Author: Joplin Hollow

The C&O

Depending on when you read this, “C&O” may not signify any meaning whatever. Here it is: C&O designates the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, one of America’s great railways which originally ran from Cincinnati to Norfolk. And West Virginia was squarely in its pathway — the C&O entered the state (from Ohio) close to Huntington, then through the Kanawha Valley — Charleston, etc., and eastward up the Kanawha and New Rivers, then following the Greenbrier and tunneling through a mountain eastward into Virginia. There is a concrete marker just east of Alderson, on the Greenbrier River, marking the halfway point between Cincinnati and Norfolk.

I’ll state my disclaimer here: I am not, nor have I ever been, really knowledgeable about railroads. That is a huge subject unto itself, embodying many chapters in our nation’s history. The science, math, engineering, politics, geography, societal and economic impact of railroads in America compose a huge slice of who we are as a nation, and the story will continue to build upon itself. But I feel a special personal kinship with the C&O Railroad, and so I’ll share a few personal experiences.

The South Charleston Railroad Yard was a busy place, and a source of constant interest to me, a four-year-old boy caught up in the view of the railroad yard from the front window of our little house on Franklin Terrace. Cars: coal cars — “hoppers,”- flat cars, boxcars, and tank cars — were moved from track to track, pulled or pushed by small locomotives designed for that specific purpose. Those small engines were known as “dinkies.” In fact, our next door neighbor on Franklin Terrace, Mr. Midkiff, was a dinky engineer. It was an operation to watch, putting cars together to “make up” a train for its destination. Later, as a youngster I spent time on and around the railroad, walking the cross ties to school, hanging around the South Charleston freight yard where coal, chemicals and other natural products were loaded, unloaded and/or shifted to other cars as part of the around-the-clock operation of a busy train yard.

My first on-train experience was a trip from Charleston to Alderson to visit my grandparents. Dad put Alice and me on the train, talked with the conductor about our destination. The conductor put a tag on a string around each of our necks, sat us side by side, and off we went. I remember absolutely nothing about three-hour the ride itself, just arriving at the Alderson station where we were greeted by Granddad Farley.

To take that trip alone was a big deal for us; we were six. In the mid-1930s train travel was very, very safe, and it was not uncommon for kids, looked after by conductors and porters, to ride alone on passenger trains. But still, I’m sure Alice and I rolled our eyes at each other more than once. A couple of years later I rode that same train to Alderson with Paul, Dad’s brother.

My only memory of that trip was that the conductor gave me a small glass container in the shape of a train and full of candy. Those containers, which were made in many shapes: Santas, telephones, airplanes, etc., have been collectors’ items for many years.

At some point, after we had moved from Franklin Terrace to Sycamore Street, I think at about age ten, I started to walk to the South Charleston “yard” and watch the action. The yard workers had a very small shack between sets of tracks, out of which they would carry out their various tasks. One day, I carefully walked across the tracks to the work shack, with a workman waving me to go back out of the yard. I just kept going till I got to where he was standing. Kindly but gruffly, he took me into that magic place and gave me a direct lecture about the dangers of the yard, and what to watch for when walking the tracks. Well, that started it. From there I made friends with two or three other workers, and they would watch out for me as I made my way to the shack — my shack now; my personal castle. I graduated from that special time after one summer’s reign. But I learned about noise, and the smell of steam, and the clanging of cars banging against each other, the cinders and coal dust, and the unique sound of steam emitting from the boiler. Of course, I didn’t really learn about those things — I just got the sense of them.

During the seventh and eighth grades, a group of us — all boys — walked the cross ties to school two or three times a week — about a mile. Sometimes, when we would hear an oncoming train, someone would put a penny on the track and the train would flatten it into a shining disc. If you could find it among the limestone rocks that formed the track’s ballast, you could give it to the girl of your dreams as a special trinket. If we had a newcomer with us on a really cold day, we’d try talk him into putting his tongue on the track. How dumb. But one guy named Dewey did, and his tongue momentarily stuck to the track — at which we howled. Such were the types of entertainment in those days.

Our house on Sycamore street was about a quarter mile from the railroad, so the sound of steam whistles pierced the night air on regular schedules, and in summertime, with the bedroom window open, those passing trains gave me a sense of pleasure and comfort. Many nights, reading by flashlight, the late train would be my signal to put the Zane Grey book away and go to sleep.

I won’t go into it here — read the section called “Sleeping Out,” and you’ll get the story of how we would watch the Fast Flying Virginian go by at 5:30 in the morning.

One of my favorite railroad memories.

So that’s how it started for me with the C&O. There were other train trips later in my life, but it was the early fascination that got me going. And that was soon to be reinforced when I introduced myself to country music on our radio. Living in West Virginia, there were many country music broadcasts on our AM radio (at that time FM didn’t exist), and I found them all. Of course, the Grand Ole Opry, broadcast on Saturday nights, was the king of them all. And train songs were immensely popular. I was about twelve when this phase began, and songs like “The Wreck of The Old 97,” “Wabash Cannonball,” “Freight Train Blues,” and “Streamline Cannonball” were featured weekly, which continued to whet my appetite for train music. You’ll note references to my own train songs elsewhere in these short pieces, and somewhere, perhaps in the family “archives,” there is a recording of them, written and performed by yours truly.

It naturally followed that when I began camping on New River and elsewhere, the freight trains — hauling coal, mostly — kept our gang company. Since sound travels so well across water, especially at night, we could hear an approaching train from a great distance, and the great steel wheels clacking on the track could be heard long after the train was out of sight. Daytime trains were also special, because you could hear them coming, see the smoke and then come into vision. Usually, if I was standing in knee-deep water with fishing rod in hand, I’d just reel in and watch, and listen.

Waterways made natural locations for railroads, for they cut through mountains and typically would provide for a good grade or slope. So as I camped on many streams over the years, it was common to find a railroad following the waterway, usually across the river from camp. Made for good fishing. Or if the fish weren’t hitting, didn’t matter. Either way, I win.

Others: Granddad Hale, Don Hale, Pat Hale, Dave Farley, Kenny Pulliam, Lloyd Parsell, and many others shared that feeling for the railroads and trains. After Granddad died in 1966, there were just a few of us who were loyal to the steam locomotive, steam whistle, and all that, because it was all replaced by diesel engines beginning in the early ‘sixties. With that went the steam whistle, the other noises and odors and eccentricities of the steam locomotive. And none of us liked it — at all. Call us reactionary, we don’t care.

The greatest of the train song writers was the immortal Jimmie Rogers. The Singing Brakeman. Read about him. Briefly, he was a Mississippi guy who, in his mid-twenties, was working on the railroads. Played guitar. Began writing and recording many songs, among them his famous train songs. He really captured the romance of the railroad, and though his career lasted only six years, his train songs survive to this day. Check it out . . . you’ll get a true impression of what it was like in the 1920s and 30s, with hobos, the Depression, life in the south. Wonderful stuff. His “Waiting for A Train” hit the charts in the early thirties, and he was an overnight star. Of course, his railroads were in the south, so you won’t find the C&O mentioned in his lyrics. But the stuff of trains is there, so soak it up. Jimmie Rogers died of tuberculosis in 1932.

A couple of notes:

I had the pleasure of sitting in the Dining Car with Carol as we rode the FFV — the C&O’s famous passenger train, called “The Fast Flying Virginian,” from Charleston to Williamsburg in 1960, to visit her classmate Sherry McCormick and her newly-wed husband, Bob Harrison, who was also Carol’s high school classmate. Carol and I boarded the train in St. Albans very early in the morning. As we passed Sandstone Falls on New River (see “Camping and Fishing”) I practically thrashed her arms to get her to look at those magnificent falls, just west of Hinton, WV. The train trip was just idyllic. We had breakfast in the dining car, which — in accordance with historical precedence — was managed and served with the greatest of professional elegance. What a trip.

In about 1995, Carol, Amy (who at that time was employed in Washington, DC by the CSX Corporation, formerly — yes — C&O Railroad) and I went on a steam engine tour of the C&O trail from St. Albans to Hinton and back. We were with Roscoe Peters, a true C&O buff and family friend from the Kanawha Valley. Roscoe’s father was a professor at WV State College, and Roscoe was a lifetime friend / “blood brother” of Carol’s brother Keith Hopkins. Roscoe’s family had grown up on the C&O sidetracks at Hampton, VA, and Roscoe had later met Carol’s brother Keith in the WV Air National Guard at Charleston. During the ‘80s and ‘90s, Roscoe and Amy became fast friends, mostly due to Amy’s employment with CSX, for whom Roscoe had a deep emotional attachment. With the steam locomotive performing beautifully, that excursion was truly exciting for me — hearing the engine up ahead, seeing the smoke puffing out of the stack, looking out at the scenery — New River!, riding past Sandstone Falls. A memorable day.

I don’t know how to wind this little piece down, but as with other entries in these writings, I’ll stay true to my intent to give you an insight, not a treatise — although I could fill several more pages with stuff about “a long steel rail, a short cross tie,” as the song “Streamline Cannonball” goes. The C&O was later to become part of CSX, an international corporation specializing in transportation and container shipping. But even now, in 2013, one can occasionally spot an older train car with the blurred “C&O” in faded paint on its side.

The Falls

It was the early Spring of ’56, and Don (my uncle Don Hale, three years my senior) and I talked about going fishing sometime. He lived in Pittsburgh, where he worked for U.S. Steel. Back then it was one phone call and one short letter to set it up. I told him New River was my choice; he agreed. We talked about possible camp spots, and I said, “Guy told me there are places to sleep out downstream from Hinton, across the river from the railroad. Let’s give it a try.”

We met at a small grocery store, bought a little food and set out. Friday night, as usual. Found a spot right on the water about 7 miles down the river, and made camp. Very rough. No shelter, no stove, no lantern. I had an army blanket; Don had a worn-out sleeping bag. Anyway, we made do and stayed until Sunday morning — Don had to get back to Pittsburg.

Based on that weekend, he and I worked up a trip the following spring. We rounded up Granddad Hale and Pat Hale — Don’s older brother, and set out down the same dirt road below Hinton. This time we found another campsite a little farther down. With a little more camp gear this time, including a tarp for shelter, we fished a while, had supper and turned in. 

Willis Farley, Patrick Farley – baiting hooks – Sandstone Falls, WV

The next morning after breakfast, Don and I decided to scout downstream for good fishing spots, so off we went. We walked easily for about a half hour without seeing anything better than the site we were using. And then, well, let me do an “aside” here just to help you understand this story.

Flashback: It was Christmas time; I was about five. And we had a tree. I was in a trance with that tree. Every evening after supper I would go to the living room, lie on my back under the tree and just look up at the lights. I went through the same process each time: what is my favorite color light? Red? Orange? Blue? Green? And then it was Christmas morning. The lights on the tree. Gifts!!! Dad, getting ready to go to work at 7:00 a.m. David and Alice and I, open-mouthed, speechless, in a momentary wonderworld. Eyes popping. Mouths open. Hearts pumping. Breathless.

One of the best-remembered moments of my life, then or now. The feeling is not to be described, though most if not all little kids know it, but beyond words, though many real writers have come close.

So . . . that’s my “aside.”

Sandstone Falls – October 1960 – Photo by David Farley

Don and I walked around a slight bend in the road, and there, on our right the river. But what we saw hit me like that Christmas morning: awe. I was speechless. We both were. We had come upon, with no knowledge of its existence, that incredible sight on New River known as Sandstone Falls. Look at the photo; there’s no other way to describe it. Don and I were in a trance. Finally, he said, “Oh My God.” I agreed. So, on the spot, we decided that the campsite had to be moved. We practically ran back up the dirt road to our camp, and announced that we were moving down to the falls. Now remember, this was a two-night campout. When we got back to camp and made the announcement, Granddad and Pat were noncommittal, and we made the move. On the face of it, it was a dumb thing to do. But Pat and Granddad just had to see what we had seen: those roaring falls, with areas below to wade and fish; a perfect campsite, nature at its best.

Sandstone Falls became an annual destination, and along with the original four, our gang included brother Dave and my special buddies, Kenny, Louie and Lloyd. Every October we’d go to “Sandstone.” The days and nights there were unspoken magic to us all, and remain so in memory. While we continued to camp on Indian Creek — another kind of magic — Sandstone Falls was that place where upon discovery, at age 26, I was a little boy again, in my own wonderworld, just like being on my back under the Christmas tree.

Recently, Patrick and I were camping on Indian Creek (this is 2014), and we decided to take a drive down to Sandstone. I’d heard the story, and we saw it was true: the road from Hinton was no longer a dirt road; several years before it had been decided to pave that road, and to make Sandstone Falls a State Park. No more campers, no more fishermen, except for the family picnic guy, who occasionally walks across the State Park walkway across the river beneath the falls, and drop a line for a few minutes. We learned that few people go there; it’s just too far to see some waterfalls. So there’s a kept parking lot smack on top of our original campsite; a “park” up and down and across the area below the Falls, and that’s about it. 

Paving that road put an end to an era: a place where it was free to camp, to fish, to watch the wonder of the Falls, and be bothered by no one save an occasional squirrel hunter. No surprise here: that’s been happening since the days of the early settlers, so I suppose I shouldn’t fuss. It’s just that when you’re the one with the Christmas Morning memory of that beautiful scene, it all seems kind of a magic-killer.

During those Sandstone years, I was having fun writing country songs about camping and fishing. There were several, the first entitled “Indian Creek,” which I sang to my infant children as I rocked them to sleep.

The song that became my personal favorite is entitled “When the Hales Take Over the New.” This is specifically about those times at Sandstone Falls. Here are the lyrics.

Note: “The Hales” is a reference to the entire gang, with Granddad Henry Hale being the patriarch, along with Pat and Don Hale, two of his sons, and David and me (half Hale, half Farley). The other guys were considered Hales by adoption, you might say.

When the Hales Take Over the New

Come October and we’ll all go
‘cross the river from the C&O
The leaves are falling and the water’s low
When the Hales take over the New, the New
When the Hales take over the New

Down the road to Sandstone Falls
It’s the time of year when the river calls
The fish are jumpin’ and you know it’s true
That you gotta be on the New, the New
Well, you gotta be on the New
Build a fire from an old crosstie

Build a fire from an old crosstie
Set your pole for a big red eye
That’s the very first thing you do
When the Hales take over the New, the New
When the Hales take over the New

Late in the evening when the fire burns low
You can hear Big Henry on the old banjo
Pickin’ out “Cripple Creek” and “Shady Grove”
And you know you’re on the New, the New
Well you know you’re on the New

The fog’s on the river and it’s late at night
When you’re on the trot and the line pulls tight
You got a cat and he’s a nice one too
And you got him on the New, the New
Well you got him on the New.

Come October and we’ll all go
‘cross the river from the C&O
The leaves are falling and the water’s low
When the Hales take over the New, the New
When the Hales take over the New

Camping and Fishing

If you’ve read the entry on “Joplin Hollow,” you’ll find that this piece on fishing and camping is a hand-in-glove continuation about woods and waters.

Having been introduced to the woods as a young boy, I was ecstatic when my Dad took me on my first camping-fishing trip. I was about eleven. He and a friend took me for two nights to shallow cave on a steep hill above Elk River. They had a 12 ft. boat and 3 hp motor. We got there at about dark; too late to fish. So we dragged our stuff to the “cave.”

Rain. Relentless, non-stop, heavy downpour. We somehow got a small fire going, and Dad heated something on the Coleman stove. The rain just kept coming. It was then that Dad said, “Fred, why don’t we go set the trot. With this muddy water the catfish are going to really hit.” In his South Carolina drawl (he was an interloper), Fred said, “No, Willis, I’m not going out in that rain. You’re crazy.”

I, the young Daniel Boone, said, “Dad, I’ll go with you to set the trot.” Trot?

I had no real idea what the “trot” was. But Dad, like any good catfish, took the bait.

So we slid down the hill to the boat, and pushed off. Somehow — without much help from young Daniel, we got the line in the water, with weights and all like that. We baited the hooks with worms and doughballs. Then we slid and scrambled and climbed back up to the cave. Dad went on to Fred about how much I had helped. I have to admit, I felt pretty proud. We dried off, I climbed into my blanket and was gone.

Next morning, Dad and I went to run the trot. And yes, the river was high and muddy, and Dad was certain that we’d get several catfish. I was really excited, knowing that the hard work from last night would pay off.

Not one fish. Back to camp. Breakfast of some sort, and then the three of us went back to the boat to fish. The sun was blazing hot, and I was worn out. Sitting in that boat, with the sun beating on my back, I was drowsy. Dad and Fred kept fishing; I think I just dozed off. By that afternoon we — they — had caught one small mudcat. Camp that evening was a little subdued — no fish, muddy river, rocky, cramped camp. But we made it through till the next morning, when Dad and Fred decided it just wasn’t worth trying to catch anything in that muddy river. So we went home.

And I was as happy and proud as I had been in my whole life. And hooked on fishing and camping. From then on it was just a matter of when and how and with whom.

Willis, Fred Keilor, and Alan on Bluestone Lake, WV

I went camping with Dad three or four times after that, on Bluestone Lake. The campsites were much nicer than the cave, and being a little older I started to catch on to the business of fishing. And camping. By the time I was out of high school I was ready for the real deal.

I had — still have — a buddy named Kenny Pulliam. He was two years older, and we had been in the high school band together, as well as the church choir. Kenny had never camped — or fished. So we decided on a five-day trip to Bluestone Lake.

Borrowed Dad’s Coleman stove and lantern, as well as his rod, reel, tackle box, and 12’x16’ canvas tarp for a lean-to shelter. Borrowed Fred’s 3 hp motor. Off to Bluestone, and man, what a trip.

We rented a 12’ wood boat at the dock — WWII surplus. We caught fish, cooked, talked, played some music — guitar and uke, sang a lot, and got caught up in the wonder of being in a remote forest on a large lake. Kenny and I became really close buddies on that trip — the first of many together. Over time, we learned by doing, and became efficient campers and fair fishermen. And always with some kind of music. We could catch nightcrawlers, seine minnows, turn over rocks for hellgrammites, bait a trot, clean and eat fish, talk trade with guys in bait shops, and all the rest. Things I had no idea about that rainy night on Elk River.

At some point, at Kenny’s suggestion, we built our own boat. From what was a new material then — fiberglass. The boat was a beauty: Black body, 14 ft. runabout. Fitted out for fishing by Kenny, who was — and is to this day — a real “outside the box” thinker. We kept the boat in a slip at Bluestone for a couple of years — that way, we could simply pack our stuff and leave Charleston on Friday after work (I was working at Union Carbide in the summer months during college) and go to the lake.

We would get to the lake at dark on Friday, go to a predetermined campsite, set up camp, cook a good supper, set the trot, crawl in our sleeping bags and go from there.

Occasionally we caught good fish. Most often it was a few catfish and several big bluegills on rod and reel. But behind all that was the trip itself: Kenny and me, music, campfire, gear, food, woods, sounds of the night, exploring the area, and all around again: campfire, gear, food, woods, etc. etc. I can’t tell you how many times we did this, nor how it bled into my inner self to the point that woods and waters became an even deeper part of me.

Don Hale, David Farley, Alan Farley, Jeff Hale, Pat Hale. New River, downstream from the mouth of Indian Creek, late 1950s

During those same times, I continued to camp and fish with Granddad Hale on Indian Creek, along with my uncle Don, and brother Dave. Indian Creek was and is a very special place for all the Farleys and Hales (see other written pieces), put to music by me in the song “Indian Creek.” There are many tales to be told about our trips to Indian Creek. Suffice to say here that Indian Creek was the absolute favorite camping and fishing spot for all of us: Granddad, my uncle Pat Hale, my brother Dave, uncle Don, Kenny, fishing buddies Louie Husson and Lloyd Parsell, and others.

It is an idyllic spot: a fairly wide creek flowing downstream from the mountains to New River, in Summers County, West Virginia. Woods and Waters in the raw.

We camped and fished there countless times, and catching fish was the least of our worries. In warm weather and cool, in fair weather and storm, we explored, encountered the marvels of wildlife, and simply lived our dreams on that creek.

Later on, after moving to Salem, Virginia, I learned about the South Fork of the Shenandoah River, flowing north through the Valley of Virginia. For several years, beginning in 1971, I camped and fished with family and friends: my dad, brother Dave, friends — Lloyd Parsell, Louie Husson, my son Patrick (an avid outdoorsman), Don Ranson, along with others, for several years. The South Fork is a gentle, clear stream full of bass and catfish. Our preferred campsite was on an island with a shallow back channel, which made it possible to carry our gear across, or float it in a jon boat. This island home was at Hazard Mill, Virginia.

Alan and Patrick, August 1967

That all started about forty years ago, and the camping has simply gotten better with each outing. I had by that time caught a lot of fish, so it was time to pay more attention to the water, the rocks, the woods, the wild life, the flowers . . . the environment. During these later years, the camping has become primary; fishing is just an excuse to roll out the sleeping bag, fire up the lantern, and listen to the sounds of water and forest. To watch the moon pass over the trees on a chilly night, while listening to the water’s flow; to see your breath as that moon goes down and the birds wake up — to smell the remains of last night’s campfire, and to contemplate getting up before dawn to poke the fire and put the coffee on — that’s the stuff.

It’s been a while. As I write this, I’ve been camping and fishing for nearly seventy years. From Henry Hale, born in 1883, to Patrick, born in 1961, my time with all these good people — relatives and friends alike — has been enriched by their presence, and their companionship in the outdoors.

I’m still at it. As I write this, I’m working on menus for our next trip — a five night exploration of Cripple Creek, Virginia. I’m in touch with my guys: Lloyd, Louie, Jerry, and Patrick. Can’t wait. But as has been the case for many years, Kenny can’t make it.

Nowadays, long after Kenny came down with Parkinson’s Disease, he and I talk from time to time about those times. It occurs to me that most people — men and women alike — go through a similar stage, where ideas and values develop, along with special friendships. If you’re lucky, there’s someone there to go through it with you. Kenny was the guy who was there, when we wordlessly figured things out; laughed and sang together, camped together under trees that would barely let starlight through, splashed together in lake and creek, and all that goes with the outdoors. Long live Kenny. And long live the days of woods and waters.

Indian Creek

Grab your rod and a bucket of bait
Meet you at the creek on Friday night
Down in the meadow by the big elm tree
We’ll go fishin’ just you and me

Indian Creek is the place for me

I’m going there today
Goodbye world I ain’t coming back

I’m going there to stay

‘Cross the creek and over the hill
To the Old Mill pond where the water runs still
A big catfish I’ll catch tonight
Skin ‘im on a tree and fry him right

Indian Creek is the place for me

I’m going there today
Goodbye world I ain’t coming back

I’m going there to stay

Up the road there’s a big rock ledge
Hanging over the water’s edge
Drop your line in the creek below
Wait for a bass to say hello

Indian Creek is the place for me

I’m going there today
Goodbye world I ain’t coming back

I’m going there to stay

Coffee pot and fryin’ pan
Bacon a pound and beans a can
Jug of likker and the old banjo
C’mon boys it’s time to go

Indian Creek is the place for me

I’m going there today
Goodbye world I ain’t coming back I’m going there to stay

My Martin

One of my best lifetime pals, albeit inanimate, is my Martin guitar. Purchased in 1951, just after I finished my second year at Morris Harvey College, I saw the Martin in the Galperin Music Store in downtown Charleston. The sales people knew me; I was in the store often, visiting with friends who played on local dance bands, as I did. So the sales manager agreed to sell me the Martin on time, at no interest. The cost was $80.00. The Martin, a “double-aught 17,” formally a model 00-17, was built in 1948. Incidentally, the 00-17 has been a great seller, and is still made by Martin.

With excitement, I told Kenny that we were now in business. At the time I owned an $8.00 guitar — “Stella,” which was virtually unplayable, but I had been whacking at it as Kenny and I sang duets. Now, this new instrument gave us what we needed: a nice-sounding accompaniment. Kenny was in town for the summer from college at the University of Cincinnati, where he was an engineering major, so we were both free in the evenings after work. In his dad’s car, we would ride out to Little Coal River, not far from town, to an isolated spot to swim and make music. Hot weather. We’d first jump in the river, splash for a few minutes, get out and dry off. Then sing country favorites like “Bury Me Beneath the Willow,” “An Acre of Diamonds,” and so forth. It all came together with the Martin, playing rhythm and chords.

From there, we began going to the local drive-in restaurant, The Parkette, in downtown Charleston. We’d roll the windows down, order a grilled cheese and coffee — probably about 30 cents, tune the Martin, and sing. It happened often enough that we would see other customers who were familiar with our routine, and even pull up close to us to listen. (More recently, having told the drive-in tale to someone, we are now known as the “Parkette Brothers.”)

From there, the Martin was with me on every camping trip, or virtually so, during the next sixty years. The sad news: I mistreated the Martin badly, because I had never bought a case. So after years of leaning against a tree overnight, lying on its back in the tent, it became weather-worn, scratched, and finally with a serious crack in the box. But play on I did. At some juncture, all that stopped, and the guitar went to the front closet.

Then, Leslie became really interested in playing and I gladly gave here the Martin to take home and use. She took it on herself to have it overhauled/rebuilt, and it is now as good as new. The company that did the work was fascinated by the guitar, and especially interested in the name “Galperin Music” at the top of the neck, still readable with a logo. Nowadays, when Leslie and I attend our annual Bluegrass Camp in N.C., the Martin is one of the main items of interest.

About the sound: this guitar is easy on the fingers, perfectly playable, with a sound that is neither aggressive nor timid — just lovely and confident. Beyond these words you’d simply have to hear it. Everyone who has ever played it has commented on the lasting quality of the instrument.

A scary event: Leslie, Sherwood and Hannah have a “music room” in their house, just the right size to hold a baby grand, cello, three guitars and sound system. Shortly after Leslie returned home with the Martin, they were out one evening and upon returning home found that the house had been broken into. What was missing? The Martin. Leslie became a sleuth: working with law enforcement, going to pawn shops, the works. Then: a break. The intruder had hocked the guitar, and it was returned to Leslie. This is a very short version of a very numbing event. It’s hard to imagine that guitar ever being in any family but mine. Of course, the Martin will belong to Leslie someday — perhaps sooner than later, depending on how much longer I want to bang on it.

My Musical Instruments

My first musical instrument was the flute. The flute had been bought for David, who four years earlier found more interesting things to do than blow across that mouthpiece. So when I reached fourth grade, it was determined that it was my turn with the flute — band lessons at school. Mr. Raspillaire, our band director at South Charleston High School, came to our school — Zogg O’Dell Elementary — weekly to teach our band class.

The above is a long introduction for a very quick ending. After three or four lessons, I told Mom that the flute was hard to hold up to my mouth with my right arm, and that I was not destined to be a flautist. So much for that. I was allowed to become a Raspillaire dropout.

Then, in fifth grade, we all got Tonettes — those plastic whistle-like instruments with holes to cover, changing the pitch — like a flute. Alice and I formed an immediate duet; we picked up on how to play songs, in harmony yet. Of course, by that time Alice had taken over the flute business, and continued to play for sixty years or so. More later on that. Anyway, we became the hottest act of our fifth grade, and showed our stuff at every chance.

About that same time, I had a sick spell and stayed home from school for about a week. Listening to local radio all day became a real bore, so one day Mom brought me a Marine Band Harmonica. I played my first tune, “Silent Night” I think, about two minutes later. Later on, I got a Honer Chromatica with the side button to play half steps. It was 1939; we had very little, so I don’t know where Mom found the money to pay for that “French Harp,” but somehow she did.

Then, one day Dad came home with a mandolin. Actually a banjo mandolin — strung and played like a mandolin with the body of a banjo — a round body with a skin top, with threaded screw-like tighteners all around the top edge. Dad had played a mandolin in his youth and someone gave him this one, so he was going to resume his own musical career. Sadly, I learned that Dad was no mandolinist, nor could he carry a tune or beat a rhythm. But I was proud of him anyway. The mandolin, of course, was donated to me, and I had real fun teaching myself how to use the pick across pairs of strings and play simple tunes. “Old Joe Clark” became my favorite. I never became a really good mandolin player; my young life was taking off in so many other directions — watching girls, all that, that music was merely a pleasant but brief part of my day.

Seventh grade: junior high school. Alice was having such fun with the flute, talking all the time about band practice, etc., that I got the bug again. So I went to Mr. Raspillaire and told him I was back for more, that I wanted to be in the band. I said the drums would be good. He started me with a pair of drumsticks and a practice pad, and I was ready to go. I carried my drumsticks with me all day at school, tapping on every desktop, railing, book — anything that had a flat surface. Then one day I was too energetic with the sticks and snapped the bead off one of them on the newel post at the bottom of the stairwell. You guessed it — I was a Raspillaire dropout for the second time.

Pete Raspillaire – Band Director, South Charleston High School

By that time Alice and I filled the house with music every day — she with her flute, me with the harmonica and mandolin, and both of us singing silly duets. I knew I really liked music — I just hadn’t found my niche. Alice and I both joined the youth (“Young Peoples’”) choir at church, and David was teaching me to jitterbug in the living room — Les Brown’s “Leap Frog” was the song of choice, playing every few minutes on the radio. 

Ninth grade. That fall, Alice had her high school band uniform. Dazzling orange and black, with a leather shoulder strap. One Saturday she got dressed in the uniform early in the day. When I asked why so early, she airily mentioned that the band was going to an away game, on a school bus, no less. Then she added that the band traveled a good bit, and band members never had to buy a ticket to a game. I was intrigued. Go to a Black Eagles football game free? Ride the band bus to away games? What had I been missing! Of course, it was too late to join the band for the rest of football season, but in January, I went to “Pete” Raspillaire and told him I wanted to join the band. My motive, of course, was partly about the band bus, but I really did want to join for the music, having watched Alice’s progress for several years. I just don’t know why, but Mr. Raspillaire gave me yet a third chance! I do know that since Alice was a budding star, he perhaps had a soft spot for the Farley twins. In any case, he told me to see him after school that Friday. 

So when I went to the band room on Friday, he presented me with a baritone sax that was school owned, and gave me a single sheet of paper with the C scale fingering diagram drawn in pencil. He said to take the sax home over the weekend and come back on Monday ready to show him what I could do. That was my big break. I took, or rather lugged the sax home, took it from the case and went to work. I soon found out that some of the keys didn’t totally close over their holes, there were loose springs, worn-out pads and the rest, but after several hours’ work it was playable. I looked at the C scale drawing, and, remembering the Tonette, I was in business. I fiddled around with the side keys, some Tonette fingering combinations, and the rest, and felt ready. I was so proud I even got Mom’s silver polish and cleaned the sax to a presentable shine. After working out the C scale, I actually learned a couple of others — probably F and G, along with three or four simple melodies. 

When I played for Pete on Monday, he said OK, I was now a band member. Obviously, that changed my life forever, but that’s another story.

That spring, after four months in the band, I was selected to play baritone sax in the All-County Band. So I joined Alice and we were off.

My next instrument: cymbals. That fall, Pete understood that the baritone sax made no sense in a marching band, so he told me to play cymbals in the drum section. He gave me a quick lesson and I was up and running with yet another instrument. Of course, I couldn’t wait for concert season, when I would get back to the baritone sax. But that was not to be. You guessed it . . . my next instrument.

Oboe. A new student had moved to town, and she could really — really — play oboe. Her name was Jean Pike. In November, after football, I went to band class, got the sax out of its case, and we had our band rehearsal. As the bell rang Pete — I’m calling him by his nickname now because it’s so much easier than keying Raspillaire every time, and we all called him Pete behind his back — Pete told me to wait after class. I did, and to my surprise so did Jean Pike. Pete told me he’d like me to play oboe, but that I had a choice. Of course, the way he laid it out: every fine band has two oboe players, and so on. So I didn’t really have a choice. How could I turn Pete down after all the chances he had given me? So I said OK. Jean took me on as a student, and for the first time I had a true mentor who knew the instrument. I had never had a real lesson — even if you count the flute, the Tonette, the drumsticks, the harmonica, the mandolin, even the sax. I learned quickly — the fingering was so similar to that of the sax, and the double reed part came fairly easily. I was very, very proud to be named to the All-County Band that year, on a different instrument.

I finished high school as an oboist — neither Pete nor I had any ideas about new instruments.

By the way, when we were juniors, Pete asked Alice and me to play something in the Lions Club Minstrel Show, an annual fundraising event. Reluctantly, we agreed, not knowing just what to do. I told Alice I simply would not stand on stage with an oboe at a minstrel show. Bad match. So we got creative: flute and harmonica duet. We played “Waitin’ On the Robert E. Lee,” a ragtime-era train song, by popular request, and then we knocked ‘em out with “Temptation,” a sultry, Latin-type tune with lots of parallel major chords and chromatic runs. Lots of fun to drag those chords out of the Honer, with its chromatic button.

Morris Harvey Swing Band; Alan is on far right of front row

So, when I entered Morris Harvey College, I naturally signed up for band, chorus, music theory, etc. — all part of my curriculum as an announced business major. I guess my mind and heart were in two different places. The college owned a baritone sax, which I played. Then, because I was really into dance band and jazz, I talked Dad into signing off on the purchase of a new King Super 20 tenor sax. My rationale to Dad was that I could earn money for school by playing on weekends, which was true, and which I did. The tenor cost $180, and I was paid about $9.00, the then-Union scale, for a three-hour dance gig. So if you do the math you can see that the tenor paid for itself, and of course I made the monthly payments to Gorby’s Music for the purchase. Incidentally, I had to sell the tenor to my good friend Eddie Beulike two years later for $180 — enough to stay in school another semester. 

A note here: when the college learned what I already knew; that I was a music major, the woodwind teacher found out about my oboe days in high school, and immediately announced that I was an oboe major. So be it, I thought. I finished my degree as an oboist, played my graduation recital, and went on to play occasionally with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra. But I also continued to play sax in local bands for ten or so years, until we moved from Charleston to Roanoke.

Back to 1950: My next instrument was my first guitar — bought at Gorby’s Music in South Charleston for $8.00. My excuse was that, with no piano at home, I could use the guitar to work out chords, etc. for my music theory class. The real reason? It’s no secret that I really loved country music along with all the other varieties, and the song Wildwood Flower, as performed by Maybelle Carter, had a fascinating guitar solo. I really bought that Stella so I could learn to play Wildwood Flower. Actually, the guitar did help — a little — with my theory class.

As is well-known today, in 2014, I bought a Martin guitar when I was 19. It stands in my front room as I write these memories, and it is in fine condition, ready to pass on to Leslie at any time now. Back then, I learned some bluegrass stuff like the Lester Flatt G Run, and I could do a weak mimic of Earl Scruggs’ style. So that guitar and I, along with Kenny and his ukulele, had some real fun. Leslie played an important role in the repair and rehabilitation of my Martin, and it’s the sweetest sounding, easiest playing guitar I’ve ever picked up. Leslie loves it, and it is hers. And the Martin knows Leslie; knows she can pick.

When I think about it, the oboe, the tenor sax, and the guitar were my all-time favorite instruments. The oboe and sax were around for just a few short years, while I’ve been picking the Martin for sixty-one years.

My next instrument wasn’t really mine . . . it was Leslie’s piano. We purchased a Yamaha piano for Leslie when she was about eight. She studied well, practiced well, and was basically well-taught by her (second) teacher. She took the piano with her when she moved to Charlotte, NC after college, and then traded it for a Yamaha Clavinova (electronic) piano, better known as a “keyboard.” That was in about 1987. Later, when she moved to Raleigh, she bought a very fine Yamaha Grand, and gave me the Clavinova, which stands beside the Martin guitar in the front room. I have always loved piano, and while I had no training whatever, I’m able to get around with a few chords and play favorite pop tunes, along with a couple of very fundamental works by Bach, Chopin and Beethoven. But the popular songs from my jazz/dance band days are my real favorites. I don’t play well enough for public performance, but as my own audience I am not displeased.

Finally, I suppose I should tell you of my most long-lasting musical instrument: my singing voice, for the voice is a musical instrument in the truest sense.

I think I began singing as soon as I could talk. As a young kid, Mom sang to and with me, teaching me songs from her own youth, as well as the best known western ballads, along with a smattering of pop tunes. As I mentioned earlier, Alice and I, being together all the time, sang together with progressively more advanced vocal abilities. We were in the youth choir at church together, and so on. Then, in high school I joined the chorus, and went on from there. I sang with a couple of my dance bands, and was in my college choir for four years. Along with all that, I sang, sang, sang to myself — all brands of pop, country and classical. And today, with my raspy voice, I sing, sing, sing. Aloud, but to myself. 

I started as a soprano — ninth grade — and was a tenor in college (not by choice or voice quality; the director needed tenors more than baritones and I was elected), and today I am a true baritone. You probably wouldn’t think much of my singing — I’m actually an amateur at it. One semester of voice in college, and that’s it. But I know the basics very well — voice placement, breathing, diction, phrasing, projection, etc. etc. And you have read from my teaching days that I had really good high school groups, along with a really fine church choir. 

So while my fingers grow stiff, and my facility with my hands fades, my last remaining musical instrument will probably be my voice. With its signature asthma-induced wheeziness, it’s mine and I’m keeping it.

Finally, while at Columbia I learned that — at Columbia at least — the conductor’s baton is considered a musical instrument. When I first head that I wondered “what’s going on here?” But as I had declared conducting as my chosen performance medium, it occurred that they were absolutely right; that the conductor is performing music with the baton.

Aside from incidental clarinet and alto sax work with dance bands, there you have it — the story of my musical instruments. They have their own stories too, but except for the Martin guitar and the keyboard they’re not around to tell those stories. I have to think — or certainly hope — they liked me as much as I liked them, for I took good care of them, they were played well and responded in kind — they fulfilled their life missions. I guess you know by now that music is my joy, my private and public fun time, a deep well of life memories. While I have had many, many exciting experiences in my profession as an educator, and while my interests include reading, writing, research, and the rest, it always — always — comes back to music. I’m talking, of course, about those motivations aside from family and friends, which are truly the essence of who we are. So if I’m remembered as the guy who couldn’t go through a day without a musical experience of some sort, that’ll please me greatly.

Debut

This happened in the spring of 1948. Alice and I were juniors in high school, totally wrapped up in the band. Alice, by that time, had become a really fine flutist, and played with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra. She was fiercely dedicated, and was by far the more accomplished musician of the two of us. I, on the other hand, was into 40s style big band jazz, along with my affection for bluegrass and other music styles. But — aside from my baritone sax, I did have a special instrument: a chromatic harmonica, upon which one could play the most sultry chords and melodies.

Our band director, Pete Raspillaire, was a member of the local Lions Club. (Huh? How did we know that? Well, we didn’t.) We didn’t until he asked us to stay after band class one day, which had Alice and me looking at each other with raised eyebrows. When the band room cleared, he sat down with us and said that we were going to perform at the Lions Club Spring Minstrel Show, and annual fund raiser for the club.

One never questioned Pete. If he said something, it was so. But as we looked at him quizzically, he simply told us the dates — two nights — and to work it out; we were to perform some kind of music for the cause. No mention of what kind of music, or which instruments. I assumed he meant flute and saxophone, so he was in for a small surprise. (It occurred to me much later that, being the local band director, the club had told Pete it was his job to provide musical entertainment for the show.)

Being my usual brain-dead teenage self, I had no idea what a “Minstrel Show” was. We asked at home, and were told it was entertainment in which white “folks” dressed up like “black folks,” along with blackened faces, and did comedy for an all-white audience. Of course, the history books say the Minstrel shows were hugely popular in white America at that time. Online photos of blackface actors and playbills will jar your senses.

That’s what it was, and we were there. So Mom fixed us up in matched outfits: Alice in a dress of course (in 1948 it was a dress or skirt and top, never ever pants or slacks), and I in my khakis and long-sleeved shirt. After visiting a rehearsal for about 10 minutes when we were shown when and where to make our appearance, we were ready.

What we didn’t understand was the blackface. At the rehearsal all the Lions were just regular people; they hadn’t blackened their faces nor were they in costume. So on the night of the show, we were peeking out from backstage and saw all that and were well, stunned. But when our cue came we went on stage, smiled, bowed, curtsied, and did our act. 

Alice with her flute, I with the harmonica, played the great Perry Como hit “Temptation.”

Talk about sultry. That song was made for my harmonica: C Major chord to C# Major and back, simply by pressing the side button. Damn, I was cool! And of course, the flute solo was equally exotic. We received a roaring ovation, and cries for an encore. We were ready. I played a solo on Waiting for The Robert E. Lee, followed by our singing of that Mississippi River showboat song in harmony. Then another harmonica chorus and out. More applause.

That was our debut in show business. Talk about mixed emotions. We loved the experience of public performance, and the applause, but were really frustrated by the shock of blackface. We just weren’t ready for that. While we had knowledge of the issue of race, we hadn’t encountered the bald reality of racism in any real sense. We both went on to solo performances which weren’t scarred by that experience. Alice played beautifully with various groups, while I eventually turned to the baton as my performance medium. I can say, and Alice would agree, that to please an audience with one’s talent is truly exciting and rewarding. And if Alice could say so, she would agree that our debut was a terrific experience in spite of the strange circumstance. And the best part of it all was that we did it together. We were a real twin-brother-sister act in every way in those days. Being a twin can’t be described, so I’ll leave it at that.

Music

I’ll be brief here. Only to say that music permeated my life. It rang in my head at all hours from a very early age. And at about eight, I started to memorize, without thinking about it. “A Tisket, A Tasket,” sung by Ella Fitzgerald: I remember where I was when it first came to mind — I was walking on a dirt path close to the house in, I think, 1939.

And so on. The rest of this is just a sketch of my time with music. I could make this a “chapter,” but that would go beyond the intended purpose of these writings. This has to be either too brief or too long; for your sake, I have chosen brief. You will find other references to my ‘music days’ elsewhere in these pages.

It goes like this:

First instrument: In fifth grade, we all had Tonettes, a plastic whistle-like instrument with finger holes to change notes. Alice and I excelled at Tonette, playing lots of duets — just by basic aptitude. (See a later piece called “my musical instruments”, which tells the stories of all my instruments.)

High school band: baritone sax, cymbals, bass drum, and, finally, oboe.

College: started as “business major,” but took freshman band, choir, theory. From there on I was a music major, just didn’t know it until the end of my sophomore year. I took virtually every music course offered. During that time I was saturated with music: dance bands, U.S. Army Reserve Band, college band, college choir, church choir, and college courses. Took a Bachelor of Music degree in 1953.

While most of my music activity was at the “serious,” or “classical” level, I had from an early age learned to love country music — I suppose it was somehow tied to the “country” side of my family: the Hales were true country folk, and Granddad Hale played banjo, clawhammer style. I found “The Grand Ole Opry” on Saturday night radio, and learned many country songs by listening to early bluegrass music. And I had a guitar, which is still with me today — a Martin, purchased in 1951.

After two initial years of local band directing, I became music director at St. Albans High School, teaching band, choir, stage band, general music, and theory. The music program grew to about 350 students. All this time I was playing in a large dance band, had a church choir, played in the Army Reserve Band, and became music director for the Charleston Light Opera Guild, directing the music for several Broadway musicals such as Oklahoma, South Pacific, The King and I, and so on.

In 1957 I began a master’s degree program at Teachers College, Columbia, where I chose conducting as my performing medium. (I went during summers only; kept my job at St. Albans.) I was a winner of conducting competition twice while there, and took a Master’s in Music and Music Education in 1959. It was there that I learned how to memorize a musical score — in the conducting competition we had to conduct from memory. From that time forward I never directed a public performance otherwise, except for the Broadway shows, which of course were so involved with staging, cues to singers, watching the crowd and watching for the unexpected that working from memory was not possible — for me, at least.

In 1963, we moved to Salem, Virginia, where I became band director at Andrew Lewis High School. Then in 1968 I left the classroom for work in research and development of innovative programs, with the hope of helping make school a better place for students beyond my classroom.

During my teaching career, I received high compliments for the performances of my students, for which I was grateful. I experienced moments of pure joy when my performers — my students — played and sang beyond their notions of their individual abilities. As with most musicians, I can cite specific times and places when that kind of magic occurred. When it does occur, everyone is aware of it; that is, all those involved in the performance. Not just the performers — the conductor as well. You’re all part of it, equal in all respects, having the same “out of body” experience. You just know. Both in performing and attending performances by others, I have been brought to moments of true joy countless times by the sheer beauty of great music well presented. A lot of people never have the chance to experience that, and for those who do — well, it’s what you live for. It can happen any time — in rehearsal, in a public performance — anywhere.

So it was with a sense of uneasiness, in 1968, that I went on to other pursuits. Leaving the classroom was one of the toughest decisions I ever made, but looking back, I have no regrets, for my ‘second’ career, in curriculum development, research and other administrative areas, was challenging, enriching and enjoyable. While I missed the daily pleasure of being with my students as we engaged music, I believe that in taking on a “new” career I did, in at least a small way, help make school a better place for students. But leaving the classroom was not just leaving music, and there remained a part of me that wanted to be with my “kids,” my fellow musicians, for all the remaining days of my career. But music has never left me, nor have I left it. There is nothing more enjoyable, nothing more agreeable, refreshing, moving, inspiring, fun, entertaining, powerful — than music. It still rings in my head constantly. My career in music was satisfying beyond description. While I went on to other things, both academic and personal, music has been the one constant in my life, and so it will surely remain. I still bang on the keyboard, pick the guitar, and sing when it pleases. And I hear, though not often enough, the music of Mozart, Scarlatti, Beethoven, Mahler, Ravel, Bach, Chopin, Palestrina, Verdi and the rest, and it is always as if I’ve never heard it before.

Charleston Light Opera Guild
Charleston Light Opera Guild
5 photos

Early Jobs

I was a lucky young kid. I guess I just fell into it; never gave it much thought. I learned how to work for money. There were several jobs that came available in my early life, and they were all great experiences. And since I grew up in the Great Depression and World War II, it was expected of many boys my age. The benefit to the whole family was significant: any wage earner in the family lessened the pressure on the “man of the house.” Remember, in those days a great percentage of mothers were stay-at-home moms, so a kid who could earn his own spending money was a family plus.

I hasten to add that if I had a true need for money, my parents would find a way to provide it. But there was an unspoken family understanding that money was scarce, and that only our most pressing needs could be afforded. So we — Dave, Alice and I — lived by that understanding. The money I got from my jobs was mine to save, spend or share. I shared some with Alice; she was my twin, and she was a girl — girls back then didn’t work at any job until they were old enough to “babysit,” the only job available to them. Dave? Well, Dave was four years older than I, and had had paper routes, etc.

My first job for money (I did a few things around the house as part of parental expectations, but that wasn’t what I would call a “job.”) was helping my uncle Paul dig a basement beneath his house. He had dug out an area about ten feet square, and hired me to come to his house when I could, and take shovel in hand, fill the wheelbarrow, and push it out back and dump it behind the back lot. I was about twelve at the time. The deal was I would get lunch, and he would pay me fifteen cents an hour. (The minimum wage in 1941 was thirty cents an hour, but it didn’t apply to me, and this was a family deal.)

Well, that sounded just fine — better than sitting around the house and getting nothing. So I started the job. I weighed no more than 60 or 70 pounds, so pushing that wheelbarrow was really tough, and if I filled it too full I couldn’t push it at all. Then one day, after about four weeks on the job, I strained my lower back — to a point of some real pain. Paul said that was enough, my health was more important than our arrangement. We totaled up my time, and he paid me in full: six dollars. A small fortune for Paul, and probably undeserved. Plus the lunches. That was the only job I had that summer. I was more proud than you can imagine of that six dollar bulge in my pocket. 

The next summer I went big time: a paper route for the Charleston Gazette. I would report at 5 a.m. every morning, fold my papers, put ‘em in a shoulder bag and make my deliveries to about 110 customers. Then every Friday I would go to each customer on the route and collect for the week’s papers: thirty-five cents. From that I would pay the “substation manager,” a guy who worked full-time for the Gazette, whatever they charged, and kept the rest. That’s when I learned about incentive: the better I collected, the more I could keep.

My customers were mostly very nice about paying, but some were hard to catch at home. There was one guy in particular who was never at home on Friday, so his ‘bill’ had run up to about three dollars: a small treasure. It happened that as I was delivering my route one Saturday morning before daylight, his house was alive with laughter and noises. I knocked on his door. He came, and in a tipsy voice asked who the hell I was. I told him, and that he owed me three dollars for his papers over the past few weeks. He smiled, forked over a five, and said keep the change. Then he invited me into his party. I said I was busy with my route. Scared to death.

One more quick story about my paper route: On August 14, 1945, our manager called all the delivery boys to the substation. He told us that an “Extra was coming out and that we could sell them on the street. “JAPAN SURRENDERS!!”

My route included the employee entrance to the Union Carbide plant on U.S. Route 60 in South Charleston, so I grabbed a big bundle of papers and hightailed it to the plant entrance. Since it was part of my “territory,” I claimed possession of the plant entrance. Luckily, employees were reporting for the evening shift, which began at 3:00 p.m. And the day shift guys were coming out of the plant. I had customers going both ways, and sold every paper within about twenty minutes.

The excitement of Japan’s WWII surrender was electric. Workers were literally throwing money at me. One guy gave me a dollar bill and kept running. (The papers cost five cents.) Money-wise, I cleaned up, and that was in itself momentous. But beyond that, I got caught up in the enthusiasm of the event — the surrender of Japan — to the point that I was like a kid at the circus. We had been in a terrible Pacific war that every kid knew about. We had followed it since December 7, 1941. And now it was over. What a day.

And that evening, on the streets of downtown South Charleston, people were in the streets, yelling, laughing, celebrating. Cars were going up the main highway to Charleston with people shouting out the windows. (Gasoline was rationed; most drivers had little to spare.) Everything was scarce — I saw people in one car going up the highway to celebrate, and the wheels of their car had no tires! Driving on the rims, it was that big a deal to them. Tires or not, the war with Japan was over. It was that kind of a crazy day and night, and I — me — scrawny, thirteen-year-old Alan Farley, had had a part in it. Just think about that. As I said before, what a day.

After that, I had summer jobs as a car hop in a root beer drive-in, an usher in a theatre, and a stock room boy in a hardware store. Some of the time I worked two jobs at once. Then, my last “early” job was really different. The City of South Charleston, under the direction of the Police Department, decided to paint parking ‘stripes’ on the main streets. The parking was side to side, angled to the curb. The stripes were to be in yellow paint, about five inches wide. I somehow heard they were looking for someone to help the painter, and got the job. The painter was Shorty, a really scruffy short guy who was a sometime house painter. He was actually very nice to me, friendly to all, and a known regular around the local beer halls. Shorty and I would report to Police headquarters at 4:00 a.m., and a cop would drive us, along with our buckets and brushes, to that day’s starting point. Shorty would stand back from the curb, squint, and decide the angle of the stripe. Then we would paint — freehand! No guides, just Shorty’s eye. By the end of the summer, those stripes were at all possible angles; some slots were wide, others narrow. Here’s part of the reason: Al Wells’ pool room, located at the midpoint of all our work locations, opened at nine. Every morning at about five till, Shorty would tell me to keep painting; he’d be right back. Most mornings, when he returned, Shorty would be strangely glassy-eyed and very happy — and that’s when the paint lines would start to wander. The cop who transported us would also drop by to see if we were OK. He would just shake his head and drive on.

It was a great job for two summers. I was paid pretty well, there was no pressure, and Shorty was responsible for all the mistakes. I was home by about 12:30, in time for lunch and then catch a bus to Rock Lake Pool. At the pool I’d tell my buddies the latest Shorty story. Who says that work isn’t fun? I have to say that I was more fortunate than many other kids. I knew plenty of boys who would have done as I did — they just didn’t get the chance, either because they lived in very rural areas or for family reasons. 

(Back then, and later and later as an adult, I became accustomed to physical work. Work that involved pick and shovel, mowing scythe and ax, digging, pulling, lifting, sweating, cussing the tools and the boss — the kind of work that brings a certain satisfaction no other activity can provide. One does those things and gains enormous respect for those whose lives are tied to hard hat, blue collar stuff, day after day. I wish the politicians would be required to live that life for a few months. Just think.)  After high school, I continued to work summers — at more substantive yet physical jobs — until I was through college, and early into my teaching career. But those weren’t “early” jobs, so I won’t go into that.

Alice Karen Farley

1931-2007

Alice and I, twins of course, were born in Winding Gulf, West Virginia on September 1, 1931. I’ve written about Alice in other pieces, and will take this space to tell you a little about her adult years. But before that, this:

We were what you’d expect from twins: played together, walked to school together, learned how to make up little games, all the activities of small children we did together. Then as we got a little older, we went the way of our genders: Alice with dolls, Alan with sticks and rocks and dirty paws. But we still were close. When were thirteen or so, she learned to smoke, as I had a year earlier. Cigarettes were precious during WWll, so our opportunities were limited. And smoking at that time was not considered a health hazard, even within the medical profession.

A dirty habit, yes, but that was it. However, it was a known fact in the family that I smoked, just not in front of adults. Alice, however, kept it a secret. Here’s a quick little story:

Our house on Sycamore Street had one bathroom, upstairs, a tiny room. Getting to the bathroom after supper with seven or eight of us was one of those unspoken contests, and Alice would finish supper early and race for the stairs. And go into the bathroom and light up a ciggie.

I would be close behind, but for legitimate reason. She would exit the bathroom and sail downstairs, I would go in and, upon leaving, would sometimes be met at the door by an adult. On more than one occasion, when I opened the door, Alice’s leftover smoke would as usual pour out. And I, who was far from innocent of many things, but had had not had a single puff, stood accused: “Alan Farley! Have you been smoking in the bathroom? Whew! Well, tell me, were you? You know you shouldn’t be smoking those nasty things anyway!” And on and on.

Each time I replied, guiltily, “Yes ma’am, sorry Mom, I won’t do it again.” Thus was Alice’s innocence preserved. And back downstairs, innocently, she would roll her eyes and silently giggle. And I would have to laugh, and she knew that. That scenario happened more than once. But that’s how it was with us; we’d cover as necessary, and it served both of us well.

We played in the band together, sang in the church choir together, hiked in Joplin Hollow together. When we were juniors in high school she was my date for the prom. (I had yet to begin dating girls, only stood with them in front of their lockers and watched them get on the yellow bus after school. I had only three or four “real” dates in high school.)

Alice had some great girlfriends, most of whom were, naturally, band members. They spent a lot of time together, doing girl stuff, while I was into camping, playing basketball, other guy stuff. The natural way of things had happened, each of us becoming more connected to other kids. But we were always known as a pair, and we continued to have those great private times together.

Although twins, there were many differences between us, both in physical features and personality traits. Alice was dark complexioned, I was fair. Alice eyes brown, mine blue. Alice was left handed, I, right. Alice was very private, I, sunny. Alice was nervous, I was oblivious. From our parents, Alice’s traits were somewhat more those of the Farleys, mine more — it seems — those of the Hales. And it may be that our differences played a role in how well we got along.

In my memory, we never had a serious disagreement.

On to the adult times. I’ve told you of our time together up through high school. Following those fun years, Alice went to WVU, where she majored in sociology. (I’ve mentioned elsewhere how she and I helped each other with college expenses: she helping me first, taking a job for two years; then it was my turn after I started my career and she was at WVU.)

During her senior year she and Robert (Bob) Bond, of Charleston and a student also, were married. Bob was in ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corps), and upon graduation he and Alice moved to Cape Canaveral, Florida, where Bob — Lieutenant Bob — was stationed at Patrick Air Force base. Following his two-year stint in the Air Force, he took employment in the space industry with Martin Aircraft in Orlando, where he worked until his retirement. Bob is a great guy, was always a wonderful husband and dad, and had his own love of daredevil escapades with his Martin buddies. He was totally devoted to Alice, and they were a terrific pair.

Bob and Alice brought to the world three lovely daughters, Natalie, Margaret and Jennifer. Their ages were close enough to those of our three kids that they had wonderful times together, mostly at Christmas in West Virginia, and summer vacations in Florida. All of us — not just the kids — had great fun together, joking, sightseeing around Orlando, going for wild lake rides in Bob’s boat, and in West Virginia: watching the kids with their Christmas loot, helping in the kitchen, just . . . well, just being there together. (It is the three Bond girls who can best tell you of Alice, and it would be fortunate if they were to someday do so. My own information is, while not superficial, limited by the time and distance constraints which separated us during most of our adult lives.)

Alice was wife, homemaker, mother, community friend, flutist, best friend to her special buddies, and much more. She never stopped playing her flute in local orchestras and ensembles. She kept a high interest in state, national and world affairs, and was an avid reader with a broad range of interests. She devoted her energy and her life to her family, keeping the group going with good humor, often zany and always unpredictable. I’m sure her daughters can regale you with stories about growing up with Alice at the helm.

As for Alice and me, I can tell you that as twins we were truly bonded. From the time we had our own infant ‘language,’ at which we would go into uncontrollable laughter, until she died, we connected in silent ways not in the mainstream of personal relationships. We both felt we knew somehow when the other was in difficulty — or at least we both believed that. I can’t say with certainty that it happened, but I know that being together at (even before) birth, and living so closely during for our formative years, created an unusually strong bond between us.

Alan Farley & Alice Farley
Alan Farley & Alice Farley
11 photos

Alice was as directed and determined as anyone I have ever known. Once she started on something, like playing a difficult symphonic passage on her flute, she was imperturbable and fully absorbed. In that respect we were very different. As noted earlier, she could practice the same passage over and over and over again, to the point of distraction for others, without once stopping for a breather or laying the flute down and later picking it up again. I remember too well that once, when she was about fifteen, practicing in her bedroom for an upcoming Charleston Symphony concert, part of the program was Beethoven’s Eroica Overture No. 3. In that piece there is a beautiful flute solo, not an easy piece for an as-yet amateur player. For about three weeks, she played that one passage over, and over. Every day for at least two hours. She wasn’t, of course, the orchestra’s first chair flutist, and the solo was to be played by the regular musician. But she loved it and was determined to master it. And she did. Trouble was, having mastered it, she STILL played it for two hours every day. Save me. That was Alice, throughout her life.

Her ability to focus was an important part of her lifestyle, and in her school life, success at scholarship — she mastered all her coursework, with her fine intelligence backed up by pure determination. But she never flaunted that skill, that scholarship; unless you knew of her abilities, you would not suspect their depth. While she developed a practiced art of appearing to be blasé, giving the impression that “well, it may matter not,” deep inside she was almost always alive with contained energy and attention to the matter that was before her. And that is the Alice we all knew: lively, friendly, caring, good-humored, with that wonderfully generous laugh, accepting.

I wish everyone could have a twin.

Alice Karen Farley
Alice Karen Farley
27 photos

David Hale Farley

1927-2002

David was born in 1927, his parents, Willis and Audrey, up against it in the oncoming Great Depression. I don’t know much about David’s early years except his brief recounts to me of those times. His earliest years were neither happy nor otherwise; he was a child of the down times. I have no accounts from either Mom or Dad about Dave’s early times, only the accounts from Dave himself — colored, perhaps, by his own perceptions of what that was all about.

He told me that he was basically a happy kid, that Mom, in particular, treated him with great care and kindness. He/they were living in Winding Gulf, WV (where Alice and I were born), and the Hale house — Mom’s home — was nearby. He remembered that he had his happiest hours when Mom — or Dad — took him to the Hale household, where he would play with his one-year-younger uncle Don Hale, the son of Henry and Effie; the younger brother of our Mom, Audrey. He and Don obviously “bonded” at an early age; they would become lifelong friends and buddies.

At age seven, Dave, Mom, Alice, and I moved to Alderson and stayed with Dad’s parents while he chased a job in Charleston. Dave went to school in Alderson. He had special affection for his aunt Ruth, Dad’s much younger sister, who was about six years older than Dave. Ruth was that blond, beautiful teenager whom Dave adored. However, our Alderson experience ended a year later, when Dad moved us all to South Charleston, where he had gotten a job with Carbide and Carbon Chemicals Corporation, later to be known as Union Carbide.

I’ll move forward with Dave to my time with him. He was about twelve, I was eight. He had buddies from Scouts with whom he hiked and camped. I, at eight, wanted to do that too. One of my earliest memories of that time was the day that Dave and friends went off to the woods, in the snow, to cook breakfast and hike, and the rest. I wanted to go with him; he, the big brother, said “You can’t go with us, you’re too young!” Abashed, I went back into the house. Ten minutes later, I struck out in pursuit. I caught up with them just as Dave was putting water over the fire to make tea. You know the rest: he yelled at me, berated me, told me I was just a kid, and so on. I blubbered to him that I just wanted to be there, and the rest. He, being Dave, my brother, softened and brought me into the group, much against their wishes: what’s this young kid doing here with us, the older guys? I think that’s when Dave and I became brothers under the skin. He looked after me, teased me, all the rest. As time went on, when he was about sixteen and I about twelve, he taught me to jitterbug in our living room. He’d play the radio record show, featuring the big band music of the ‘40s, and show me the “center step,” and so on. As I related many years later, at his memorial service, the problem for me was that although he taught me to jitterbug, I was the girl. I had it backwards. Of course, I later figured it out and was able to jitterbug from the guy’s side.

David’s life was crazy. At 17, a senior in high school, he had accumulated so much makeup time from skipping school that the principal told him he’d never graduate. However, the principal offered him a deal: if Dave would join the military, with parental permission of course, the principal would grant Dave a diploma upon Dave’s successful military service with an honorable discharge. Dave loved that deal, and so did Dad. To Dad, it was Dave on his way elsewhere with Dad’s blessing; with Dave, it was out of the house and on his own with nothing to lose. So with Dad’s happy permission and Dave’s exuberance, Dave joined the U.S. Navy in 1944.

That event was to me a memorable time in my life: just before Dave was to report for duty, Dad took Dave and me fishing on Little Coal River. Kind of a Dad’s going away deal. We were on the water that early morning, fog over the still water of the small river. Dad had gotten minnows for bait. The three of us, the family guys, all on the river. Long bamboo poles, with minnows tossed out to the end of the line. The really good part was that Dave caught bass after bass, while Dad and I just watched in wonderment. It was Dave’s moment. And I held my breath after each of his catches, thinking, O Boy, Dave, good for you!

If there was one family member about whom a book could be written, it would be Dave. From a year in the Navy (the war ended) to four years at Carbide, then three years in the Army in Germany, followed by four years at WVU, Dave’s life experiences were varied and intense to say the least. Taking a degree in journalism, he went to work for the local newspaper, and from there to the State Road Commission, where he was in charge of office services.

In 1972, Dave and his wife, Joan, and their young children, Katherine and Craig, moved to Roanoke and we were close by again. Dave and Joan and Carol and I had great times together, with our three and their two kids. During the ensuing six years Dave and I became even more close, and we camped and fished together quite often.

Then, in 1979, Dave went to Arizona, chasing a money dream that didn’t pan out. He and Joan divorced, and Dave was gone for good. The following years found him married once again, living in North Carolina, South Carolina, Alaska (briefly), and back to Arizona. He was no longer in touch with any family members. During his last years in Arizona he wrote a number of poems, all of which describe with beauty just who he was. They are in book form, among the family documents collected by Leslie. At that time, in about 1997, he sent Mom a letter saying that he had survived colon cancer and that he sent best wishes to all.

In January 2002, his daughter Kathy received word that Dave, living in Tucson, Arizona, had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital there. I flew to Tucson to be with him, and learned that in addition to the stroke, his colon cancer had metastasized to his lungs. I returned a second time to fly him to Tennessee, where his daughter lived. He spent his final months in a nursing home in Martin, Tennessee, where Kathy was close by.

I visited him in Tennessee several times over the next few months. Those visits were both sad and hilarious; Dave never failing to be Dave, with his not-to-be-interrupted sense of humor. Here’s one story of that sense of humor in the face of impending death: While in Tucson, recovering from his stroke, his tests included a lung X-Ray. The doctor came to report to him, unexpectedly, that he had cancer in both lungs. David replied, “Not so. Can’t be. Hell, Doc, I quit smoking a month ago!” Even then, the instant wit. Dave told me that story, and laughed about the doctor’s look of utter disbelief. After seven months of pain, but never despair, Dave died on July 22, 2002.

The above comments offer a sketch of Dave’s life. But I can’t close without expressing the rest of it. As a person, Dave was extraordinarily bright, witty, funny, fun-loving, happy-go-lucky, daredevil, caring, and a great friend. He was a terrific writer, and was very inventive when it came to fixing things or finding better ways to do things. He constantly sought information about any topic that was in his current pathway, and his recall of esoteric facts was scary. He had all the tools of a scholar, but his day-to-day life was so exciting he didn’t want to be one. He loved his family, he was crazy about our kids, and beneath his lighthearted persona he was extremely sentimental. He could and did send those around him into gales of laughter at his quips. And he could laugh at himself — he had no ego about his own escapades or shortcomings. The irony of it all is that way down deep, he was never a truly happy person; never found peace. Dave was one of a kind, and it’s hard to imagine a better big brother.

David at sunset, photo taken by Joan Brookover Farley, December 1962

David enjoyed writing, and “How Very Rich Am I” is a collection of his poems, stories, and essays.

David Hale Farley
David Hale Farley
64 photos