This is one of a group of songs I wrote in the late ‘50s and early 60s. My uncle Pat Hale had a fishing partner whose name was Haxsaw; they worked in the mines together, and went fishing together on New River. Everytime Hawsaw would catch a fish, he’d yell at the top of his lungs “Noooo River”. Even if he was far away, Pat could always hear him.
This song just kind of wrote itself in 1961, originally as just a guitar piece called “Lonely Tune”. I then put wrote some lyrics in 2019 and renamed it “Morning Star.”
This is a standard blues song. The coal business in WV had gone south. It’s based on my uncle Pat Hale, who had lost his job and gone to Ohio with other coal miners looking for work. My brother David, who was truly gifted with words, helped with lyrics.
I spent a lot of time camping at Indian Creek, and wrote this in 1958. It took 2-3 evenings to write it, and I sang it as a lullaby to Patrick as a baby.
This video features Alan singing this song from a recording made in 1965. The photos were all taken by Alan’s brother David in the 1950s and 1960s.
I had just arrived as band director at SAHS in august 1955. I was full of energy, anxious to lead a band that would play fine music. At the time, I was living at home (age 24, in South Charleston). After a few weeks of working in my new job, it occurred to me that a school with as rich a history as St. Albans should have a “school song”. I became highly motivated to make that happen, wrote this in one afternoon, after football season). It’s still the official alma mater all these years later.
Having finished the melody and lyrics, the next job was to write choral parts, which I did.
I introduced the “new” Alma Mater late that fall, but it didn’t get performed until the following year, when I assumed the director ship of the choral music program.
I taught at St. Albans from 1955 until 1963, a time I will never forget.
That same year — 1955-56 — I was on a roll, and began writing lyrics to fight songs. I wrote the words “Go Red Dragons, go all the way” which I understand is still being sung at SAHS athletic events.
In January 1956, the school principal (Basil Liggett (an excellent school leader whom I admired greatly), advised me that the band had bene invited to attend the annual Cherry Blossom Festival in April in Washington, D.C.
I was flabbergasted. The band was barely scraping by, virtually without funds. Such an event would be costly, and it was left to me to find a way to pay for the trip.
along with a few donations and fudn raiser, I decided we would produc a music show with Proceeds targeted for the costs of the Washington trip. And we did. And we named the show “OPUS 56”. That was the first Opus, and the trip to Washington became a reality.
It only followed that the success of Opus 56 would lead to “OPUS 57” and so on until I left St. Ablans for a teaching position in Virginia in 1963. I’ll not soon forget the richly rewarding years I taught music at SAHS; it remains a treat to meet socially with former students and friends from those times.
If anyone knows of an online recording of the Alma Mater (the more official the better), please send us the link via our Contact form. Thank you!
This arrangement of The Lord’s Prayer was composed in 1954 for performance as part of the Orthodox Liturgy/Service at St. George Orthodox Church in Charleston, WV. The regular Sunday service, which was performed by the priest and cantors, was interspersed with musical responses and liturgy by the choir. The Lord’s Prayer, performed at every service, was sung by the choir, with the final lines being sung/chanted by the priest. (Note: it is my understanding that the final words “For Thou art the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory Forever and Ever” are not included in the Roman Catholic or Orthodox congregations’ recitations of The Lord’s Prayer, but rather are stated by the attending priest.)
The music being performed at that time — and in that Church — was from the Russian, sung in English. Accordingly, I attempted to give this arrangement a reasonable Russian flavor in keeping with the rest of the “Sunday music.” Notably, the church membership was primarily Syrian/Lebanese, as Charleston had a sizable Lebanese community. The priest at that time, Father Raphael Husson, was Lebanese. Nevertheless, the Russian music was in place when I arrived as choir director, and it was/is indeed quite beautiful.
As an integral part of the service, the Lord’s Prayer was performed in straightforward manner, without repetitions of words or music. Indeed, this version may be inappropriate as a regular Protestant-type anthem (partly due to its brevity), but could perhaps be performed to serve some other special occasion.
This is a short piece which reflects on my favorite “stuff.” It would probably change if I did it again, so don’t attach a lot of finality to my thoughts. It’s meant to give grandchildren and their children a window into the family’s past. I’m sure my own kids have already heard me talk about all this stuff.
I didn’t pay much attention to my family history until I was about 70. By then most of it was lost; and most of what was left was oral. But my mother and Dad make a couple of cassette tapes in the late 1970s which were great to listen to. So I thought I’d pass this along as a kind of snapshot of who old man Alan was.
As I write this and review it, I’ll probably edit/update a lot of stuff. Especially with music; there’s so much of it, and so much unremembered that I wish I could mention.
Here goes:
Finally: These are but a few favorites; believe me, there are many, many more that I could include, but you get the picture.
Too many to list, but here are a few:
Hard to pick favorites here, but I’m partial to early country songs and artists:
Broadway shows that I worked in as music director: Oklahoma — my very favorite; South Pacific, The King and I, Annie Get Your Gun, and Carousel were my picks.
Just to name a few: Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Duke Ellington
Love it. From the formal dance forms — tango, rumba, etc. to Caribbean, it’s good. Brazilian jazz is terrific.
Music that’s anything but favorite: each to his/her own taste. I don’t like or enjoy
I’m attached to older movies, too. Classic movies of the 30s and 40s, especially.
I won’t name but a few favorites: Casablanca, Midway, Star Wars 1 — yeah, that too — Red River, Roadhouse (Widmark and Lupino), Music for Millions, Johnny Belinda, Key Largo, Indiana Jones stuff, The Ring Trilogy (Amazing!), The American President, Dune, Once Upon A Time In The West
Movie stars: Charles Laughton, Humphrey Bogart (!!!), John Wayne, Richard Widmark, Cary Grant, Sean Connery, Harrison Ford, Robert Mitchum, Henry Fonda, Ida Lupino, Jane Wyman, Claudette Colbert, Carole Lombard, Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn, Susan Hayward, Lauren Bacall
No surprises here: Patrick O’Brien’s series of naval adventures with Captain Jack Aubrey. Hands down the favorites. Then some more real favorites: Tolkien’s Hobbit books; all of them, along with Silmarilian, and others. Followed by the Dune series of five great science fiction novels by Frank Herbert. Also: the Bourne books by Robert Ludlum. And, of course, the wonderful books by Louis l’Amour, which tell the same tale over and over again, with beautiful descriptions of the western landscape. Yeah, I know, they’re simple, but that’s what makes them special.
Other favorite books: The Iliad, Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, all of A.B. Guthrie Jr’s Western trilogy: The Big Sky, The Way West, Fair Fair Land. All of Robert Ruark, and most important, all of William Faulkner. Seems I drift toward books in series, huh.
I read about 100 books a year, so there are a lot of authors that are really good, but not mentioned here — maybe later.
Depending on when you read this, “C&O” may not signify any meaning whatever. Here it is: C&O designates the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, one of America’s great railways which originally ran from Cincinnati to Norfolk. And West Virginia was squarely in its pathway — the C&O entered the state (from Ohio) close to Huntington, then through the Kanawha Valley — Charleston, etc., and eastward up the Kanawha and New Rivers, then following the Greenbrier and tunneling through a mountain eastward into Virginia. There is a concrete marker just east of Alderson, on the Greenbrier River, marking the halfway point between Cincinnati and Norfolk.
I’ll state my disclaimer here: I am not, nor have I ever been, really knowledgeable about railroads. That is a huge subject unto itself, embodying many chapters in our nation’s history. The science, math, engineering, politics, geography, societal and economic impact of railroads in America compose a huge slice of who we are as a nation, and the story will continue to build upon itself. But I feel a special personal kinship with the C&O Railroad, and so I’ll share a few personal experiences.
The South Charleston Railroad Yard was a busy place, and a source of constant interest to me, a four-year-old boy caught up in the view of the railroad yard from the front window of our little house on Franklin Terrace. Cars: coal cars — “hoppers,”- flat cars, boxcars, and tank cars — were moved from track to track, pulled or pushed by small locomotives designed for that specific purpose. Those small engines were known as “dinkies.” In fact, our next door neighbor on Franklin Terrace, Mr. Midkiff, was a dinky engineer. It was an operation to watch, putting cars together to “make up” a train for its destination. Later, as a youngster I spent time on and around the railroad, walking the cross ties to school, hanging around the South Charleston freight yard where coal, chemicals and other natural products were loaded, unloaded and/or shifted to other cars as part of the around-the-clock operation of a busy train yard.
My first on-train experience was a trip from Charleston to Alderson to visit my grandparents. Dad put Alice and me on the train, talked with the conductor about our destination. The conductor put a tag on a string around each of our necks, sat us side by side, and off we went. I remember absolutely nothing about three-hour the ride itself, just arriving at the Alderson station where we were greeted by Granddad Farley.
To take that trip alone was a big deal for us; we were six. In the mid-1930s train travel was very, very safe, and it was not uncommon for kids, looked after by conductors and porters, to ride alone on passenger trains. But still, I’m sure Alice and I rolled our eyes at each other more than once. A couple of years later I rode that same train to Alderson with Paul, Dad’s brother.
My only memory of that trip was that the conductor gave me a small glass container in the shape of a train and full of candy. Those containers, which were made in many shapes: Santas, telephones, airplanes, etc., have been collectors’ items for many years.
At some point, after we had moved from Franklin Terrace to Sycamore Street, I think at about age ten, I started to walk to the South Charleston “yard” and watch the action. The yard workers had a very small shack between sets of tracks, out of which they would carry out their various tasks. One day, I carefully walked across the tracks to the work shack, with a workman waving me to go back out of the yard. I just kept going till I got to where he was standing. Kindly but gruffly, he took me into that magic place and gave me a direct lecture about the dangers of the yard, and what to watch for when walking the tracks. Well, that started it. From there I made friends with two or three other workers, and they would watch out for me as I made my way to the shack — my shack now; my personal castle. I graduated from that special time after one summer’s reign. But I learned about noise, and the smell of steam, and the clanging of cars banging against each other, the cinders and coal dust, and the unique sound of steam emitting from the boiler. Of course, I didn’t really learn about those things — I just got the sense of them.
During the seventh and eighth grades, a group of us — all boys — walked the cross ties to school two or three times a week — about a mile. Sometimes, when we would hear an oncoming train, someone would put a penny on the track and the train would flatten it into a shining disc. If you could find it among the limestone rocks that formed the track’s ballast, you could give it to the girl of your dreams as a special trinket. If we had a newcomer with us on a really cold day, we’d try talk him into putting his tongue on the track. How dumb. But one guy named Dewey did, and his tongue momentarily stuck to the track — at which we howled. Such were the types of entertainment in those days.
Our house on Sycamore street was about a quarter mile from the railroad, so the sound of steam whistles pierced the night air on regular schedules, and in summertime, with the bedroom window open, those passing trains gave me a sense of pleasure and comfort. Many nights, reading by flashlight, the late train would be my signal to put the Zane Grey book away and go to sleep.
I won’t go into it here — read the section called “Sleeping Out,” and you’ll get the story of how we would watch the Fast Flying Virginian go by at 5:30 in the morning.
One of my favorite railroad memories.
So that’s how it started for me with the C&O. There were other train trips later in my life, but it was the early fascination that got me going. And that was soon to be reinforced when I introduced myself to country music on our radio. Living in West Virginia, there were many country music broadcasts on our AM radio (at that time FM didn’t exist), and I found them all. Of course, the Grand Ole Opry, broadcast on Saturday nights, was the king of them all. And train songs were immensely popular. I was about twelve when this phase began, and songs like “The Wreck of The Old 97,” “Wabash Cannonball,” “Freight Train Blues,” and “Streamline Cannonball” were featured weekly, which continued to whet my appetite for train music. You’ll note references to my own train songs elsewhere in these short pieces, and somewhere, perhaps in the family “archives,” there is a recording of them, written and performed by yours truly.
It naturally followed that when I began camping on New River and elsewhere, the freight trains — hauling coal, mostly — kept our gang company. Since sound travels so well across water, especially at night, we could hear an approaching train from a great distance, and the great steel wheels clacking on the track could be heard long after the train was out of sight. Daytime trains were also special, because you could hear them coming, see the smoke and then come into vision. Usually, if I was standing in knee-deep water with fishing rod in hand, I’d just reel in and watch, and listen.
Waterways made natural locations for railroads, for they cut through mountains and typically would provide for a good grade or slope. So as I camped on many streams over the years, it was common to find a railroad following the waterway, usually across the river from camp. Made for good fishing. Or if the fish weren’t hitting, didn’t matter. Either way, I win.
Others: Granddad Hale, Don Hale, Pat Hale, Dave Farley, Kenny Pulliam, Lloyd Parsell, and many others shared that feeling for the railroads and trains. After Granddad died in 1966, there were just a few of us who were loyal to the steam locomotive, steam whistle, and all that, because it was all replaced by diesel engines beginning in the early ‘sixties. With that went the steam whistle, the other noises and odors and eccentricities of the steam locomotive. And none of us liked it — at all. Call us reactionary, we don’t care.
The greatest of the train song writers was the immortal Jimmie Rogers. The Singing Brakeman. Read about him. Briefly, he was a Mississippi guy who, in his mid-twenties, was working on the railroads. Played guitar. Began writing and recording many songs, among them his famous train songs. He really captured the romance of the railroad, and though his career lasted only six years, his train songs survive to this day. Check it out . . . you’ll get a true impression of what it was like in the 1920s and 30s, with hobos, the Depression, life in the south. Wonderful stuff. His “Waiting for A Train” hit the charts in the early thirties, and he was an overnight star. Of course, his railroads were in the south, so you won’t find the C&O mentioned in his lyrics. But the stuff of trains is there, so soak it up. Jimmie Rogers died of tuberculosis in 1932.
A couple of notes:
I had the pleasure of sitting in the Dining Car with Carol as we rode the FFV — the C&O’s famous passenger train, called “The Fast Flying Virginian,” from Charleston to Williamsburg in 1960, to visit her classmate Sherry McCormick and her newly-wed husband, Bob Harrison, who was also Carol’s high school classmate. Carol and I boarded the train in St. Albans very early in the morning. As we passed Sandstone Falls on New River (see “Camping and Fishing”) I practically thrashed her arms to get her to look at those magnificent falls, just west of Hinton, WV. The train trip was just idyllic. We had breakfast in the dining car, which — in accordance with historical precedence — was managed and served with the greatest of professional elegance. What a trip.
In about 1995, Carol, Amy (who at that time was employed in Washington, DC by the CSX Corporation, formerly — yes — C&O Railroad) and I went on a steam engine tour of the C&O trail from St. Albans to Hinton and back. We were with Roscoe Peters, a true C&O buff and family friend from the Kanawha Valley. Roscoe’s father was a professor at WV State College, and Roscoe was a lifetime friend / “blood brother” of Carol’s brother Keith Hopkins. Roscoe’s family had grown up on the C&O sidetracks at Hampton, VA, and Roscoe had later met Carol’s brother Keith in the WV Air National Guard at Charleston. During the ‘80s and ‘90s, Roscoe and Amy became fast friends, mostly due to Amy’s employment with CSX, for whom Roscoe had a deep emotional attachment. With the steam locomotive performing beautifully, that excursion was truly exciting for me — hearing the engine up ahead, seeing the smoke puffing out of the stack, looking out at the scenery — New River!, riding past Sandstone Falls. A memorable day.
I don’t know how to wind this little piece down, but as with other entries in these writings, I’ll stay true to my intent to give you an insight, not a treatise — although I could fill several more pages with stuff about “a long steel rail, a short cross tie,” as the song “Streamline Cannonball” goes. The C&O was later to become part of CSX, an international corporation specializing in transportation and container shipping. But even now, in 2013, one can occasionally spot an older train car with the blurred “C&O” in faded paint on its side.
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.
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
One of my best lifetime pals, albeit inanimate, is my Martin guitar. Purchased in 1951, just after I finished my second year at Morris Harvey College, I saw the Martin in the Galperin Music Store in downtown Charleston. The sales people knew me; I was in the store often, visiting with friends who played on local dance bands, as I did. So the sales manager agreed to sell me the Martin on time, at no interest. The cost was $80.00. The Martin, a “double-aught 17,” formally a model 00-17, was built in 1948. Incidentally, the 00-17 has been a great seller, and is still made by Martin.
With excitement, I told Kenny that we were now in business. At the time I owned an $8.00 guitar — “Stella,” which was virtually unplayable, but I had been whacking at it as Kenny and I sang duets. Now, this new instrument gave us what we needed: a nice-sounding accompaniment. Kenny was in town for the summer from college at the University of Cincinnati, where he was an engineering major, so we were both free in the evenings after work. In his dad’s car, we would ride out to Little Coal River, not far from town, to an isolated spot to swim and make music. Hot weather. We’d first jump in the river, splash for a few minutes, get out and dry off. Then sing country favorites like “Bury Me Beneath the Willow,” “An Acre of Diamonds,” and so forth. It all came together with the Martin, playing rhythm and chords.
From there, we began going to the local drive-in restaurant, The Parkette, in downtown Charleston. We’d roll the windows down, order a grilled cheese and coffee — probably about 30 cents, tune the Martin, and sing. It happened often enough that we would see other customers who were familiar with our routine, and even pull up close to us to listen. (More recently, having told the drive-in tale to someone, we are now known as the “Parkette Brothers.”)
From there, the Martin was with me on every camping trip, or virtually so, during the next sixty years. The sad news: I mistreated the Martin badly, because I had never bought a case. So after years of leaning against a tree overnight, lying on its back in the tent, it became weather-worn, scratched, and finally with a serious crack in the box. But play on I did. At some juncture, all that stopped, and the guitar went to the front closet.
Then, Leslie became really interested in playing and I gladly gave here the Martin to take home and use. She took it on herself to have it overhauled/rebuilt, and it is now as good as new. The company that did the work was fascinated by the guitar, and especially interested in the name “Galperin Music” at the top of the neck, still readable with a logo. Nowadays, when Leslie and I attend our annual Bluegrass Camp in N.C., the Martin is one of the main items of interest.
About the sound: this guitar is easy on the fingers, perfectly playable, with a sound that is neither aggressive nor timid — just lovely and confident. Beyond these words you’d simply have to hear it. Everyone who has ever played it has commented on the lasting quality of the instrument.
A scary event: Leslie, Sherwood and Hannah have a “music room” in their house, just the right size to hold a baby grand, cello, three guitars and sound system. Shortly after Leslie returned home with the Martin, they were out one evening and upon returning home found that the house had been broken into. What was missing? The Martin. Leslie became a sleuth: working with law enforcement, going to pawn shops, the works. Then: a break. The intruder had hocked the guitar, and it was returned to Leslie. This is a very short version of a very numbing event. It’s hard to imagine that guitar ever being in any family but mine. Of course, the Martin will belong to Leslie someday — perhaps sooner than later, depending on how much longer I want to bang on it.
