk, Henderson, and Rutherford Counties.

The first break in the family lineage came in August, 1986 when James Marvel Edney, the logging matriarch, passed on. His three sons, Boonie, Douglas, and James have continued to cut timber until this day, going on fifty-one years. Douglas, the spokesperson for the family relates that his brothers and he have encountered many yellow jacket nests and their share of rattlesnakes while working in the forest.
Reflecting upon the logging business, Douglas states that trees are in his family's blood. In fact, he has thirty-two flavors of firewood in his home.

Unfortunately, this generation of Edney loggers may be the last. Douglas, Boonie, and James each have one son. The three sons have other plans for the future at the present time. Thus, down the road the Edney Logging Company may be sold. However, the family's logging legacy will live on forever as a part of Polk County history.

Footnotes: Douglas Edney was a classmate of mine for twelve years and a good friend as well. On the outside, he is tough and brawny fitting the stereotype of a logger. However, on the inside he is soft-spoken and one of the nicest people you will ever meet.

I received a wonderful e-mail from the daughter of Johnny B. McDowell (see column entitled, "Johnny B.: Good Man"). She read the article to her father who recollected the events mentioned in the column. She said he was quite moved by the article. Emails like that make the writing worthwhile. s.hefner@comcast.net