Joplin Hollow

Audrey Vellence Hale

“Mom”, “Grandmam” – 1908-2011

Audrey Farley was born in Cannel City, Kentucky on June 6, 1908, the daughter of Henry Orville Hale and Effie Rice Hale. She was the third of ten children. I don’t know much about her early life, except that she grew up in the coal mine communities of southern West Virginia, with a house full of brothers and sisters.

She (some of this can be found elsewhere in these pieces; I know I repeat myself, but this family stuff runs together at certain points) learned very early to work alongside her mother and sister Edith (Frances — “Rook” — was much younger) in the business of cooking, sewing, cleaning, working in the garden, and all the other tasks that befell the females of those times. At age eight, she was an able cook, helping with meals cooked on a wood stove, with no running water inside the house. Her mother was a task mistress who was too busy for nonsense among her children when it came to chores.

Christy, Audrey, and Joe Hale – 1920, Princewick, WV

She was a fine student, and evidently had a couple of outstanding teachers in high school. At that small country high school Latin was required, along with great emphasis on literature and grammar. To the end of her life she could quote Shakespeare, poets and others whose works she was admonished to memorize. Her memory was prodigious. In her final years she could still quote poetry and prose without pause, and sing long, very old songs without missing a word or phrase. Her penchant for formal language belied her humble upbringing, and gave her an aura of unpretentious sophistication.

Truly, she had the heart of a scholar, although her life was anything but scholarly. Behind all that, she had a deep respect and admiration for the lifestyle of her parents, and never spoke ill of being a “coal miner’s daughter.”

Audrey in her basketball uniform, Winding Gulf High School, 1923

But don’t be fooled by this talk of scholarly talent. She was also known for her fiery disposition, competitive spirit and mischievous sense of humor. She knew how to have a good time, and among her school activities she played on the girls’ basketball team. Imagine: girls basketball in the 1920s! In a tiny high school in rural West Virginia.

And while she loved her poetry and literature, she never advertised it; rather, she presented herself for what she was: a person who understood basic values and a lifestyle that was unpretentious.

I cannot say enough about her innate ability as a mother. She was firm, kind, friendly, understanding, and most of all, trusting and encouraging. She had an amazing knack for knowing when and what to say or do to help a child be — a good child. Never heavy-handed or loud-spoken, she laid her intelligent, knowing, smiling qualities upon us all. Her three children were all different — nothing new there, but she never showed any favoritism; no one of us could complain or find fault with the way she handled the job of being a parent. I never heard her raise her voice or complain — I imagine she did, privately, but not in front of her children.

Times were not easy during the 1930s; the Great Depression had gripped us all, and many households were bogged down from the struggles of not enough money, too much debt, lack of optimism, and a dim view of the future. Mother wouldn’t have any of it. She kept the family going on that score, and Dad’s job at semi-skilled labor wages was nevertheless a huge positive factor in our family life.

Like Dad and his and Mom’s parents, Mom was a diehard New Deal Democrat who was actually so biased politically — probably a result of the FDR years which saw an emergence from the Great Depression, and the unionization of the coal industry — that she had no use for any Republican politician, regardless of that person’s moderation or personal demeanor. In her later life, while watching a Republican on television, she would talk back at the TV with pointed remarks, all irreverent and many caustic, for the action on the screen. While one could criticize her single-mindedness in this regard, those moments were usually kind of amusing.

Mother and I had good times together. When I was in high school, we would wait for Wednesday’s delivery of the Saturday Evening Post, which included Western novels in serial form which we both liked to read. Often when I would get home from school she had cooked pinto beans, and we would test them together. When I was a pre-adolescent, we sang together — she taught me many songs (most of which I have long forgotten), usually while cleaning up the kitchen after supper.

It was mother who allowed me to go to the woods alone when I was very young. She needed only to know where I was going and when I planned to return. She never berated me for my missteps — I’m sure there were many — rather, she emphasized her quiet expectations of good behavior. Some summer mornings when I was eight or so I would arise at dawn, pull on my shorts and wander into the neighborhood, looking for anything of interest: birds, objects on our gravel street and sidewalk, you name it. When I’d go back to the house the world had awoken, and mother would simply say good morning, chat for a minute, and that was it. Can’t imagine that kind of freedom in today’s world; too many hazards for young kids. Looking back, those times were akin to the days of Huckleberry Finn, although my life was lacking that kind of adventure.

I note here that Dad’s working hours, which shifted from day to evening to night on a weekly rotation, placed limits on the amount of time he was at home during “regular” parenting time, so it fell to Mom to look after us kids, laying out the rules — such as they were — and by default acting as Parent In Chief.

Alan, Audrey, Alice – about 1936, 21 Franklin Terrace, South Charleston, WV

It’s important to say that mother’s parenting style was even-handed with all three of us kids. Dave and Alice were as encouraged and trusted as I. Mother was careful about that, but more importantly, she genuinely and effortlessly treated us all with the same expectations and affection; that’s just who she was.

Mom — that’s what I always called her; Alice was somehow more formal and never called her anything but Mother — was the model parent. I’ve had friends whose mothers were much like mine, and Carol’s mother was truly wonderful, so I don’t mean to paint her as the parent that no one else ever had. But she had a natural wisdom about how to deal with her children, and it worked. While Dad sometimes seemed a little hesitant about how to deal with us, as though he weren’t very self-assured about parenthood, Mom was never ill at ease with us — I think in large part due to her quiet self-confidence, as well as having grown up in a very large family where all the dynamics come into play sooner or later.

After we kids were grown and gone, she and Dad pursued their individual talents and interests; Dad with his politics and woodworking; mother with her love of nature and wonderful needlework. Her quilts were regionally known and shown at various events; several have been preserved by family members. (She made a quilt for Dave, Alice and me to celebrate our marriages, and individual quilts for her grandchildren. I hope you get to see them.)

“The Eagle” Quilt – 1st prize in 1974 Appalachian Arts & Crafts Festival, Beckley, WV

Having grown up in “the country,” that is, in very rural surroundings, Mom learned from her parents a great deal about plants, wild flowers, birds, and nature itself. Not just her father; Nanny Hale was pure pioneer, and had learned the way of the mountains herself as a young child. Note in the family history her background and you’ll understand just how resourceful she had learned to be, using plants for seasonings, and so forth. So Mom had that 19th century background and simply carried it forward in her readings, her explorations of wooded areas close to home, and her conversations with others of similar background.

In 1961, she and Dad moved into their new home — the only home they ever owned — on the banks of Coal River, just outside St. Albans, WV. She immediately set out to create a wildflower area along the back of their lot, overlooking the river. The rich river soil, along with the shade provided by huge poplar trees along the bank, was a perfect setting for her project. It became a place of beauty which she showed to one and all with pleasure, walking along with a long stick with which she would point to the various flowers, naming them and adding a short note about their habitat, etc.

From her mom, (all the Hale girls called Effie “Mom”), Mother became an excellent cook; in later years she became an experimentalist, trying new recipes and seasonings, presenting visitors with exceptional dishes, learning all the while about how the kitchen could be a place of wondrous creativity. Her dishes were better than excellent — they were the talk of the neighborhood and church.

Dad died in 1983 at age 77, leaving Mom to fend for herself. She had never learned to drive, so neighborhood ladies from the church organized a group called “Audie’s Go-Go Girls,” who on a rotating basis took her to her medical appointments, the grocery store, and any other outings she required. That continued for 18 years, until her death in 2001.

Following Dad’s death, Mom became supremely independent, taking care of the house, handling the finances, and so forth. She was alone, and though she missed Dad terribly, she probably felt somehow liberated to follow her own path. She told me she really enjoyed living alone, with her books, her birds outside the kitchen window, and her tall poplars on the back lot. Her own path: those final 18 years were indeed lived as she wished — within the restrictions of her personal health, which was challenged by pulmonary limitations.

So Mom had reached her time of pleasure, after all those years of raising children, supporting dad, living frugally, directing all her energy and mental activity to the needs of the household — after all that she was able, at age 75, to unleash her creative notions into continued work with the needle, and in addition to learn how to paint, never forsaking her poetry and prose. Her quilts and wall hangings were just one facet of her artistic abilities: when she was in her eighties she began painting with water colors following a few lessons from a neighbor. Although she produced just a few paintings, they show true talent. Almost all of them portrayed flowers — quite natural when you think about it. Most of her paintings have been placed in the family “archives,” put together by Leslie as part of her tireless work with “ancestry.”

Watercolor painting by Audrey, about 1995

I cannot let pass mention of her love of reading. She had many favorite topics, and spent countless hours reading of current events and other timely topics. And for as far back as I can remember she loved western novels by the writers of the day: Ernest Haycox, Max Brand, Owen Wister and the rest. But her all-time favorite author was Louis L’Amour. In her final years she had a collection of about fifty of his books, and would read them over and over, more for the flavor of his writing than the content of the story. She often talked of him, and was taken by his descriptions of the west. One of her favorite comments was that no one could describe a campfire like Louis. We would take a dozen paperbacks to her at Christmas; she was always delighted. Her contacts with others were limited; she had little use for the telephone, and had few daytime visitors — probably her choice. Living alone in the evenings could have been tiring, but Mom was never quite alone…she had her Louis L’Amour books to keep her company.

Her light shone until her death in 2001 at age 93. Until her final day, she maintained her taste for pinto beans, good homemade bread, flavorful dishes, and yes, for her “turkey feathers,” a mere taste of Wild Turkey bourbon with a splash of water, taken on occasion before supper.

Audrey maintaining a straight face while showing off her turkey feathers

About everything in life, whether hardships, happy times, daily life: she had a prevailing sense of humor that parted the curtains time after time. That humor, characterized by her finding a source of smiles in almost any circumstance, was one of her trademark qualities: she could find a way to cast almost any condition in a positive light, and in my experience that quality is a rare human ability. And it explains in part her great parenting skill — bringing a child to feel okay about something when feeling bad was in the works. Positive reinforcement at its best. I know this sounds like an aggrandizement — even an exaggeration — of the life of one’s mother, coming from the pride of a child. But I am sure that others who knew her, family members or not, would agree with the memories expressed here. This was an exceptional woman.

Willis Hite Farley

“Dad”, “Grandaddy”, “Big Bear” – 1906-1983

Willis was born at Kanawha Falls, West Virginia, a small town on the Kanawha River about 50 miles east of Charleston. He grew up in Alderson, West Virginia, another small town — with an estimated population of about 1,500 at that time — in Greenbrier County, West Virginia, on the banks of the Greenbrier River.

He was a willful young boy, and had friends who were likewise apt to go against the grain. They were boisterous youths, and had great fun in the Tom Sawyer tradition, pulling Halloween pranks and the like. During their early teens they spent their summers on an island above town, carrying their bare necessities up the railroad to the island and camping out. They would come and go from home, with parental permission (one must wonder if the parents didn’t applaud the arrangement). They would walk the tracks back home if needed, and walk back to the island, swiping chickens and corn on the way (Dad’s account). It was idyllic. They would bask in the sun, catch catfish, explore the nearby shores, play, fight, swim and the rest. What a life.

There’s an element of early twentieth century racism in this. Alderson was a really small town, decidedly white, and probably — no, surely, racist. I tell this because it’s part of the deal, like it or not. When Dad and his cronies went to “summer camp,” they convinced a black kid — their age — to go with them. He was to take care of camp, clean fish, help with cooking, etc. In return he could be a regular camper, eat with everyone else, enjoy the river, and the rest. Ingrained in the culture of the day, Dad and his buddies saw nothing wrong with this: a black kid would do chores and be rewarded with food and shelter, along with companionship in camp. While by today’s standards that would be unheard of, and truly in Dad’s later life is was so, it was just a reflection of life in those days for black and white alike in places like Alderson. Dad was careful to assure that their “colored” buddy was a true buddy, but that doesn’t clean the slate.

It’s instructive to state that by the 1960s Dad was the staunchest of civil rights advocates, and I’m sure he looked back on what were not innocent but unknowing days of the early Century with certain regret. Actually, he came by it as a matter of upbringing: his grandmother and mother were both of the racist mold of the day. I am heartened to say that Dad was an early proponent of equal rights; his basic human values prevailed, and he got it right — later on.

Willis, back row, first from left – Alderson, WV, Allegheny Collegiate Institute – 1923

Dad had a hard time with and in school. After attending three different high schools — asked to leave the first two — he finally graduated. Upon leaving school he took a temporary job as an assistant to his uncle Seth Farley, who was a surveyor for coal companies in Greenbrier and Raleigh Counties. He was enthralled with the experience, and never got over what he called “the romance of the mines.”

A little later, he met a young girl with a zest for living and an adventurous spirit. She was Audrey Hale, who became his wife and my mother. They were young and improbably optimistic. They moved to a small mountainside coal camp called Quinwood, in Greenbrier County. The company houses were literally built on stilts on their fronts, with the backs anchored to the steep mountainside.

Dad didn’t even work in the mines — at that time. He worked in the company-operated pool hall, racking balls and serving food. But he reveled in being a part of the coal mining way of life, a dream that later became a reality, and finally a lifelong fixation.

It’s hard to imagine a person being that taken by a life underground, with pick and shovel as it was in those days, with the carbide lamps and the canaries and the rest. But I have known miners from those times who were just like dad. As the great song “Dark As A Dungeon” says: “It will form as a habit, and seep in your soul, ‘Till the stream of your blood runs as black as the coal.”

A little later Dad and Mom moved to Raleigh County, where Dad took a mining job at Winding Gulf, which at the time was one of the largest mining operations in the area. There, they became the parents of my older brother David in 1927. Life in coal camps was tough then — work with little else to do; near-squalid home conditions, no access to the outside world, just work, coal dust, and worry. The company owned the homes, and paid their employees in “scrip,” which was in the form of tokens to be redeemable at the company store. To exchange one’s scrip for cash meant selling it at discount, so employees were stuck with buying everything — food, clothes — everything, at the company store. As the great song goes, “You load sixteen tons, and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt. St. Peter don’t call me ‘cause I can’t go — I owe my soul to the Company Store.”

Alice Karen Farley and Alan Keith Farley, about 1932

Then came the twins — Alice and me, in 1931. We were a surprise. They expected one newborn and got two. I’ll not repeat here what I’ve written in “Earliest Memories,” which speaks to my early memories of life in Winding Gulf. Instead, I’ll pick up with Dad as life progressed in South Charleston, when I was a youngster.

Dad loved to talk politics, even in those days. A fervent Democrat, he spent dinnertime adulating President Roosevelt. No wonder — life in the Great Depression years was a time of hope for the working class, and Dad was a union man through and through, having cut his labor teeth on John L. Lewis and the United Mine Workers. We would come to the supper table, eat and sigh as Dad preached the union gospel. Not that it was bad. It was just not what young kids were about.

Among the tales of Dad’s political “events,” including a failed candidacy for the state legislature, this one took the cake: Harry Truman was President, and had scheduled a vacation in Georgia. This was during the time of the southern rebellion against the Democratic party, spearheaded by the infamous Strom Thurmond of South Carolina, who broke away from the party and ran for president as an independent in 1948, sparking Truman’s famous characterization of “Dixiecrats.”

Knowing of the planned getaway, Dad’s imagination took off. He got Mom to make a short-sleeved sport shirt of fabric with a Confederate — a la “Dixiecrat” — design. In fact, he had her make two of them. He sent a shirt, along with a tongue-in-cheek letter, to President Truman at the Georgia retreat.

Behold! Dad received a personal letter from the President, also tongue- in-cheek, thanking him for his thoughtfulness. I was living at home at the time, and the whole event was hilarious — and Dad was ecstatic. He harrumphed around the house for days — hard to tell what he said to the guys at the plant.

And as to talking, Dad would take the opposite view of any topic or position just to stir a debate. Mother told me that when they were first married he would say, name a topic and take either position; I’ll argue the other side. And that quirk in his nature was deeply embedded; it remained part of him throughout his life. Many times I would state my support for what I knew to be his bias, just to get him to fend for the opposite view. Great entertainment. He just loved verbal battle.

Willis Farley believed in strict organization. I won’t give it any big psychological slant; I’ll just say what he was. He was OCD about his tool cabinet. Mislay his hammer and you were in serious trouble. He was also a minimalist about a lot of things. If you could use something twice before discarding it, that was the thing. And so on. Of course, a lot of that was due to being without for so long, and a fear — nay, a terror, that being without was just around the corner again. Rather than being upset about it, we kids took it all in stride, and had no issue with Dad’s way of doing things. We just weren’t ecstatic about his manner, his basic pessimism.

He was a loyal Freemason. Almost to the point of obsession. He eventually became a thirty-third degree Mason (whatever that is), and an avid Scottish Righter. His spare time was spent reading Lodge magazines and coaching young aspirants in the early degree regimen of the Lodge. I never paid much attention to it, nor did I ever have an interest in joining. But Dad — now Dad was another story. He gained a reputation locally for being the best coach in the Lodge, and I’m sure he was.

He was a fine wood worker — although he never built a piece of furniture, he became highly skilled at restoring old pieces, and was a true craftsman. After the kids were grown and gone, he and Mom would go to farm auctions and buy old pieces for a song, with Dad scraping the undersides and discovering the kind of wood, the condition of it, and whether it was really valuable. He and mother had a great time going to those auctions, picking up old but valuable antique furniture and working together to bring it back to its original beauty.

He was a caring parent. While there wasn’t a lot of communication, he was interested in our futures, and was willing to talk with us about most anything. He wanted us to succeed where he hadn’t, and was proud of our achievements. That he had a limited sense of humor was no problem for us — we learned early to expect that.

That he sometimes had a temper was just who he was, and we knew it would pass.

He was always concerned about providing for his family, and as a “working man,” sometimes felt that what he brought home in his weekly paycheck wasn’t enough. But it was. There was little to spare, but enough to get along.

He loved to camp and fish. That from his boyhood on the Greenbrier River. I camped with him many times, and he loved to tinker with his gear, fuss with the tent, fix a special place to put the wash pan, and so on. He couldn’t cook worth a damn. His only dish was “shantyboat stew,” an overcooked mix of soup, cut up meat and potatoes.

But he was a meticulous camper, taking care of gear and keeping a neat tent, cot and kitchen. And eat fish! Man, he loved fish. He would eat every morsel on the platter and look for more. Especially catfish — channel cat. He showed me how to nail the fish to tree and skin it with pliers — a time-honored practice in the southern mountains.

He was an avid environmentalist. Early in the national awakening of environmental consciousness, he became very active in the “movement.” His interest dated back to the 1950s, when he noticed that Union Carbide was dumping chemicals into the Kanawha River late at night, when no one would be aware of their actions. He went to plant management and called their hand on it, threatening to ‘blow the whistle’ if they continued. For a while, at least, they stopped the practice. From there it was continued activism regarding clean water and air. On one occasion he provided testimony for a congressional committee. He was one of a small group who successfully stopped the construction of a dam on New River in Virginia/North Carolina which would have devastated thousands of acres of farmland and disrupted one of America’s natural treasures.

In retirement he would stalk the halls of the state capitol, lurking around corners to buttonhole legislators to lobby for environmental issues. His dedication to the environment was not lost on the people of West Virginia.

In recognition of his advocacy for clean government and a clean environment, he was named President of the first Silver Haired Legislature in West Virginia — an honorary title well deserved. So even today, hats off to Willis Farley — a man ahead of his time when it came to environmental activism.

Above all, he was a great grandparent. When his grandchildren started coming along he was a changed man. Rather than the stiff, silent, argumentative Dad I had known, he became the guy who rolled on the floor with an infant, talking baby talk, the whole deal.

And as the grandchildren grew, so he grew in his affection for them. He was always gentle and giving, and went to great lengths to make their lives happy.

Not quite the Dad I knew, but certainly the Dad I admired for being so good to my kids. It came to me that that was the Dad he had always been, he just didn’t know how to pull it off with us because of the burdens of parenthood: debt, family obligations, worries about family, uncertainty about the future, and the rest. I can’t possibly say enough about how good he was to my kids — he genuinely loved being a granddad, and he genuinely loved his grandchildren. Whatever his other shortcomings, they were overshadowed by his being “Big Bear,” the great grandparent. He was a really good man, a good father, and a good husband. His faults were neither greater nor less than those of other good men. And his contributions to making life better — and safer — for others, while mostly unsung, were indeed remarkable.

Willis Hite Farley

18 photos

Henry Orville Hale

“Granddad Hale” – 1883-1966

Henry Hale, my mother’s father, was born in Greenup County, KY in 1883, and died in 1966. Like Nanny Hale, he was a product of the Appalachian mountain culture: a tough person for tough times. He was a coal miner and farmer who, until his late sixties, never knew anything other than hard work.

He told me this story: at age 18, living in Kentucky, he hopped freight trains that brought him to Kanawha County, West Virginia. He jumped off the train and paid a man with a boat ten cents to take him across the river to the coal mining town of Diamond. He worked in the mines there for a year; then went back across the (Kanawha) river, hopped trains back to Kentucky, and married Effie — on Christmas Eve of 1903. They moved to West Virginia and their lives became a story of that day and place: coal mining, living in rural areas, and the rest. My descriptions of Nanny Hale are adequate to depict what life was like for Granddad. The rest of this entry I’ll devote to him.

Henry was what they called a “swarper.” That meant a man who wouldn’t back down; who was tough, rough, and ready to take on anyone who didn’t believe that. In addition to being a devoted husband and father, and a friend to hard labor and long hours, he was in every way a swarper. Although he didn’t spend time in the pool halls and bars, nor ever look for a confrontation, he was known as a man who wouldn’t back down. The story from my mother goes that his brother, Jim, who was also a swarper but less contained, had gotten too much to drink at the local tavern (very much like the western saloons of old), and had pulled his pistol and gone out onto the wooden sidewalk, just a roarin.’ They sent someone for Granddad and told him the problem. Granddad just walked out of the house, down to town — about two miles.

Then he walked up onto the wooden walkway where his brother Jim was shooting off his pistol in drunken joy, and simply poled him in the jaw. Jim went down like a dropped bear. That was the end of that. Henry didn’t look around for support or anger; he simply walked back home.

Knowing Granddad, I have every reason to believe that that is a true story. He was just that kind of man. Quiet, noncommittal, no nonsense. But that was just one side of the man.

Henry Hale was a father of six strapping boys. As in most families, they were all different. Prune, whose real name was Frank Curtis, was the eldest and destined to become a mine superintendent — the top of the line in that level of work. Pat, whose real name was Leslie Allen, the coal miner who was content to spend his time underground, digging out coal with pick and shovel, along with his brother Joe (Henry Joseph), the gentle giant, who, along with being a miner, loved animals above all else — and was likewise loved by his animals. Joe went on to become the master farrier in Raleigh County, shoeing horses for shows in Lexington, Kentucky and elsewhere.

Don, Christy, Joe, Prune, and Pat Hale – 1953 – Sons of Henry and Effie

Christy (his middle name was Mathewson, named for the famed baseball player), who was athletic, went to Beckley Junior College where he played basketball, and then moved to the Charleston area like the other relatives. He went to work at Carbide Carbon Chemicals, then at the beginning of World War ll, joined the Army Air Corps and was stationed in England until the end of the war. He went on to college in Oregon, and had a fine career as a professor of education at Eastern Montana University.

The eldest son, Orville, had drowned in a local pond while swimming with friends in 1923. He had just finished his junior year in high school, where we has a catcher for the baseball team. His death at 18 was a horrific blow to the family; they never got over it nor talked of it to later relatives.

Don, the youngest son and “baby” of the family: he was probably unexpected, and therefore the baby. You can imagine the attention he got from Nanny, the siblings and others. (Don was only three years older than I, and we became brothers under the skin in later years — we were truly brothers in the Indian sense. Although we never slashed our arms and joined ourselves in blood, Don and I became as fast — if not faster — than brothers in blood. We camped and fished together, shared stories and news of our families, listened to favorite country music, and the rest. While we were always separated by distance in miles, we stayed close until Don’s death in 2004.)

There were four daughters: Shelma “Littlely,” who died a toddler. Edith, who was an academic star, and who began teaching in the classroom at age 16 — upon her graduation from high school. And Frances — or “Rook,” as she was known to all — her name “Rook” being derived from her learning the “numbers” from a deck of cards of a game called “Rook.” And there was Audrey, my mother, about whom you will hopefully learn from her grandchildren. She was truly special.

But back to Henry: he loved to fish, and on occasion took his boys to camp on Indian Creek, an easy stream which flowed through Summers County into the great New River, a few miles upstream from Hinton, West Virginia. (At this point I direct the reader to my song, sung by me, called “Indian Creek.”)

Henry would take his boys — those who were around — and camp for a few days on the banks of Indian Creek. On one occasion, he took his son Don and my brother Dave, both of whom were much, much younger than the other Hale boys.

My brother Dave told me this story: Older Hale brothers Christy and Prune were very competitive. They had a bet on who could catch the largest bass. They were both in the creek, fishing. and Christy yelled, “I’ve hooked a big one. I need help!” And Prune said, “Hold on, I’ll be right there!” So Prune came to where Christy was holding a really large bass on a taut line, and said, “I’ve got him. Just keep the line tight!” Christy did, whereupon Prune came up on the stretched line, pulled his knife, and cut it. “Damn!” said Christy. “I just lost the biggest bass!”

“Well, I guess you did,” said Prune. “So, I guess I win.” That was the nature of the relationship among the Hale boys.

If it seems that I have more to report on Henry than other relatives, you’re right. That’s because I spent a lot more time with him. And I knew him better. Remember, my Granddad Farley died in 1945. Henry was around until 1966, a period which included many camping/ fishing trips, numerous visits to his new house. So my memories of him are much deeper.

Here’s more:

In 1956, I bought an MGA roadster. Look it up: 1956 MGA. It was a two-seat roadster from Britain, a true sports car. I would pick Granddad — Henry — up and we’d go somewhere to fish for the evening. At 6’5”, he would barely fit in the car. But no matter, if we were going fishing, that was fine. We did that fairly often — I’d guess that I took him fishing on local streams 30 or more times. Once, I took him to Winston-Salem to visit his son Don. That was a difficult trip. Henry could barely get into that MG, and his legs were too long for the area under the dash. But he never complained, and the trip was memorable for me if not for him.

Having known life at its most challenging, Henry Hale was wise in many ways. He had a sharp mind for ‘figures,’ and could do quick math calculations as they applied to everyday life. Somewhere, he acquired other knowledge — about general physics as it applied to leverage, weights, balance, and measurement. I never ceased to be amazed at his practical knowledge. How he came by it I never learned.

From the period 1956 until his death, Granddad and I were inseparable campers and fishermen. He would take time to give me old-time wisdom about fishing, camping and the woods and streams. Most of it was absolutely accurate. His son Don — my uncle — and I became true brothers. The three of us went camping in impossible situations. Granddad would direct us to campsites unknown to anyone else, mainly on Indian Creek. He would show us his woodsmanship, telling us how to look for bait, set up camp, the rest. His woods knowledge was deep. More importantly, he would regale us with stories about his childhood, about the Kentucky woods, and the rest. What an education that was.

On occasion, he would slip in a few words about life itself — in ways that didn’t impress until much later. He was a mostly-silent, easy-speaking Kentucky mountaineer who somehow knew about life and how to live it. His sense of humor encompassed all that he encountered: he could find humor in the simplest of situations — humor that bypassed most people. That dry, droll humor of the Kentucky-Tennessee mountains is unique in all the world. If you get a chance, find it.

Effie and Henry Hale in their backyard, with by their 8 children who survived to adulthood, 1953 in South Charleston, WV. Left to right: Christy, Prune, Rook, Don, Audrey, Joe, Edie, and Pat.

I could tell you many stories about Henry Hale. But that is not the purpose of these writings. Perhaps, time permitting, I will write more completely about him. I hope I can. Henry Hale, more than any other relative, was the major joy of my life. He taught me in ways I’m still discovering. And he had a joy of living that anyone would envy. He worked hard as a coal miner and farmer. He worked hard at raising his family. He was absolutely devoted to Effie. He found humor where others would pass it by. He never gave up. He was physically a strong, strapping man, but more than that, he was a strong man among men who knew what to believe and how to stick to it. Among all the men I’ve known, he is the most admired. I was devastated when he died. Mostly because it never occurred to me what a powerful influence he had on my life. Perhaps even more than my own father, who had enormous influence on my life, and is not be discounted at all: in some instances, the bond between grandfathers and their grandsons reaches beyond the immediate family — even fathers, for grandfathers are not bound by parental obligation or expectations. That relationship can lead to a unique, relaxed freedom, and that was the case with Granddad Hale and me.

Henry Orville Hale

16 photos

Effie Allen Rice

“Nanny Hale” – 1887-1978

Effie Allen Rice Hale, my mother’s mother, was born in Eastern Kentucky in 1887. She married quite young and moved to West Virginia with her young husband, Henry Hale. By the time I knew her, she was in my eyes “old.” I remember her very well — knew her for a long time, since I was 47 years old when she died in 1978.

I have never known anyone of greater purity of character than Nanny Hale. She saw the world through innocent eyes despite bringing ten children into the world, nurturing them, working every hour of every day in a farmhouse with no running water, no indoor bathroom, and all the while maintaining a fierce pioneer spirit that was indomitable. She could do it all: milk the cows, take care of the chickens, go to the well for water, cook on a wood stove (she was a wonderful cook), wash with a washboard, make soap, can vegetables and meat against the winter season, see her children through sickness and health, and more. And she never complained; never thought that it should or could be any different.

Effie at the Hale Farm in Princewick, WV, about 1938

Nanny was the original “little Dutch cleanser.” That was the brand name of a soap powder during those early years, and the round box had a picture of a small woman in an apron and bonnet, chasing that which needed to be cleaned. Nanny DID wear a bonnet daily, and, of course, the APRON.

She was little — short in stature, that is, and Dutch. So the wrapper on the cleanser became Nanny to all of us. And cleanser she was, known by her children to take a broom to the back yard and sweep the weeds, grass and dirt to make a place for her next outdoor project such as “putting up” vegetables for winter.

Hardship knew no friends in those coalfield days. Twice, the Hale family home burned to the ground with little salvaged (two different homes). Of course, insurance was unheard of. If your home burned, you moved in with relatives and started over. Which the Hales did. And yet, with all that, Nanny had a sense of goodness and pride about her that even young kids like myself were taken by. Her bright blue eyes and Dutch determination were always there, and that her large family made their way through adulthood in successful ways properly reflects just who she was. Deeply religious, she was one of those who would come up with a biblical verse to every situation, no matter how grave or frivolous.

She loved her farm animals, and had names for all of them, even her special chickens. She would talk to them by name, and take joy in watching them — whether cow, horse, chicken, pig or hound. She was highly intelligent, and had a wonderful gift for organization — how else to make that farmhouse and family move through time with certain focus?

Chicks at the Hale farm in Princewick, WV about 1938

And all with good humor. She was not a jokester, but she had a ready laugh at crazy circumstances or silly things that kids do, and greeted each day, each child and grandchild, with a genuinely warm smile.

I’m sure that Nanny’s ability as a young woman to deal with life back then was partly due to her being one of twelve siblings herself. She already knew how a large family should operate — the dynamics of a household full of children, along with all else I have mentioned, came naturally.

50th anniversary, December 24, 1953, South Charleston, WV

Her married life began at the turn of the 20th century. Forty-two years later, with the children grown and gone save for their youngest son Don, Nanny and Granddad moved from the farm place in Raleigh County to a small and tidy home purchased by her son Christy and daughter Edith. In their sixties, the hardships and remoteness of the farm were no longer a viable way to spend their twilight years.

Their new home was in South Charleston (WV), a short four miles from my home. I was eleven at the time. From that time on, it was much more than the twice-a-year visits that had marked my early time with them. It became a time of frequent visits, and later, after I was married, they came to know Carol and our children.

During her final years, she used a walker. Henry was no longer alive. Every day she would get her walker, go to the kitchen and have breakfast. Alone, she would get a sandwich and put it into an ‘apron’ she had fashioned to hangover the bar of her walker, and go to the living room for the day. At noon she would have her sandwich. Still organized. Nanny was just what I called her earlier: a pioneer woman of great mental strength and courage who never wavered from her personal principles or her faith. One in a million. And a joy to know.

Lelia Mabel Hite

“Nanny Farley” – 1884-1955

Lelia Farley (my paternal grandmother) was born in 1884 and died in 1945. Although I spent a lot of days and years with her close by, we were never close — that is, we never shared ideas or personal thoughts. While she was always a little aloof, and had a limited sense of humor, underneath there was a spark of kindness that made our relationship a friendly one.

I don’t know much about her young life, except that she lived at Kanawha Falls — a town on the Kanawha River upstream from Charleston, West Virginia. I have a photograph of her before she and Fred Farley were married in which she is playing tennis! Imagine!

I think she always saw herself as a Southern Belle who was denied her rightful place in gentle society. Oh yeah, that may be a little harsh, but it’s not far from who she was. You can see from her photos that like her mother, she was tall, slender, and straight-backed.

Lelia Farley gave birth to four children. Sons Willis — my father — Paul, and Tom, along with daughter Ruth. She was evidently very tough on her children, raising them in the way she was raised: quick punishment for her children’s missteps. Dressing her infant sons in dresses for their misbehaviors. Other punishments akin to a severe version of “time out,” paddling on occasions, and the rest. Of course those punishments came to be unacceptable in later years, but remember, these were the early 1900s. I know from certain knowledge that the dressing of young boys in girls’ clothing was a concept used by Nanny. However, her sons got past those events.

She was very kind to her grandchildren, in spite of her standoffishness. And perhaps this will help describe her: one summer Alice and I spent several weeks at the home of Fred and Lelia. I must say we were lonely kids — and we found ways to amuse ourselves, such as sneaking into the adjoining cornfield and smoking corn silk cigarettes, wrapped in the daily newspaper. But here is the descriptor of Nanny Farley: when she laundered my clothes — simple cotton pants and shorts — she starched them! Heavy starch! I still remember how they scratched my legs. And I remember her as exactly the kind of person who believed in starched pants. Somehow, that was the essence of Nanny. Stiff, unrelenting, and with a streak of warmth she was probably afraid to show.

When Granddad died in 1945, Nanny came to live with, on a rotating basis, her three children, all of whom lived in the South Charleston / St. Albans area. She would stay with us for about two months — sometimes more — then go to her son Paul’s house, and from there to her daughter Ruth’s and back to us again. (The other son, Tom, had died as a young man of pneumonia.) During those years, from about 1946 until her death in 1955, she was a regular member of our household much of the time. She helped in the kitchen, and she and my mother came to learn each other’s ways and got along very well. My father, who worked a rotating shift at the Union Carbide plant (then known as Carbide and Carbon Chemicals Corporation), saw little of her except when he worked “day shift,” from 7 a.m. until 3 p.m. one week of each three. She stayed to herself, and never acted as parent to us — that is, correcting our behavior or praising our successes. During her time alone, I know not whether she read, or stitched, or what. (Remember, these were the days before television. Although there were radio shows in the afternoons, they were mostly soap operas, running episodes regarding love, lost love, romance, life in the home, etc. etc. (Note: the term “soap opera” came from the sponsors of those radio romances, who were by and large soap/cleanser companies whose targets were the women homemakers of the day, who bought the soap for the daily wash, and so on.) Anyway, Nanny probably listened to those shows in the privacy of her bedroom. She never ventured out, either walking in the neighborhood or on the local bus system, which could take a rider downtown, uptown or elsewhere. In retrospect, her life was a lonely one, even though she had the connection to her children’s families. I liked Nanny. In spite of her stiffness — much of which I attribute to her own childhood under the stern hand of her mother — Mammaw — she loved her children and other family members, and she worked hard at being a likeable person. That her persona was dry, and she didn’t particularly enjoy amusements, she was nonetheless a good person.

Lelia Mabel Hite

10 photos

College

When I was in high school most kids my age didn’t think too much about going to college. I read somewhere that the national statistics showed that 1953 was the first year that the dropout rate was less than fifty per cent. While it wasn’t nearly that bad at South Charleston High School, only a rather small percentage of students went on to college. I remember that almost every fall, when school started up again, I would notice that some of my classmates from the prior year didn’t show up. Most left school to take a job in one of the chemical plants, or some related employment. The idea was that college was for the elite, or always had been, and that for a factory town kid from a blue collar family to aspire to higher education was a concept that was new, an after effect of WW ll.

Somehow, it didn’t work that way for Alice and me. Dave had already been in and out of the navy, and was working at Carbide. There was very little discussion about college at our dinner table, but it was tacitly understood that we would be continuing our educations. There was no way the family could afford to send both — or either — of us to college, so I had looked for work-study programs, and applied to Antioch College in Ohio, as well as Berea College in Kentucky. Berea was a work-your-way-through school for rural kids, and I was rejected because I lived in a non-rural area. Antioch accepted me, but I just didn’t want to go there — they had no forestry program. I wanted to major in forestry — or so I thought, but West Virginia University — which had a fine forestry program — was not an option, money-wise. So I wrote a letter to the Secretary of the Interior — how I got that idea I don’t remember — stating my desire to study forestry, and to do so at the University of Alaska. I offered this plan: if the Department of the Interior would pay my way, I would upon graduation spend whatever time it took as an employee of the Forest Service in Alaska as repayment. Remember: this was in 1949, and Alaska was still a territory, so the University was operated under the auspices of the Interior Department.

I received an answer to the effect that the Secretary was very sorry that the Department had no program of assistance such as I had requested, so there was no deal. I’ll have to say that I was really disappointed; I had high hopes that my letter would get a good response. Instead, I was back a square one, and my only option was to go to Morris Harvey College, a private liberal arts school right there in Charleston. Dad agreed to pay one semester’s tuition, and that I could live at home at no cost. That’s where I found myself that September. With that preface, here’s how it went:

I showed up on campus — which was a really nice gymnasium and four WW2 surplus barracks buildings. Took the entrance exam, passed it. Learned later that that exam was the AGCT: Army General Classification Test, which meant if you were smart enough to get in the U.S. Army, you could go to Morris Harvey College. Actually, the state college entrance was easier: if you had a high school diploma you could enroll at any college within the state system, including WVU. Of course, there was no guarantee you’d be allowed to stay — you had to prove yourself capable of college work. For the next four years I lived at home. Arose every morning at six or so, caught a 7:00 bus to the train station, changed buses and rode to campus for an 8:00 class. Going home, same deal in reverse. Four buses a day for four years. No big deal; I never even thought about it. And since there was no “campus” in the manner of most colleges, I never thought things could have been better. Since that time I’ve been very, very glad that my kids had a true campus life experience. So I was now a student. Asked what I wanted to study, I said “business administration.” I had no idea that that was what I wanted or even what it was, but Dad suggested it, so I said it. The advisor said to sign up for the usual liberal arts courses, including freshman English and Western Civilization. Otherwise, go for your favorites. So, in addition to English and Civ, I signed up for — you guessed it — band, choir, music theory, music history. As a “business” major, I couldn’t have been happier with my schedule. All the classrooms were in the barracks buildings that first year. The second year was different — a new classroom building had been constructed, and we felt we had really arrived. I’ll not go through all the coursework I had over four years; not important. Only to say that after two years, as I was getting ready to enroll in the upper division business program, I was told no, actually, I was a music major. I shrugged and laughed; okay by me.

Morris Harvey had an enrollment of about one thousand students. We had no dorms; almost all the students were local and lived at home. So campus life in the conventional sense was almost nonexistent; rather, it was go to class, hang out with your classmates, go to ball games, etc. But no parties downtown, no frat houses, no meal tickets, none of that. But there were three fraternities and three sororities, so I pledged with Kappa Sigma Kappa. Big deal. We met every Thursday at noon in a classroom, and had a spring formal. (Obviously, no frat or sorority houses.)

I was a pretty good student. Dean’s list first semester, skated on that for a year or so, and picked it up again my final two years. The thing was, I became immersed in music. Good instructors, good performing groups, good friends — what more could one ask? My most admired professor, Henry Wolfe, really got me going with serious music. He was a fine pianist, an intellectual, and had a good sense of fun. And he was deadly serious about Bach, Brahms, Stravinsky, Hindemith, Bartok, and all the others. He really knew his stuff about composition, form and analysis, instrumentation, etc., so I signed up for all his courses.

Alice and I worked a deal: that first year, Alice went to the Charleston School of Commerce downtown and got a diploma, following which she took a job at the local Social Security office. So she was earning and saving for college, at the same time helping me when I would run short. Two years later, she enrolled at WVU , and after I started teaching, I was able to help her in return. That way, we both made it through school with a financial squeeze here and there. She also went to summer school at Morgantown, and graduated a year early.

I was able to scratch out my tuition, books, bus fare, and a little spending money by playing with local dance bands on weekends, plus Saturday jobs and summer work at the Carbide plant. But it was tight. I had bought a King Super 20 tenor sax (dad cosigned the note), and I paid for the sax — about $180.00 — as well as the other stuff. I know that $180 doesn’t sound like much, but one semester’s tuition was about $160.00! So that’s an idea of what money was like back then. Oh, and bus fare was 10 cents each way — 20 cents a day. To put all that in perspective, I earned about eight or nine dollars for a three-hour dance job. And the minimum wage my first summer at Carbide was about 75 cents per hour. I ran short of tuition money for my fourth semester, so I sold my tenor sax to a good friend for $180.00. That put me through a semester, and without the sax (oh, did I hate to sell that sax!) I used an old baritone sax that belonged to the music department for my weekend dance jobs. It was called making ends meet. I say emphatically that all that financial stuff was not a real bother to me; I always felt I had a good deal at home, and that a lot of people my age couldn’t do what I did.

A note about the sax: I had insisted that I be allowed to major on saxophone. Insisted? To the department? Huh. They said nothing doing, that a saxophone was not a legitimate wind instrument in the conventional, “classical” sense. And further, they found out (I had never mentioned it) that I had played oboe in high school. Therefore, it was declared that I was an oboe major. And that was that. I played my graduation recital (kind of like orals) on oboe. Actually, I liked that school-owned student model Linton oboe, and learned to make reeds, replace springs and corks, and all the stuff that goes with oboes. I got to be fairly conversant with the instrument, and even performed with the Charleston Symphony on rare occasions when they were in need of an extra oboist. But down deep, tenor sax was my real instrument.

During those years, the United States was embroiled in the Korean war, or conflict, or police action. I had joined the Army Reserve Band, stationed in Charleston, and was subject to call to active duty at any time. (By the way, I was paid for that: about $10.00 a month, paid quarterly.) My enlistment date, which was several months before the Korean conflict began, was helpful in that I did not have to face being drafted into the armed forces while in school. But I, and all my reserve buddies, married or otherwise, were ready for active duty if called. (I stayed in the Reserves for ten years, and was considered a diehard by the time I took my discharge.)

College was great. The highlight of the music year was our spring choir tour, when we’d go on the road for a week, performing in small towns around the state, usually presenting evening concerts at local churches and morning programs in local high schools. We would leave Charleston on Sunday morning on a chartered Greyhound bus and return on Saturday. Our choir was very good; about 30 members. We performed a lot of sacred music by Bach, Brahms, Randall Thompson, and others, as well as folk music and other selections. Our director, Harold Ewing, was chairman of the department; a very nice, starched-collar Presbyterian from Michigan who was fearful of laughter. We liked and respected him, but we also wished without success that he’d loosen up just once in a while.

My great friend and fellow music major was Albert Mingrone, a pianist-bassoonist from Logan, West Virginia. He was one year behind me in school. A really fine pianist, we clicked immediately. Among many other things he joined the Army Band, so that was another connection. We became a real pair, and we had a great time. His music forte was classical; my basic interest was jazz. In all respects we reflected ourselves upon each other and the bond was very strong. More later about this, but for now I’ll say that our friendship has been strong ever since. We try to get together at least once a year. Albert is one of the good guys.

On one of our tours we went to Greenbrier County. The tours worked like this: we would stay overnight with families from the church where we would perform. They would feed us supper before the concert and breakfast before we left the next morning. The family which hosted Albert and I lived on a farm close to Alderson. Alderson: ring a bell? That’s where Dad grew up, where I spent summers with my grandparents Fred and Lelia Farley, so it was a little like a ‘reunion‘ with that quaint town. Anyway, this family was nice. It was Sunday afternoon, and the man of the house was a big baseball fan. And very religious. He invited Albert and me to listen to the Cincinnati Reds (my team too!) on his little radio. He would listen intently, talk about the players, like a real fan. At the end of each inning he would turn the radio volume down. Then back up when play resumed. I finally asked him why he did that. His answer was simple: the radio broadcast was sponsored by Burger Beer of Cincinnati, and they would do a beer commercial between innings. “Baseball I love. But beer is sinful. There will never be any mention of beer in my house.” I wondered for a long time if he realized that he had compromised something, somewhere.

The next morning we performed at Lewisburg High School in downtown Lewisburg. Little did I know that I would one day be the Superintendent of Schools in Greenbrier County, with that campus one of many over which I had administrative responsibility. So our stop in Greenbrier County that year was memorable, mainly for two reasons: baseball but no beer, and my yet-to-be future with the school system.

In the spring of my sophomore year, my fraternity brothers encouraged me to run for president of the junior class. I thought that was pretty cool, and told them I’d think it over. Then . . . then, they suggested to me that if I were to begin dating the president of the most popular sorority on campus, that would enhance my election chances. Just think, they said. You can’t miss with her at your side.

Well, nice girl that she was, I had no real desire to date her, and besides, I wasn’t into that kind of political setup. I had just about decided not to run anyway. So I told my “brothers” no, I wouldn’t go for that deal at all, it kinda smelled. They weren’t happy at all and told me so. After a few days of mulling it over, I went to the next meeting and told them that (a), I wouldn’t do that deal, (b), I was resigning from Kappa Sigma Kappa, and (c), I had decided to run for class president as an independent. They were really displeased about that, and vowed that I would lose the election, by their own machinations if necessary. But being a very small college, I had gotten to know a lot of the students. And I had a little credibility: I was the band drum major, had been to all the games, had face recognition. So I played on that, started a rumpus about Greek control of the campus, etc. And I won. Of course, it was a big deal about nothing: following the election everyone, including the frat brothers and the sorority president, forgot about the ill feelings and we were once again a happy student body. By the way, the only duties of the junior class president were: first, to speak to incoming freshmen the first day of school the following year, and second, to be in charge of the junior-senior prom the following spring. Piece of cake. Went fine. Until, after the college gave me a budget for the prom with instructions to take care of everything, I did just that: I hired a local band to play the dance. Trouble was, the band was, umm, black. At a Methodist, southern, all white school in 1952. But it worked. I had known the band, played with most of them — they were buddies, and they played the gig at base cost. It didn’t occur to me there would be a problem, and . . . they were good. The prom was a huge smash. While I knew there were some expressions of consternation at the administrative level, I heard very little about what they surely judged to be my misguided action, and in some small measure, a barrier came down. (I hasten to say that during the time that all this was happening I was totally oblivious to the implications of what I was doing. It never entered my mind. I was just looking for a good band at a good price. But in those days, I was totally oblivious about a lot of things. Still am . . . a lot of stuff goes right by me.)

That’s a lot of talk to tell a very short story . . . but I enjoyed telling it.

My senior year, Albert’s older brother, with whom he lived, had moved to New York and he — Albert — had no place to stay. Like me, he was on his own financially, and was in a tight spot. At the time, Alice was in school at WVU, Dave had re-enlisted in the military — Army, this time, and we had twin beds in my room, so I asked Mom — first — and then Dad, if Albert could live with us that year. It was a deal, so we were roomies for a year.

We were inseparable, and did everything together: rode buses, walked downtown, flirted with girls, raided the refrigerator late at night, studied, you name it. We had no money, no car, no cares. We had a small phonograph and a few LPs on the table between our beds, and every morning Albert would put a record on at high volume: a Beethoven piano concerto, a Schumann symphony, a Richard Strauss tone poem: that was Albert. Try waking up to that five days a week. If anyone was more wrapped up in music than I, it was Albert. We had a fabulous year. He was able to move into one of the old athletic dorms the following year, and finished his degree a year behind me.

As an aside, I must mention that Albert and Kenny got to know each other during that time, and we were often the three caballeros, riding the streets of Charleston, trying to put together a really good singing trio (never happened), and just doing fun stuff together.

I graduated from Morris Harvey College in May 1953 with a Bachelor of Music degree. Four years spent as a mostly carefree-but-serious-enough student who had gained some knowledge and skills but didn’t really know much about long term goals. It was a great time for me, and it served me well during my teaching career. Even now, I try to visit the campus during my rare visits to Charleston.

Three years later I entered the (summer school) master’s program at Ohio State. Meanwhile, Albert had gone to New York to live with his folks for the summer and enrolled at the Teachers College, Columbia University. New York City. Unbelievable. What a place. I had learned at Ohio State that to earn a degree there would take about six summers, and Albert came back to Charleston (we were both teaching there at the time) with the news that his program at Columbia could be completed in three summers. That did it. The following summer I was at Columbia — with Albert. It seemed we always found ourselves in the same place at the same time. So for three summers Albert and I were back to our old stuff. But by then we were both much more serious students, and spent a lot of time studying together, poring over orchestral scores, practicing with our batons, reviewing notes from our classes. For recreation, we played frisbee at noon, and on weekends I’d go to his parents’ home in White Plains, where we’d go to movies and so forth.

Interjection: after my first summer at Columbia, Carol and I were married on November 15, 1957. As far as my job and school were concerned, nothing changed. Just my life. In the most positive way. There is much to say about that elsewhere, but for now, I’ll stick to the topic.

I won’t go into much more about Columbia, except to say it was an eye-opening experience for me. Learning from the recognized experts how to really conduct music — how to teach with the baton as well as with the eyes, and gestures, and body movement. Also, aside from the classroom: riding the subway downtown on Saturdays to watch the crowds. Interacting with other students from across the country, some from renowned institutions like Eastman and Juilliard. Going to outdoor concerts at Lewisohn Stadium. Living on fifteen dollars a week — in New York. But more than anything — learning. Soaking it up. Every single day. The professors there were fabulous. One professor had a 7:30 a.m. class. Thirty of us were enrolled. Over a hundred were there every morning, just to listen to this great educator. His name was James Murcell, and he is internationally renowned even today for his great work.

I finished my M.A. at Columbia in 1959, and it changed who I was as a teacher, as a conductor, and most importantly, as someone who could probe, explore a work of music in a more comprehending and insightful way.

Years later, I went on to complete an Ed.D. at Virginia Tech. It was a good program for me, and I wouldn’t slight it in the least. But it was coursework, research, and writing, mainly. I continued my full-time job and commuted to Blacksburg from my home in Roanoke County. Aside from going to class, my family and work life didn’t change, so I have no tales to tell about this experience. Perhaps the most important note in all this is that during those three years Carol, Patrick, Leslie and Amy supported me totally, never complained when I couldn’t be there for an event, took care of the matters of housekeeping and school, and always, always stood behind me, as they always had and always have.

My advising professor there was Wayne Worner, an extraordinarily fine teacher and mentor, who understood my goals and stepped in constantly to help me achieve them with minimal inconvenience to my “regular” life. He steered my program and worked with my committee through the whole process, allowing me to complete the program on schedule and without a hitch. And to this day he and his wife Kathie are fine friends whom I see on occasion. I owe him a great deal for helping me in my transition from teacher to researcher / writer / educational leader. Several years later, it was my good fortune to have his son Scott join our staff of building principals in Spotsylvania County, where he served with distinction in several important roles.

All considered, my “higher” education experiences were certainly of great importance in my life. “Grad school” was fine and pivotal for me professionally, certainly at Columbia, and in an equally meaningful way at Virginia Tech. All the above having been said, “College,” to me, was defined in every way by those four years at Morris Harvey. That was truly the time that gave direction to my life. Had I not gone to college, I would have done okay, I think. But the “I think” part of that would have never happened.

Winding Gulf, Alderson, and South Charleston

I should say that these pages, in total, comprise a series of sketches, not a highly detailed family history. I’ve been intentionally brief on several topics; my real purpose is to give you a profile, not an in-depth report. So as you read, do so with the knowledge that these are the “high spots” in my memories — hopefully just enough for you to get a fair understanding of who we were.

This entry is about just what the title says: my earliest personal memories. I have just a few memories of my very early years: When I was two-three, we lived in a “company house,” as did most coal mine families in those days. The company provided the homes (I think they charged rent, in the form of scrip), they were all built on the same plan, they all looked just alike. Tiny, frame structures. I have no specific memory of the layout of that house, but I do remember, of all things, a door knob. It was white, ceramic. And I remember a small refrigerator with a round motor on top. I also remember my father at that time. He worked at night — the “hoot owl” shift, and he would light his carbide lamp (which was mounted on his cap) before he left the house for work. I remember his showing me how he struck the flint that lighted the lamp, and the live flame that resulted. As best I can tell, I was two.

I know that “carbide lamp” is foreign to you, so look it up. These lamps were the state of the art in the early twentieth century; before that miners had very small oil lamps with wicks, that looked like very small pitchers and hooked onto their hats. Carbide lamps were fueled by calcium carbide, which formed acetylene gas when mixed with water. The lamp fed water into the carbide ‘rocks,’ pushing gas into an orifice and then lighted by a spark created by a metal wheel scraped against flint. Got that? No? Look it up.

Another two-three-year-old memory: Alice, my twin sister and I were trained to use a small toilet “potty” which was white and had a red handle, and a red rim around the edge. Mother had her hands full: Dave, who was seven, along with the two of us, were full-time. She taught Alice and me to take care of each other in small ways; in this instance, we would take turns on the potty. While she sat, I would turn around and she would undo the buttons that kept my shirt and pants together.

Then it was my turn to sit. And I remember that.

Bet you’re thinking “I don’t think I’d’ve told that.” Well, I just did.

When my mother (as I learned later) told Dad that she was NOT going to raise her family in a forlorn coal camp, and for him to get another job, mother and we kids moved in with Dad’s parents in Alderson while Dad went to the Kanawha Valley to find work. This was in the middle of the depression and jobs were virtually nonexistent. I remember very vaguely that year in Alderson; Alice and I were three. In addition to my grandparents, great-grandmother Mammaw was there, as was my aunt Ruth, who was a teenager. I remember Ruth in her high school band uniform — maroon and white. She played clarinet. Ruth is about 90 now, and I’ve seen her at her Florida home a couple of times in recent years. She was and is a beautiful, good-natured, funny, good-hearted person.

Alice “Mammaw” Jameson Hite with Farley grandchildren – about 1935

Back to Alderson. I remember a dark closet beneath the staircase, with a door. I think it was used for kitchen storage — food, or pots and pans. Once as I started to open the closet door, Mammaw barked at me, “Don’t you dare! There are goblins in there!” I had no idea what goblins were, but no matter — Mammaw knew how to frighten a little kid.

Sometime during that year, Dad was lucky enough to get a job with Carbide and Carbon Chemicals Corporation — CCCC, in South Charleston, WV. He told me later that the line to the personnel office stretched down the highway for more than a mile — that got my attention; with unemployment at that level, it was miraculous that he was hired. (CCCC later became Union Carbide, an internationally famous chemical company.) On my and Alice’s fourth birthday we moved to South Charleston, into a tiny house on Franklin Terrace, which was part of the old Kanawha Turnpike, and was on a hillside overlooking the Carbide plant, which was on the riverbank. The exterior of the house was brown; there were two bedrooms. During our time there Dad’s brother Paul and Mom’s brother Christy both came to stay with us and get jobs at Carbide. Counting Paul and Christy, there were seven of us in that tiny house. I have no idea where we slept. But I do remember a green daybed in the living room, and I remember playing with Alice in the side yard, rubbing pieces of soft sandstone against a piece of screen wire, making what we called “brown sugar.”

We were about four. By today’s standards we were living in poverty. By Great Depression standards we were among the fortunate: Dad had a job. But we barely made it — nothing to spare.

I’m sure you’re getting it: these memories are for the most part absolutely unimportant and unremarkable. But they’re mine, so I suppose they are part of who I am. And except for the Mammaw episode, all my memories of those early years are very happy. I think that’s so because mother was a comforting, encouraging person, who didn’t show the troubled face that comes with poverty, hard times, and hopelessness. Dad was a worrier, taciturn, and stern. But caring, too. He worked shift work at the plant for thirty-six years, being rarely at home during “regular” hours, so our main parental contact was with our mother.

Alan and Alice at the Franklin Terrace house, about 1935

Franklin Terrace was a grimy place. Across the road and down at the bottom of the hill was the railroad, with coal-fired steam engines spewing black smoke and cinders as they worked in the freight yard. On the other side of the railroad was the highway, and then, across the highway was the Carbide plant, which belched fumes beyond description from its stacks. I can remember the pervasive, nose-burning odors: oil, coal, gas, chemicals, traffic: all in combination to produce a lingering heaviness and a stench which can be neither described nor replicated.

We lived at Franklin Terrace until September 1937, when my parents rented a larger home nearby, but away from the plant and railroad. The house was at 123 Sycamore Street, and Alice and I were so proud that our address was 123 — one, two, three. We moved in on the first day of school for the two of us. So that day in 1937 was a really big deal — we walked — with Mom — to Zogg O’Dell Elementary School from one house, and walked home from school to another house. You guessed it: Alice and I thought we were the most unique kids in South Charleston: who else had possibly had that experience? That rented house was home to Mom and Dad until they finally built a home on Coal River in St. Albans in 1961. I recall that the rent at some point was twenty-five dollars a month. The Sycamore Street house was a frame two story house with two original bedrooms upstairs and a downstairs bedroom which was actually a converted kitchen, about 8‘X10’.

Alice and Alan at the Sycamore Street house, about 1940

My childhood there was full of joy, and no one ever gave our crowded quarters a second thought. Over time, we had as part of the extended family uncles Paul and Christy, aunts Rook and Edith, Uncle and Aunt Dick Zopp and Ruth (Farley), along with infant Carolyn; a family friend named “Cotton” White, a cousin Ed Hale, and, of course, Nanny Farley (Lelia Hite), who stayed with us after granddad Farley died in 1945. Somehow, my mother saw to it that everyone was comfortable — and fed. So it seemed there was a steady stream of “room and boarders,” they would stay for two-three years until they got established with work, and enough ahead to find another place to live. I don’t remember any friction within the household; it was just accepted as our normal lifestyle. I liked all those people, they were friendly, and they were family. We got along just fine. Looking back, I’m without words to say how Mom did it: washing and drying clothes for that gang. Cooking, packing lunches for three, four or more workers, taking care of three kids, cleaning house (no vacuums, dishwashers, etc. in those days), and the rest. I don’t remember any of the men pitching in — I guess back then that the division of labor was based on a different standard.

First grade was exciting — just being in school, getting to know other kids, going to the playground for recess, eating lunch from home at our desks, and the rest. Our teacher was “Missis” Shaffer, as we all called her, who was kind. I don’t know if we learned anything at all — curriculum-wise, that is; maybe how to read a little. But we had already memorized the alphabet and numerals 1 through 10 from the red and blue letters and numbers on the edges of our cereal bowls. The principal was Miss Pearl Wheeler, a cranelike, stern, bony lady of about 40, so we thought she was probably about 80. I never heard her say one word. Never saw her smile. And being the principal, she was uniformly disliked and feared by all. Who knows? She could have been — probably was — an okay person. But even today, I secretly doubt it.

In the second grade I fell in love with Maggie Triplett; she lived close by, had golden hair and a big smile with a gap between her front teeth, and we were in the same classroom. I think it was the smile that got me. But she never showed any interest in me at all; her dreamy eyes were always somewhere else. So that was that; I think my love life with her lasted a week or so. After that I didn’t think much about girls until much later, maybe when I was about thirteen, when I fell in love with my history teacher — I don’t remember her name, but she sure was nice to me. And pretty. Every day I left her class with my mind unable to see or comprehend anything other than my romantic fantasies of the two of us, looking at each other, never kissing.

Going back a little: when we entered the third grade, the school was so crowded they decided to “double promote” some of us to make more room the coming year. Alice and I, along with about fifteen other kids in our class, completed the third grade in one semester, thus becoming “double promoted.” That meant we started the fourth grade in January, and it stayed that way until we graduated — one semester early — from high school. There’s no doubt this caused scheduling problems at our schools, and besides, we in all likelihood didn’t actually complete that third grade stuff. Anyway, it worked out OK; Alice and I stayed an extra semester in high school as “post graduates” and finished with our original class. In the end, it didn’t matter. Just caused scheduling problems for the administrators. I could pass along a few more lines about all this, but somewhere “early memories” become not so early, so I’ll let it go at that. The memory gap between this and other entries is between the ages 8 and 11 — so you’ll see me beginning at age 11 in other writings.

Frederick Lee Farley

“Granddad Farley” – 1879-1945

Fred Farley (my paternal grandfather) born in 1879 and died in 1945, was a well-spoken man who grew up around Kanawha Falls, West Virginia. He was a friendly, outgoing man who loved a good laugh, loved to play a card game called Setback, and loved to tease his young grandchildren. Everyone loved Fred Farley. Much of his working life was spent in West Virginia’s quarries and mines, and for several years he was a mine inspector for the State of West Virginia.

His final job was as superintendent of a limestone quarry in Daily, West Virginia, which was a town supported by the Homestead Act and promoted by Eleanor Roosevelt. Fred was — no surprise here — a hot Democrat who had an Irish temperament about all things politic. I remember him as he sat by his radio during the 1940 Presidential campaign, hooting at the Republicans and applauding Franklin Roosevelt.

Granddad was also a prize fight fan. Again, I sat with him beside his tabletop radio when Billy Conn, whose Irish name endeared him to Granddad, challenged the heavyweight champ, Joe Louis — the “Brown Bomber.” When Louis won that famous bout, Granddad was beside himself. He had hoped for a victory for a tough a Irish kid from Pittsburg who had been the middle weight champ and decided to take on the unbeatable Louis.

Fred with a group of surveyors. Fred is first from the left, with equipment bag over his shoulder. Brother Seth is third from left, with moustache and bag over shoulder. Photo dated to roughly around 1900.

Granddad Farley was generous, outgoing, and optimistic in spite of his family life, which was under the heavy influence of his mother-in-law Alice Hite, and wife Lelia, who in many ways tread in her mother’s footsteps. Despite the cloudiness of his home life, Fred was always cheerful and giving. He loved a good joke, smoked one cigarette off the end of another, went into brief tantrums when the card game didn’t go his way. As young kids Alice and I were always delighted by his presence. We always thought of him as the rather short, rotund Irish-looking man who would have loved being Santa Claus.

By all accounts — both from his children and especially as told to me by my mother, he was a really good father. His youngest child, my aunt Ruth, told me this tale:

Ruth was about 14. She had a girlfriend who lived behind her, and they would sneak behind the friend’s barn and smoke cigarettes swiped from their fathers. (Remember, this was in the 1930s!) One day, she and her friend decided to skip school and hitchhike to White Sulphur Springs, a nearby town. (It’s hard even for me to imagine two young girls hitchhiking on rural roads in that time.) They had a fine day of it, and as they hitchhiked home a car pulled up and to Ruth’s horror, it was her father! He simply opened the door, the girls got in and he pulled away. The girls were terrified all the way home — about ten miles.

Ruth told me that her father never said a word. When they got home, they simply went into the house as though nothing was out of place. To this day — Ruth is about 90 now — she has never forgotten the lesson of that day. By saying nothing, her father couldn’t have given her a more telling message: that he disapproved of her actions, that it wouldn’t happen again, and that his love for her was not damaged. When Ruth told me that tale a few years ago, I thought to myself that that was true, vintage Fred Farley: don’t overreact, and give your kids a chance to think through their own behaviors.

Fred Farley with grandchildren Alan, David, and Alice at the rock quarry that he ran, Daily, WV, about 1940

Granddad Farley was in many ways our favorite relative. We were always delighted to see him — in those days of the Great Depression we would see our grandparents no more than twice a year — and he was likewise the favorite of his adult kinfolk. When Alice and I spent summers with the Farley grandparents, it was Granddad who made our young lives happy. He took us to the drug store for ice cream, bought us scooters, played kids’ card games with us. I think he gave extra effort to us to make up for the coolness of Nanny and Mammaw. Young people always love to be recognized, listened to, treated as equals. Granddad Farley intuitively knew that, and lived it. Much later, I came to admire my Grandfather Hale equally, and for a lot of the same reasons. More later about that.

Frederick Lee Farley

28 photos

Catherine Elam

Catherine Elam – “Grandma Hale” – 1852-1945

Born in 1852, Catherine Elam Hale was my great-grandmother, my mother’s paternal grandmother. In her later years she lived with my Hale grandparents near Princewick, near Beckley in Raleigh County, West Virginia. My memories of her are quite faint — she died in 1945, when I was only 13 years old, and I had seen her no more than a dozen times. I remember two things about her: as she sat by the kitchen window, looking out across the farm property, she often smoked a corn cob pipe. And she played a harmonica. My mother told me that she wore an apron with a pocket, where she kept her loose tobacco. She would simply hold her empty pipe down in that pocket and fill it with her thumb.

From everything I can remember, along with what I was told by my mother, Grandma Hale was a true mountain woman who lived a hard life in the coal fields of Eastern Kentucky and West Virginia. I wish I could have known her better. The people of that place and time were truly unique, and through my grandfather I came to admire their tenacity and capacity for hard work. I wish I could have heard her sing the old mountain songs. These great-grandmothers were the eldest of all the people I have known. Although I was very young when they died, the memories I do have of them are have never gone away.

Alice Jane Jameson

“Mammaw Hite” – 1856-1941

Alice and William P. Hite (1837-1926), married January 4, 1875

Alice Hite was my great-grandmother, my father’s maternal grandmother, born in 1856. I knew her. To me — a young child — she was the literal definition of ancient. She died in April 1941, when I was 9 years old.

Her husband, several years older than she, was William Hite, a veteran of the Civil War. When Mammaw died — I was at her funeral along with other family, including my sister Alice — we were at the cemetery and I recall her casket, before it was lowered, was draped with a Confederate flag, for she had been the last Civil War widow in West Virginia. You’ll note that she married young, and as noted in the photograph, her husband was considerably older.

Mammaw was more than a matriarch. She ruled the household — that household being the homeplace of my father Willis Farley and his siblings and parents. She was tall, straight-backed, and stern, with piercing eyes and little humor. I don’t remember her voice at all — in her final years she suffered from a stroke and was for the most part without speech.

When Alice and I were quite young we spent summers at that homeplace — in Alderson, West Virginia, a small town on the beautiful Greenbrier River whose chief employers were the Federal Women’s Prison and the State Prison for Women. That’s how I came to know Mammaw. I don’t remember her as having much affection for young children — our interactions were mostly at the dinner table. But I’ll say this: she was someone you wouldn’t forget. At the risk of being too aggressive in my assessment, she was, simply, overbearing, unforgiving, and probably unhappy with the way her life turned out: alone, and although respected, not loved by many.

Alice with great-grandchildren Alan, Alice, and David Farley, about 1935

With that, I note that I’ll be very candid in these pages. Mammaw was, to Alice and me, an unforgiving, stiff old woman who had little happiness in her life.

Lest I judge her too harshly, it occurs to me that she was a woman of the nineteenth century; a time when many women were considered “property,” without rights, and expected to serve the man of the house. Remember, she married a much older man; a Civil War veteran hardened by that experience, and probably harsh and demanding in his own way of his young wife.

Reflecting that, it is no wonder that she was less than cheerful, less than outgoing. Perhaps that’s why she became the ruler of the roost in ways that she could achieve without “breaking the rules” of what was expected of women of that time. I can’t imagine what it was like for most women of that day, and there is a lot to excuse them for — Mammaw included.

Alice Jane Ellen Jameson

5 photos