Hale – The Farleys and Hales

The Falls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So . . . that’s my “aside.”

Sandstone Falls – October 1960 – Photo by David Farley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the Hales Take Over the New

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Farm

“The Farm” was in Raleigh County, near a small mining town called Princewick. My Hale grandparents lived there and raised most of their children in the rather large house with white siding and a large screened front porch. From my earliest memories, the Farm was a magic place. Of course, by then we lived in South Charleston, and visited our grandparents only a couple of times a year — or so it seemed. Uncles Pat, Joe and Don, along with aunt Rook, still lived there, so it was a full house. Granddad was still working in the mines, as were Pat and Joe.

Outside, there were several acres of hilly farm land. They had a couple of milk cows, chickens, pigs, a grape arbor, a large garden. Out back the property sloped down toward a gully — a “wet weather creek.” Immediately behind the house were a granary, tool shed, chicken coop and woodshed. Further back and down the slope, away from all other activity, was the outhouse/privy, and on a rise about seventy five yards to the right was a large barn.

Inside the house, a wide hallway went from the front door to the back porch. These hallways were common then, called “dogtrots.” On the left front was the living room, with bare wood walls and little decoration. This room was rarely used by the family — most of the time was spent in the kitchen and dining room, farther back on the left. On the right side of the hall were stairs, and two large bedrooms, each with an open fireplace. (There were fireplaces throughout which were coal-burning and the source of heat for the house.) Upstairs were three bedrooms. I always slept on the living room floor (a treat I loved), and don’t remember anything about the upstairs. The back porch was a work area, and a place for the coal bucket/shovel, churn, kindling, water bucket for drinking water with a dipper, wash tubs, etc.

There was no indoor plumbing; water came from a dug well (as opposed to drilled) in the back yard, with a crank handle to raise the water container. As I said earlier, heat was from coal in open fireplaces, along with the wood-burning stove in the large kitchen. But — there was electricity, so there were lights, and a refrigerator in the kitchen.

No bathtub. Instead, a large galvanized wash tub. They would place the tub in the middle of the kitchen floor, pour in heated water from the stove, and bathe. I distinctly remember one time when Joe and Pat had both come home from the mines, black with coal dust, along with sweat, grease and dirt. They went to the kitchen, pulled a cloth curtain across the door, and took a bath. Before they started, they flipped a coin to see who got to go first — easy enough to figure that out. I was about seven at the time, was in the kitchen with them before I got chased out. Thinking back, it’s understandable that they wouldn’t refill the tub after each bath — that would mean extra trips to the well, etc. Can you imagine a family of ten taking baths in the kitchen? But Nanny was the original “Little Dutch Cleanser,” and her children, like her home, were given the spotless treatment.

I guess that was the family routine for a lot of years. In today’s world it’s hard to imagine that many people lived like that when I was a small kid. And unless you think about it, it wouldn’t occur that things were that way. (I note here that in today’s America there are still many people whose circumstances are as described above, and you can find in West Virginia and Eastern Kentucky whole communities of abject poverty. The shame of a nation.)

The Farm was a place of constant activity: menfolk going to and coming from the mines, Nanny in the kitchen constantly, daughters helping with housework, never-ending cleaning. All this along with the summer garden work — about two acres of vegetables which were worked by shovel, hoe, and pitchfork — no motorized tractor in sight, only a workhorse for the plow. Once the crops were harvested, the work of canning the vegetables began. a large open fire was built in the backyard, and a huge washtub of water was put on to boil the glass jars. The women would then take the sterilized jars to the back porch and fill them with all manner of food, from beans to corn to peas to carrots to pork to chicken and on and on.

During those summer months, the garden workers — that was everyone who was available at the time — would go to the fields early, work until midday, and go to the house for dinner (lunch). Nanny would have cooked fresh pole beans and new potatoes together, tomatoes, some kind of meat, and bread: either cornbread or leftover biscuits.

A very full meal for people who were working really hard. Supper would often be more of the same. Of course, there were jams, jellies, honey, etc., so the meals were both filling and tasty. As a small boy I was wide-eyed about all the stuff that went on, and although they wouldn’t let me work in the garden, I could get a real feeling for the farm atmosphere. How else to raise a large family on coal miner wages?

Mother told me more than once that it was her job to bake biscuits every morning, before daylight, of course, for the men who were going to work in the mines. She started this responsibility when she was eight years old. And she said that there were days when she would bake as many as six dozen biscuits. (At that time there were eight children living at home.) Those of course, were for both breakfast and the lunch “buckets.” A lot of hungry men. And many years later, her biscuits were still simply as no other. Light, browned on top and bottom, fully cooked, waiting for butter and/or honey, consistently the best biscuits I ever had. The difference, among other things, was lard. Those biscuits were mixed with lard: not Crisco, not anything else. Lard, rendered from the hogs that were killed each late fall on a cold hillside, with the help of neighbors who in turn killed their own hogs. Pork fat was in those days a most cherished product, used for many, many processes in cooking. Try to find lard today, in your favorite food store.

All in all, even for those times, the Farm was a little rustic. But it was a beloved home place to Henry, Effie and their large family — ten kids. My mother told me one of her earliest memories was waking up to the sound of Granddad working the coffee grinder — you’d enjoy seeing a picture of one of those; quite antique. And then smelling the coffee brewing on the wood stove.

I spent most of one full summer at the Farm. I was ten, I think. I was ecstatic to think about a whole summer. Of course, my uncle Don was there; the older uncles and aunts were grown and gone, although they would come and go, sometimes just to pitch in with the work. But that was the summer that Don and I connected; bonded, as they say. He showed me how to use an ax, cutting kindling in the woodshed against the winter need; doing daily chores like getting water from the well, collecting eggs, feeding the farm animals, milking the cows, exploring the farm buildings, playing with the two hounds that lived in the side yard . . . just being a couple of young farm boys. I learned a little about what life on the farm was like. Constant work. He was 13, so we were close enough age-wise to get along like a couple of cronies. What a summer. I cried the morning Nanny said goodbye and we walked through the fields, chill and covered with dew, to Princewick where we caught the Greyhound bus for Charleston and home.

Little did I know that life would never be the same: the Farm would be no more.

Don Hale at The Farm – about 1938

I may have visited for a weekend a time or two, but that summer experience was never repeated — the Farm was on a limited lifespan. In about 1943, Nanny, Granddad and Don left the farm and moved to South Charleston, where Christy and Edith had purchased a small home for them in a community called Rock Lake Village, in Spring Hill, WV, just outside South Charleston.

Nanny and Granddad were no longer young; the children were gone, and life on the Farm had become a burden — especially with the infirmities of advancing age lying in wait. Nanny looked out her small kitchen window across the rooftops of the community and cried, every day, for years. In her mind, she still spoke to her beloved animals, the wood stove, and the rest. Granddad had no woods to walk in, no chores, no dirt to rub between his fingers, no wildflowers to gaze upon, no wood stove to fire up in the mornings — all that was gone. Although I know it hurt him terribly to leave behind a life that was so full of challenge and beauty combined, he was stoic about it, and I came to understand that he kept up a positive countenance, mostly for Nanny’s sake.

For me, an occasional visitor for just a few short years, the Farm has been an important part of my life. I can only imagine what it was for Nanny and Granddad Hale and their family: the life, the burdens, the challenges, the rewards. The hilarity, the #6 wash tub baths, the winter night trips to the outhouse, the frantic bustle of eight or ten people living there at once, the constant, never ending, grinding, ubiquitous work. But because I was there briefly, and of the wonders shown me by Nanny, Granddad and Don, I’m not that far from knowing, and that’s a good thing.

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.

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.

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.