8



Early Spring, 1970. The small town is a riot of colors. Pink, purple and white azaleas are flourishing in almost every yard I pass by as I stroll toward the downtown area. Other flowers of various colors are also in abundance. All the trees are green. Not a bare limb can be seen anywhere. The air is delightfully cool with a soft breeze coming out of the northwest. And, of course, the sun is shining bright and strong. A good day to be alive.

When I reach the downtown area, I sit down on a bench in the courthouse square. There’s a good bit of both car and foot traffic. People are coming in and out of the different stores. There’s a five and dime, a small grocery store, a men’s clothing store, a barbershop, etc.

A barbershop? That made me think a haircut might be a good idea. My hair was getting a little unruly. I looked to be in my mid-thirties so the long hair style that so many young men were adopting during this time wasn’t really right for me.

The barber shop was narrow, about twelve feet across and about twenty feet long. Three barbers, one late middle-age and two early middle-age, were cutting away. On the left side of the room were twelve chairs attached to the wall. Besides the three men already getting a haircut, another four, two men and two teenagers, were waiting their turn.

The older barber said in a friendly voice, “Have a seat and we’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
“No hurry.” I replied and grabbed a magazine and leafed through it. It was mostly concerned with events of the day. Nixon was still in his first term. Watergate was still a ways off on the horizon. Conversations buzzed around the room. I listened with a half an ear.

It was the older guy that cut my hair.
“Are you new around the town?”  
“I’m only here for the afternoon.”
“Well, I’m glad you dropped in. I don’t ever get tired of talking to the regulars but it’s nice to have a fresh face and a new head of hair to work on every once in a while.”
I replied, “Glad to be of service. How long you’ve been cutting hair?”
“Sixty years.”
There was surprise in my voice, “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
“Seventy-Seven. I started when I was seventeen. I worked for my father just like my sons are working for me. When I retire, they’ll get the business.”
“When will that be?”
“Well, I want to last longer than my father did. He retired at ninety-four so I’m shooting for ninety-five. “
“You’ll make it. I thought you were in your fifties.”
“We call it the Barber’s Benefit. Standing on your feet all day keeps your body parts in proper proportion and being able to talk to anybody about anything keeps your mind percolating and focused.”
“How about your soul?”
“We leave that to the coruscated sky.”

There was a mirror on the wall across from where we were sitting. Glancing at it, I saw a twinkle in his eye.

There was a track meet going on at the local high school. It was a three way meet. Track meets are different from other high school sports in the sense that you can have several things going on at once. While a hundred-yard dash is happening on the track portion of the field, on the inside part there can be long jumping, shot put, and pole vaults events going on at the same time. Usually, high school track meets are not heavily attended, so you have free rein where to sit. It’s also nice way to spend a pleasant afternoon.

Afterwards, I headed back to the downtown area. Along the way I noticed a petite lady struggling with a wheelbarrow in what I presumed was her front yard.

I called out, “Can I help?”
She looked me over, “For some reason you look trustworthy.”
I joked, “You should have seen me before I got a haircut at Stan’s Barber Shop.”
She laughed, “Sure, I could use some muscle power. I got carried away loading up the wheelbarrow with limbs and grass clippings. Push it to the back of the house. You’ll see a small pile already there. Just dump the contents on it.”
I promptly did so. When I got back with the empty wheelbarrow I asked if there was any more yard work she needed help with.
“Not really. I’m through for the day. Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?”
“Sounds good.”
We walked over to where were a couple of lawn chairs underground a big old tree.
I asked her, “Were you a primary school principal?”
“How in the world did you know that?”
“Just had a feeling. Tell me about your school.”
“It was built exactly 24 years ago, right around the end of World War II. A one-story brick building with a long hallway that had a series of steps that divided the grades. First grade was at the end farthest away from the main entrance, second grade in the middle, and finally the third grade which was nearest the office and cafeteria. That meant the first grade kids had to do the most walking but I found it good to be closer to the third graders. The older they got, the more I needed to interact with them. If you know what I mean.”
“How long were you principal?”
“Twenty years. I retired last year.”
“Are you enjoying retirement.”
“Let’s just say I’m keeping busy.”

My next stop was a five and dime store where I bought a yoyo. I didn’t really need or want a yoyo but I felt I needed to buy something just so I could look around the store. Real five or dime stores are thing of the past, and since I was in the past, I thought I might as well take advantage of it.

I finished off the day with a hamburger and onion rings at a local drive-in. I didn’t have a car, but I took up one of the spaces anyway. It wasn’t that busy, so nobody seemed to care. I never minded eating while standing up.

That night I passed through a swampy area. The combination of a full moon, cypress trees, slow moving water, and frog sounds made for an eerie evening. Even though I had absolutely nothing to be afraid of, I still got a feeling of uncertainty and apprehension. 

Feeling can usually override knowledge. Emotions are like waves. Knowledge is like the sand on the beach. The waves can briefly cover up the sand but at some point, the waves always retreat. The sand remains.

Sometime in the night I transition from 1970 to 1927.

The summer of 1927 found things humming in America. The New York Yankees baseball team, with the one and only Babe Ruth, was probably the best baseball team ever up to that time. Charles ‘Slim’ Lindbergh had just recently performed one of the greatest individual feats in the history of mankind, flying solo across the Atlantic in a single-engine plane that, because of the size and location of its engine, he had to look out the window to see where he was going. American literature was doing quite well, with Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and others. The Great Depression was still over two years away and Silent Cal in the White House took a moment from his vow of silence to say that the business of America was business. Nobody was arguing with him.

But many, if not, most Americans were still living on small farms, especially in the southern and midwestern parts of the country. And because of my mode of travel, that was usually the type of people I met along the way.

When the rising sun produced enough light, I take a good look around me. From the look of things, I was somewhere in the central part of the Appalachian range. Not too far away, I saw smoke wafting into the sky. I decided to head toward the source of the smoke. It turned out to be a log cabin nestled in what Loretta Lynn might call a hollow. When I got close to the cabin, I heard a baby crying. I was about to knock on the door when a voice came out of nowhere.

“Hello, stranger.”
I turned around just in time to see a tall, bearded man walking out from behind a tree. He looked friendly enough, but he did have a shotgun in his hand.
“Well, hello to you.” My voice was calm and non-threatening. At least I think it was.
The big man asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I was going to ask if I could drink some water from your well. I didn’t want to take any without your permission.”
“Well, that’s mighty considerate of you. Go right ahead.”
“Thanks.” I walked over to the well. Mountain water is usually cold and without any aftertaste. This water was no different.
I thought I’d try a little conversation. “I thought I heard a baby crying.”
“Yep. The missus just had our first youngin’.”
Before I could say congratulations, a man opened the front door and said, “Come on in, Jeb, and see what mother nature has wrought.”
As Jeb went through the door, the man came over to the well and got some water for himself.
After slaking his thirst, the man glanced my way, “Are you a friend of Jeb’s?”
“No, I just happened to be passing by when I saw the well. I stopped to drink the water.”
“I’m Doc Hill. I deliver babies in this neck of the woods.”
“Nice to meet you. How’s the baby and mother doing?”
“Just fine. I’m about to visit some other folks while I’m out this way. Would you like to go along?”
“You don’t need to stay with the baby?”
“The baby and mother are in good hands. The grandmother of the baby, who is also the mother of the mother, had twelve children of her own. She plans to stay with them as long as necessary or until one of her other children has a new baby.  I did all I could. Now it’s up to them.”

The Way of the Mountains.

He had a horse and buggy. The roads, if you could call them roads, were even too rough for a Model T. Henry Ford would have disagreed with that opinion, but then Henry rarely agreed with anyone else’s opinions.

Turns out Doc Hill was fifty years old and had been delivering mountain babies for almost twenty-five years. Most of them had stayed around in the area but a couple had gone on to careers in New York City, one in popular music and one in literature. I had never heard of either one but that in no way diminish what they accomplished.

We visited several homes that day. Most people were doing fine. One individual had a bad cold. A little girl needed stitches on a finger. But that was about it.

We were in the middle of particular bad bout of bouncing when I said, “People look pretty healthy around here. Back where I come from, you hear all the stories about the malnutrition and the poverty.”

“There is poverty but as much as possible, it’s a healthy poverty. In the small town where I live, we have a group of citizens that work to stress good eating habits. We’ve had a strong program of dietary education going on for several years. But the climate here helps. The mountain air is robust, and most people live a very physical life until they die.”