I write this for those who are interested in ancestry . . . as I have become in recent times, motivated in great part by Leslie’s work with our family history. When I was much younger I didn’t give it much thought, and that’s probably the way most people are.
There were times, though, that I wondered about my ancestors: I knew who they were, birth and death dates, etc., but I didn’t know much else — what they did in life, their personalities, how they viewed the world, and the rest. Simple data such as one would find in old documents and photo leaves a lot to the imagination. And I have regretted not knowing more about their personalities, lifestyles and family connections.
Someday, when my grandchildren and their children and those beyond are mature adults, they may wonder about the early generations of family. In that interest, here are memories and impressions of those of whom my own children know very little. I leave it to my kids and their kids to pass along to later generations of the family their impressions of their grandparents and myself and Carol.
What follows is a narrative of my memories of those who were the eldest in my family when I was a small child. Since the eldest of these date back to the time of the Civil War, I thought it might be of interest to my descendants who know of that time only through history books, film documentaries and the rest. Actually, there’s not a lot to write about, but it’s much more than the scant letters and other documents of my forebears that I have been able to see.
I should have started this long ago, so that Alice and Dave could have contributed. As it is, these words are slanted by who I am, so they may be short on accuracy. But in fact, I believe not. I had talked with Alice and Dave about our forebears enough to know that we were “in sync” regarding our collective memories of these ancestors. Here, then, are my best recollections of people I wish you could know today. I’ll begin with those ancestors who came first in time: my two great-grandmothers.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
James Orville Hale (1904-1923)
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.
Edie, Rook, and Audrey Hale – mid-1950s
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
