By John Fraizer
Growing up in a small town can be a privilege that many are not fortunate to experience. The insignificant happenings can often be stored in our memory by our senses without us realizing. Later the cueing caused by visual, auditory, taste, and olfactory senses elicit memories of earlier times in our lives. This can trigger the emotions of bygone days and bring visions of fond memories that have been entrenched in our hearts and come flooding back to this thing we call reality. This hot and humid summer of 2024 has definitely evoked special memories of my childhood days in my hometown of Gassaway, WV. I’m sure others who grew up in small town America in the same era as I did have similar memories of the small towns of Braxton County which is blessed with several such places, or it could be memories of any small town, community or hamlet across this nation. As a child who lived-in small-town America prior to widespread whole house air-conditioning and internet or the fanfare of vacation trips and the pressure of “What did you do on your summer vacation?” I wish to convey my memories of summer life in my small town.
As children we were expected to entertain ourselves during those hot and muggy days of summer. Some of my earliest memories are those of my preschool years. Once winter was passed and spring came forth with the greening of the grass and leafing of the trees, and windows were opened to let in the cool breezes, I remember late at night listening to J.C. Baker’s and other big trucks changing their gears as they came in and out of town.
Of course, I was expected to be in bed late at night when we lived on Kanawha Street, but I decided to tip toe to the screened window without mom or dad hearing me. Looking over toward Dode Moore’s and the “finer” establishment of the Barking Dog along Elk River near the Gassaway town limits I could hear the trains as they whistled their crossings at the steel bridge over Elk River and out River Street near the current Go-Mart office. I can still see and hear those sights and sounds of our small town.
The next day dawned, and I knew it would not be long until the end of the school year. But, as school was still in session, many of the high school students would be walking past our house up Kanawha Street to the ballpark. With the talking and mumblings of a large crowd of students I could hear the conversations and laughter from behind the front porch banister of our home where this shy kid hid on the hot afternoons. From my hiding place I listened to their conversations and learned their names. Eventually I gained the courage to peak over the banister and yell their names and pop back down to my hiding place and they would look around to see where the voice originated.
One day I yelled at Bill Powers and Mike Rollyson as they were walking up the hill, and they ran over before I could retreat to the inside of the house. So, I laid there with my head down trying to pretend I was asleep by “playing possum” on the front porch floor. Bill said, “I know you are not asleep Johnny Frazier!” while Mike just laughed as they ran back to the road to continue to the ballfield.
From the security of the porch, I also witnessed the Gassaway High School Band as they went marching on the hill to practice their musical talent. I would listen to all the songs and the blowing of the whistle of their marches. I remember wishing I had one of those whistles so I could make those uniformed people move in every direction imaginable.
The mail was delivered by our mail carrier on foot, and I can still hear the clanging of the mailbox lids as Jack delivered it to the porches of homes all around me. As summer commenced his long pants turned to postal uniform shorts and his big brown leather mail bag looked very heavy to have to tote around. He wore those black shade sunglasses and would smile as I would holler “Hello Jack!” I did not even know his last name but after asking my mom, learned that his last name was Phillips.
The progression of summer would bring trips to the ball field to catch tadpoles around the swampy perimeters of the field. I can still smell that gooey black swamp mud. Those ebony little creatures with little tails were caught in a sand bucket or a jar which I would take home to watch as they would soon lose their tails and form squigging little legs and feet. A crawdad found here or there was thrown into the jar or sand bucket also. After all, my dad had taught me how to catch those swimming backward creatures without getting my little fingers pinched. Sometimes after becoming bored, I would break off at the stem a chocolate-brown cattail that grew among the rich green reeds bordering the field. I would then blow off the seeds in much the same way we would a yellow dandelion after it would turn white with parachute seeds. The wind would take them airborne until they would go drifting to the ground to start a new life.
Memories of other activities of the ballfield fill my mind. Near the huge sycamore tree and beside the baseball backstop batting cage at the field was a swing set that was used by the neighborhood children from where I watched the summer baseball games of the “big guys.” You can only imagine the things this little boy saw and heard. I can still hear the crack of the wooden bat or the thump of the glove as the white leather red laced baseballs made their sound on their way to their destination amid the screams and cheers of the onlookers. The rusty chains on the swing set creaked as I went back and forth in a relaxing rhythm on those hot muggy days and evenings trying to reach the sky with each swing.
Did I mention the “secret path”? Leaving the field the path was well worn (and must have not really been a secret) as it wound its way from the far side of the field down the small drain across the little flat below the field to the city pool. It was not the path coming off the hill from Woody Parson’s house that Brent Boggs used to traverse to the ball field with that big leather baseball glove on his hand. My sister Susie and I would often take the secret path if we did not want to walk down Linden Street and up the hill on Birch Street to the pool. If we did take the Linden Street route Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Bennett would wave as we passed their homes. As we pulled the hill, if at home, the Bosley girls Debbie and Pam along with their mother Midge would also wave. There we would go with my sister Susie wearing her bathing suit and me wearing my “trunks” and carrying our striped bath towels. As we walked, we listened to our “flip flops” cracking our heals. When going to the pool, I would always take my famous underwater goggles. My favorite TV show was Sea Hunt and I thought I was the starring actor Lloyd Bridges searching the depts of the ocean for treasure and sea creatures.
The pool, with the chain-link fence surrounding it, loomed large. There I cast my eyes on the first diving board accompanied with a high lifeguard chair that I remember. I can still see Coach Jack White and those that came after him lifeguarding and keeping us children (and adults) safe. They would watch the pool looking for anyone in trouble and toot their whistle for us to get out for a break. If the heavens became cloudy with a thunderstorm that might threaten lightning, the pool would be closed, and all would have to leave the facility.
If the whistle represented a break for the lifeguard, people of all shape and sizes descended on the snack bar. Mom would give us enough change for a popsicle or some Lik-M-Aid. The Lik-M-Aid would stain our little hands with whatever flavor color we chose.
Mom would always tell us to watch the traffic and warn Susie not to let me get too far into the big pool. A “Baby Pool” separated the larger pool, and both had been painted with a deep Robin egg blue paint to match the summer sky. I can still smell the Chlorine, see the nose and ear plugs, and hear the splashing of the water. There were colorful beach towels laying on the concrete pool deck and huge sun umbrellas of assorted colors. People basked in the sun getting a tan for their pale white bodies amid the screams and laughter of the crowded place. There was always someone on the diving board that could do a flip as others waited in line to take their turn to show their sterling qualities of diving. The jukebox with its 45’s was cranking out the favorite tunes, many of which were the Beatles that had taken America by storm.
As the years progressed and my preschool days were over, I had to walk out Braxton Street to attend Davis Elementary School. The end of spring would bring dandelions and blades of grass peeping through the cracks in the sidewalk. The myth of step on the crack or you will break (whomever you chose) back was practiced many times. I would often run out the street to school and many times I fell, tearing a hole in the knees of my pants. My parents labeled me as clumsy and not careful but later in life I learned from doctors that it was due to one leg being shorter than the other that created the stumbling. The constant smell of fresh cut grass from mowing and clipping of yards was always in the air.
The ending of school for the year in my youth gave me the feeling of freedom and later in my teaching career often elicited a response from a famous quote by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty we are free at last!” It also reminded me of the actor Mel Gibson playing William Wallace in the movie Braveheart where he yells to the Scottish Clans: “Freeedom!” The freedom was a time of joy and anticipation of what the summer season would bring to our communities.
As summer commenced, we as children were to be outside and expected to create our own entertainment. If not pushing a lawn mower or going to my grandfather and grandmothers farm to help in the hayfield, I did many things to prevent from being overwhelmed by the heat, humidity, and doldrums of summer. Sometimes it was a fishing trip by floating in a john boat down Elk River hoping to tie into “the big one” with my neighbors, Leroy and Jo Short. The smell of the river water and frogs leaping in the grass near the gravel sandbars would bring those fond memories of all the fishing good times. A trip by us guys at night after a rain to Bobbie and Rhonda Gay’s yard would provide some of the biggest nightcrawlers I ever did see. There we would go with our flashlights and tin cans locating the slimy little creatures sticking their heads out of the holes in the lawn. A person had to be quick, or they would retract back into their burrows. Mrs. Gay would come out and ask us what we were doing only tell us to take as many as we wanted for our great bait fishing trips to slay the Elk River monsters from the deep. Maybe it was sitting on the bank of the stream trying to set the hook on a huge carp and wishing for a catfish or muskie with my fishing buddies John James, Tom Knight, Dennis (aka Shock) and Willy Shaver and Scott Gallaher and Jim Cottrill. Sometimes Tom Gunter would join us. The chewing, rubbing, and smoking “backer” was passed out and used freely. When it came to the stogies our excuse if caught was that we were just keeping the “skeeters” off. And yes, we caught some big ones and many times we told some big ones!
Sometimes there were trips to the Dairy Queen owned by Calvin and Barba Chapman. If not walking, many rode their bicycles with shiny chrome chopper handlebars with streamers on the rubber handles, banana seats with “sissy bars”, and with guidon flags attached to the back rest. Sometimes they had balloons and clickers and crepe paper in the spokes of the tires. I can still see and hear the click, click, click of the bikes.
Some of us on the other side of town would go to Art and Clara Thorn’s drug store. Clara or Art would accept our pop bottles for return, and we would purchase a cold one that was so cold that the steam would come rolling off the fogged glass bottle as the cap was removed. I still can hear the “pop a top” sound as the metal cap fell into the cap receptacle ringing in my ears. Sometimes the ice would come to the top of the neck of the bottle, and we had to drink it fast to keep it from overflowing, resulting in brain freeze. My favorite snack at Thorns was the chocolate, banana, chocolate layered ice cream on a stick called Super Stars that I liked best! The Red, White and Blue version of this treat would come later for the nation’s Bicentennial Celebration. Clara was always gracious to the neighborhood kids as we sat in the booths watching (and feeling) the ceiling fans blow. While there, both Clara and Art would talk to us and ask questions about the latest town news.
Often a trip was made to the A&P, Bean’s Grocery, or Woody’s Meat Market to pick up something for mom. While downtown, I might sneak into the pool room for those special hotdogs. Sometimes my friends and I would refresh ourselves at Ideal Cut-rate with an ice cream soda. If we were there for breakfast or brunch, we would watch the local “Otis Campbell” order his special of a boiled egg, a cup of Joe and a toothpick. The aroma from the town restaurants triggers those thoughts, smells, and sounds of the simplicity and warmth of a hometown community. Trips to Jarvis Five and Dime to get that big stick of bubble gum with baseball cards included, brought the anticipation of getting my favorite baseball stars. If we made our way to the upper end of town and into the Dixie Five and Dime, we were immediately overwhelmed with the smell of fresh popcorn and candies of all assorted types. To this day, l can smell the popcorn and sweet candies from Mr. And Mrs. Long’s business establishment in my memory.
As the years would come and go much time was spent occupying ourselves and to do so all the neighbor kids from across town would often interact with each other. Neighborhood kids might play at the city park and or at the Catholic Hill ballfield, especially after the town erected new hoops for us “kids.” The basketball nets would be worn away with so much use and the elements would eventually bring the ragged remnants of the net down. It was sometimes months before the town would replace them. The best players could jump high enough to “get” the rim, a good feat as the stark hole had no net to hang on. Basketballs pounding the court could be heard all over town from a distance. We would all enjoy a game of basketball and if there was not enough to play team ball, we played other basketball games such as soap, horse, one-on-one etc. on our late summer evenings and nights as the temperatures cooled making the humidity bearable. I remember the likes of John James, Randy and Rodney Skidmore, Rick Chapman, Vic Shingler, and his brother Dave and the McLaughlin boys, along with the Wilson brothers Jeff and Ronnie, Greg Nettles, and Mike Boggs that frequented the court. Sometimes we were accompanied by “Big S” Steve Schiefer who was older than most of us or other times even little Jimmy May came to play with the big boys.
At the City Park beside the Community Building, Scott Gallaher, Jim Cottrill, Willy Shaver, and his brother Shock, Guy Warner along with the Verton brothers and varsity high school players were there trying to choose the best guys for their team to win. Even the McGraw brothers were there bumming a rub of “nuff” which they claimed could make them “sky” on the court. Vic Shingler always complained that he would lose one-half a box of snuff with that one dip bummed from Ronnie McGraw.
Nighttime was just as active even if not at the park under the lights. Late evenings were often graced with wiffle ball in the yard with the neighborhood kids. Scott Gallaher and the Cottrills (Jimmy, Jill, Betsy, and even little Scottie tagged along) for the game in my yard. We would play until we could no longer see the white wiffle ball and thin yellow bat(or until one team got slaughtered). After dark we would sit on the porch, swing on a porch swing “Just a swinging” or sit on the cooling concrete steps and watch the lightning bugs in the yard as they blinked their built-in lanterns for all to see.
There were camp outs in our yards in tents although we didn’t always remain in the yards but navigated the town by the street, porch, and star light. Scott Gallaher lit his lantern on the asphalt basketball court on Catholic Hill late one night. Rick Chapman can attest there were some “Black Cats” that made noises in the night.
If not on night adventures and, instead, sleeping by the screened window of my bedroom I would listen to the B&O trains idling in the depot railyard as they would lull me to sleep with the rhythm of the big diesel engines. Or maybe I would fall asleep listening with my transistor radio and ear plug beaming out the games from the Chicago Cubs, Pittsburg Pirates, or Cincinnati Reds into the wee hours of the night only to wake the next morning to white noise in my ear.
The storms of a sweltering summer day coming over High Knob above the Stewart Addition bridge brought darkness which lit the dusk to dawn streetlights, along with lightning, thunder, and winds that rocked the trees. The sound of the rain hitting the metal awnings of the houses in town reminded me of the sound of the rain hitting the metal roof at my grandparent’s farmhouse that would lull me to sleep. Once the rain stopped, the sound of the tree frogs belching their communication brought a feeling of security as everyone should know that if there was anyone on the prowl the communication of the tree croakers would have stopped and, thereby, signaled intrusion. The fire, ambulance, and local police sirens rarely sounded but when they did all knew there was something up. Although I moved from my hometown a long time ago, these memories of the simple times of life during my childhood often reappear. The names, faces, and social interaction are fixed in my memory and the youth of those days transcend the modern world and transport me to a time of friendship, trust, and laughter of a small town where people looked out for each other. Many criticize me for living in the past and I don’t agree with that criticism. Rather, the memories of my childhood and small hometown have instilled within me good qualities that have guided me throughout my life and will continue to guide my future. These qualities are found across small town America and therefore, I believe that those raised in a small town have instilled qualities which are key to the future of our great nation.