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It is a joy to receive correspondence from those who bring to mind long-deceased unique individuals from yesteryear. Stan Barlow, a former resident of our city who taught at ETSU, Columbia University, City University (New York) and was dean at the University of Minnesota, sent me a note.

The educator responded to my previous Junior High School column, sharing cherished memories of an era long since passed. Mr. Barlow said he received a copy of my article about the old school that was designed by the father of his brother-in-law, Dick Beeson.

Stan indicated that he once lived at 102 W. Watauga Avenue and later at 705 N. Roan Street: “I could see the windows of (Pearl) Archer's homeroom when I was in the 8th grade and getting ready to walk the two blocks to it. I was a proud graduate of North Side School and in another two years would be running down Roan Street and up the hill of stairs to twin-towered Science Hill, all too often hearing the 8 o'clock tardy bell as I climbed.”

Stan lamented that the three schools he once attended have all been razed, saying that they once seemed eternal to him. Also gone are the two houses where he lived. His sole consolation is that a new North Side School now stands in the location of the former educational building.

Mr. Barlow further stated: “A.E. Sherrod, our Junior High hands-on principal, was a symbol to me. I never lost sight of him. He ran a tight ship, but he knew what he was doing – he was educating – as were most of the teachers who served with him. I remember how, every year in assembly, Mr. Sherrod would read us a poem with the refrain, ‘Just keep a-going?’”

Stan singled out four teachers from that era – Miss (Hettie) Ewalt, (Miss) Mabel Anderson, Mr. (Miller) Bray and Mr. MaGuren. The latter taught band and eventually formed a musical ensemble. “We had orchestra, band, shop, drama and other ‘learning’ with a wonderful mix of kids. Too bad we were not yet integrated, or the mix would have been even richer. I started Junior High in 1936, the year the 'voice' in your article 'graduated' there.  You reminded us that the school opened in 1922, two years before I was born. Regina Eisemann was the first principal. She was a dear friend of our family. I kept in close touch with her throughout her life. Anna Laurie Conley, older sister of my friend John, was Regina's efficient nurse in Johnson City.”

Mr. Barlow penned a personal tribute to Ms. Eisemann in, as he called it, “those magic free verse lines” titled, “While I'm Shaving,” (Swimming Laps, August 2001) that shows homage for his favorite principal. Here is an excerpt: “I helped roll Regina Eisemann, in her wheelchair up the long hill in the snow. She had been school principal. She focused our minds, as we pushed along to our house, from the big hotel where she lived, past the lamp-lit service station, up and over the curbs. She bounced about in the chair like a ball, with flashing eyes and vocabulary. She never talked down to us. Made us think deep.”

Junior High’s first principal died while still in her seventies. Despite her suffering, Stan related that “she was always wide-awake to the world; she loved it.”

Thanks to Stan Barlow, we have been permitted to bring two former Junior High School Principals briefly to center stage and shine the big Yesteryear spotlight on them. Well done, Mr. Sherrod and Ms. Eisemann. 

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Area folks were saddened recently to hear about the passing of Knoxville’s blind gospel music icon, J. Bazzel Mull (1914-2006).

About 1957, I routinely tuned my radio to the “Mull Singing convention of the Air” over WLAC in Nashville. The program regularly featured my favorite gospel group, the Chuck Wagon Gang. Preacher Mull, a grandson of circuit-riding preacher, Wallace B. Mull, opened his program with these memorable words, spoken in his distinctively gravely voice: “Howdy neighbor. This is your old friend J. Bazzel Mull,” to which his wife, Elizabeth, would reply “and Mrs. Mull.”

Mull would often say something over the air and solicit confirmation from his wife by asking her, “Ain’t that right, Lady Mull?” Her response was always, “That’s right.” Pastor Mull’s signature signoff to conclude his program was “Thanks for your time, at this time, until next time.” Mull’s blindness resulted from a fall into an open fireplace at age 11. Lady Mull assisted her husband in the studio by announcing song selections and cueing records.

The preacher’s affiliation with Johnson City began in early 1940 when he came here to conduct a revival at a Baptist church in the vicinity of Fall Street. The evangelist and his younger brother, Romulus, a talented singer, guitar player and pianist, soon took up residence in the city, moving from Burke County, NC.

The Elbert and Gladys Bowman family became acquainted with the Mull brothers after inviting them to have supper with them at their E. Unaka home. Mull then extended an invitation to the three oldest Bowman brothers  – Weldon, Jake and Buddy, all accomplished vocalists – to sing at his evangelistic meetings.

Weldon recalled his joyful association with the famed preacher: “I was only about 18 years old when the three of us began singing at his gospel music crusades. I often became his ‘eyes’ by reading the Bible to him. He amazed me with how much scripture he could remember. He later gave me a Bible for assisting him in his ministry. I kept in touch with Pastor Mull over the years, usually calling him on his birthday and during the Christmas holidays. He did so much good for people during his lifetime.”

By about 1941, Mull moved to Knoxville where his ministry was aided by successful grocer and politician, Cas Walker. Romulus joined the Air Force and died in a prisoner of war camp in 1944. During his lifetime, Mull owned four Tennessee radio stations and was heard over numerous radio and TV facilities. During one radio broadcast, some pranksters rigged the studio sound system to trick Mull into believing that a popular song being heard in the booth was accidentally being broadcast over the air.

The Reverend organized several churches in North Carolina and Tennessee, including being pastor of Oak Grove Baptist Church in the Boones Creek community for a few months in 1947.

Today, the Bowman Family’s four younger brothers – Jim, Ray, Tony and Robert – occasionally dress up and perform a hilarious “musicomedy” imitation of the Mulls, followed by their robust singing of the Chuck Wagon Gang’s “Higher We Climb Every Day.”

On behalf of all East Tennesseans, let me offer heartfelt thanks to our old friends … “J. Bazzel Mull” … “and Mrs. Mull” … for your time, at this time, until next time. And thats right, Lady Mull” 

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Rita Garst wrote me a note commenting on the Hotel Windsor and other former hotels in downtown Johnson City. She shared some humorous stories.

“As a kid, she said, “I thought those buildings were skyscrapers; they looked awfully big back then. The last time I went to Asheville on the old highway, I noticed that the old barn that had Windsor Hotel painted on its roof was still there.”

My column in early May offered an epigrammatic history of this long-standing hotel (1909-1961), known briefly as Hotel Pardue before permanently becoming Hotel Windsor. I mentioned that the Rotary and Kiwanis clubs once held their meetings there. However, I didn’t mention the fact that, according to former club member, Allen Harris, Sr., William Jennings Bryan once dined there with the Rotarians. I also didn’t elaborate on just how rowdy these all-male early meetings could become. Horseplay was often the order of the day. The club dining room was then located on the street floor.

The Rotary Club assigned members a seat and charged a quarter to those who were late to the meeting. Paul Smith, former Johnson City Press-Chronicle writer, in an article written just prior to the razing of the old hostelry, offered some humorous examples of the variety of pranks that occurred back then. At one Rotary meeting, members were aghast when one of the hotel waitresses boldly stepped forward and announced to the club president that one of the club members present was the father of her unborn child.

The club leader, playing along with the impromptu gag, asked for the guilt party to stand up like a man and identify himself. Unknown to the group, one chair had been wired to produce a mild electrical shock. At that precise time, a switch was flipped, sending a shock wave to the man sitting in that particular chair. The “guilty” club member immediately sprang to his feet, bringing a spontaneous roar of laughter from those present.

On another occasion, a fake holdup was staged with masked robbers running in brandishing guns, creating bedlam for the frightened onlookers. Some clubbers dove out windows to escape being pilfered or injured. One poor soul was last seen running well past the Lady of the Fountain statue in Fountain Square Park across the street.

Such rambunctious carryings-on were not confined to Rotarians. Lonnie McCown, a longtime secretary of the Kiwanis Club, recalled an amusing event. Members were seated for what they thought was a normal meeting – discussing the issues of the day and enjoying a deliciously cooked meal. Suddenly, two “clumsy” waiters, carrying full loads of dishes on their trays, collided in the meeting room. The impact produced massive quantities of broken chinaware and initiated harsh words between the two servers.

In the “scuffle” that ensued, the “irate” workers drew pistols and began firing at each other. Those present dived under tables and sought whatever shelter they could find to prevent being hit by the barrage of “gunfire.” To the relief of everyone, it soon became apparent that the whole thing was a carefully orchestrated hoax and that the tricksters were in reality using blank cartridges to carry out their foolery.

Perhaps because of these pranks, the Kiwanis Club moved its meetings from Hotel Windsor to the Avalon Dining Room at 309 E. Main Street, later becoming the site of Penney’s Department Store. 

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I received a handwritten letter from Geneva Feathers, offering some largely forgotten memories of West Side School in 1930.

In her letter, she mentioned two West Side Schools, one having been located at 812 W. Market Street and the other at 349 W. Main Street, the one she attended. Why would Johnson City have two grammar schools with identical names? Let me present some facts in the form of five exhibits to help clarify this enigma.

Exhibit 1 is a large metal plate mounted on the west side of the front doors to the old Henry Johnson School on W. Market Street school that reads: “West Side School – Erected 1930.”

Exhibit 2 is likewise a plate attached to the east side of the same entrance: “Renamed Henry Johnson 1934 – Erected AD 1930.” The school was indeed known as West Side School for those four years. 

Exhibit 3 is a photograph from The Overmountain Press publication, Johnson City – The Way We Were, a reprint of a 1909 compilation by J.O. Lewis, identifying the Main Street school as West End School. This building was most likely situated near what was the west end of town around the turn of the century.

Exhibit 4 is a quote from Mary Nell Rader, a local resident who once attended the Main Street school: “I remember when both schools were called West Side School until one was renamed Henry Johnson School.”

Finally, Exhibit 5 is the interesting letter I received from Mrs. Feathers:

“Your previous column brought back memories for me. My family moved from Erwin to Johnson City in June 1930 and I started at Old West Side School that fall. The school we later knew as Henry Johnson had just been completed and was being used for the first time – it was known then as New West Side. Mrs. W.B. Ellisor, whose husband was mayor of Johnson City, served as principal of both schools. Miss (Mildred) Taylor was teaching at Old West Side even then, but I did not have her for any classes. Miss Ruth Massengill was my homeroom teacher (fifth grade) and I had Miss Bethea for Music. My homeroom teacher in the sixth grade was Miss Mildred Adams. Miss Cora Mae Crockett taught Geography. I had never heard of Davy Crockett then, but I remember her telling us about her ancestor who had gone to Texas to fight (at the Alamo).

“Mr. Judson Carter taught Arithmetic and, although I never knew why, he always had a wooden yardstick with him, which he used as though it were a cane. Miss Frances Long was the music teacher that year. Most of us who lived close enough – for me four blocks – to walk home for lunch did so and we could easily get back within the allotted hour. The school had no lunch room facilities. Students were permitted to go across the street to a mini-grocery run by a Mrs. Laws. She sliced meat from her refrigerated meat case and made sandwiches for the kids. My favorite was boiled ham on a bun for a a nickel and a penny red licorice stick for 'dessert.'”

I believe we can accurately conclude that there were indeed two grammar schools sharing the same designation between 1930 and 1934.

Why did the second school not receive a different name at the onset, instead of four years later? When did West End School become West Side School? Perhaps other Press readers will respond to those two questions. 

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I received a handwritten letter from Geneva Feathers, offering some largely forgotten memories of West Side School in 1930.

In her letter, she mentioned two West Side Schools, one having been located at 812 W. Market Street and the other at 349 W. Main Street, the one she attended. Why would Johnson City have two grammar schools with identical names? Let me present some facts in the form of five exhibits to help clarify this enigma.

Exhibit 1 is a large metal plate mounted on the west side of the front doors to the old Henry Johnson School on W. Market Street school that reads: “West Side School – Erected 1930.”

Exhibit 2 is likewise a plate attached to the east side of the same entrance: “Renamed Henry Johnson 1934 – Erected AD 1930.” The school was indeed known as West Side School for those four years. 

Exhibit 3 is a photograph from The Overmountain Press publication, Johnson City – The Way We Were, a reprint of a 1909 compilation by J.O. Lewis, identifying the Main Street school as West End School. This building was most likely situated near what was the west end of town around the turn of the century.

Exhibit 4 is a quote from Mary Nell Rader, a local resident who once attended the Main Street school: “I remember when both schools were called West Side School until one was renamed Henry Johnson School.”

Finally, Exhibit 5 is the interesting letter I received from Mrs. Feathers:

“Your previous column brought back memories for me. My family moved from Erwin to Johnson City in June 1930 and I started at Old West Side School that fall. The school we later knew as Henry Johnson had just been completed and was being used for the first time – it was known then as New West Side. Mrs. W.B. Ellisor, whose husband was mayor of Johnson City, served as principal of both schools. Miss (Mildred) Taylor was teaching at Old West Side even then, but I did not have her for any classes. Miss Ruth Massengill was my homeroom teacher (fifth grade) and I had Miss Bethea for Music. My homeroom teacher in the sixth grade was Miss Mildred Adams. Miss Cora Mae Crockett taught Geography. I had never heard of Davy Crockett then, but I remember her telling us about her ancestor who had gone to Texas to fight (at the Alamo).

“Mr. Judson Carter taught Arithmetic and, although I never knew why, he always had a wooden yardstick with him, which he used as though it were a cane. Miss Frances Long was the music teacher that year. Most of us who lived close enough – for me four blocks – to walk home for lunch did so and we could easily get back within the allotted hour. The school had no lunch room facilities. Students were permitted to go across the street to a mini-grocery run by a Mrs. Laws. She sliced meat from her refrigerated meat case and made sandwiches for the kids. My favorite was boiled ham on a bun for a a nickel and a penny red licorice stick for 'dessert.'”

I believe we can accurately conclude that there were indeed two grammar schools sharing the same designation between 1930 and 1934.

Why did the second school not receive a different name at the onset, instead of four years later? When did West End School become West Side School? Perhaps other Press readers will respond to those two questions. 

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 A familiar scene from The Wizard of Oz depicts Dorothy and her three curious cohorts being escorted in a carriage pulled by a “horse of a different color,” the stately critter changing coloring with each view. From my five years at Henry Johnson School during the early 1950s, I recall another unusual steed that “galloped” through school bookstores all across this country.

The animal was the famous Blue Horse trademark of Atlanta’s Montag Brothers' Paper Company, a 40-year enterprise established soon after the Great Depression. The corporation quickly found its niche with the younger crowd by launching a clever awards marketing promotion to boost sluggish sales.

Our Market Street school sold the Blue Horse product line and other supplies in a small store adjacent to the principal’s office near the front door. A table was positioned across the supply room door where a school employee manned the store each morning before classes began. This allowed the attendant to dispense supplies through the door without allowing student access into the room.

I was familiar with the Blue Horse notebook loose-leaf filler packs from my previous year’s attendance in the first grade at West Side School. The paper sold for a nickel a pack and contained about 25 5-hole punched sheets, allowing it to be conveniently placed in either 2 or 3 ringed binders. Each pack was enclosed in a small wrapper with the familiar Blue Horse head icon in the middle. These trademarks were then clipped, saved and later redeemed for prizes.

Literally millions of Blue Horse heads were exchanged for cash and prizes, making Montag one of the largest paper companies in the industry by 1950. An old Montage Brothers’ wrapper from the spring of 1953 shows, “50,000 Prizes For All You Lucky Boys And Girls.” Products costing 5 cents counted as one trademark, while 10-cent items yielded two. Participants were instructed to fasten the clippings in bundles of 50 or 100 before mailing them.

Students sending in 20 Blue Horse heads received a souvenir beanie cap containing the company logo; all other prizes required a minimum of 30 heads. Youngsters did not actually choose prizes; the number of heads mailed to the company determined the relative value of the reward. Contest rules required that labels be submitted by June 15 each year, making it easier for the corporation to tabulate results, award prizes and formulate plans for the next year’s campaign.

The top prize was a Horse Head brand bicycle given to the 425 students sending in the most emblems. In addition, there were 375 table model radios, 550 footballs, 550 zipper notebook cases, 1250 surprise awards, 20,000 bonus prizes and 26,850 other prizes – totaling 50,000.

A significant advantage to this unique sales promotion was that students and schools were concurrently rewarded. Cash was offered to the 167 schools whose students sent in the most trademarks. Prize money included $100 for first, $50 for second, $40 for third, $25 for fourth, and $5 for fifth. The total money dispersed nationwide by the company was $2025.

About 1970, the Montag Brothers’ once-famed azure four-legged creature was escorted on a one-way trip to a glue factory. Today, the only trace of the hoofed animal is a large Atlanta building still referred to as … The Blue Horse.   

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In 1884, there could be no mistake as to the identity of the business on the second floor at the southwest corner of Main and Spring streets.

“Jobe’s Opera House” appeared in large letters across the upper north side of the edifice, denoting Johnson City’s first public entertainment venue. Ike T. Jobe built and managed the upstairs establishment; M.E. Gump was assistant manager, being the owner of Gump Clothing Store located below it.

The successful enterprise was proclaimed by a travel agent of McElreth’s Dramatic Troop to be the “largest and best hall between Lynchburg, Virginia and Knoxville, Tennessee.” A flyer from 1888 proclaimed: “full sets scenery,” “first-class show town,” “play companies only on shares,” with an added suggestion for patrons to “Stop at Piedmont House.”

The enterprise offered cultural refinement from a variety of choices – operas, plays, lectures, humorists and music productions. Entrance to the theatre was gained by climbing doublewide stairs through two doors into the massive 900-seat auditorium. The lecture hall’s use included sporting activities and even once served as a courtroom for chancery court sessions. In its formative years, the facility was used by such notables as Johnson City’s Bob Taylor, delivering lectures as part of his highly popular “The Fiddle & the Bow” series.

According to the late Dorothy Hamill, the opera house occasionally opened its doors for high school graduations. Graduating seniors, dressed in long white frocks or black suits, marched from the Hill on Roan Street to the auditorium where they received their long awaited diplomas.

Over time, numerous first-rate productions graced the opera stage, as often reported by The Comet: “Jesse James,” 1885, a production denoting the life of the infamous outlaw, “complete in every detail.”

“Olde Folkes Concerte,” 1906,” by Mrs. L.W. McCown, with humorous dialog – “ye young men and maidens will be suffered to sit together in ye congregations, but worldie young men and women are desired not to hold conversations to ye distraction of others while ye tunes are being sung. … All ye congregation who have goode lungs may stand and singe ye last songs.”

Bertram & Willard’s Realistic American Comedy Drama, “The Midnight Fire,” 1900, an ironic title for a fundraiser aimed at helping the Johnson City Fire Department acquire new uniforms. …

Mary Prescott in “Ingomar” (1887), Louise Balfe in “Dogmar” and The Meyer Thorne Company’s presentations of “A Woman’s Divotions,” “Stricken Blind” and “Rip Van Winkle,” …

The Haworth’s Specialty Comedy Company; Bristol Colored Jubilee Company; Ralph Bingham, boy orator, humorist, and violinist; and Professor A.H. Merrill of Vanderbilt University.

The latter’s appearance was sponsored by the Longfellow Literary Circle and S.B. McElreth, a Johnson City comedian. This society was organized at the residence of Sallie Faw. Cargilles frequently sponsored such events, declaring to be “the cheapest store in existence” and claiming to “outsell every other concern in the trade.” Around the turn of the century, the opera management pioneered some brief action packed silent motion pictures using a new invention – a hand-operated projectoscope.

The new medium of motion pictures was looming on the horizon and, by about 1907, would bring to an abrupt halt the once impressive Jobe’s Opera House. 

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Youngsters who find an old record player at an antique store, auction or flea market may be puzzled to discover four turntable speeds: 16, 33.3, 45 and 78 revolutions per minute (rpm).

Older folks will recall the awful day their favorite 78-rpm record was broken. My much-played non-replaceable disc, a long forgotten cowboy singer on the Coral label, met its demise when a neighborhood friend accidentally sat on it. I was so distraught I couldn’t sleep that night, realizing that “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” could not put that delicate 10-inch record together again. I was devastated.

These old records were made of shellac, a natural resin secreted by the lac insect and had the consistency of a fragile china plate – thick, heavy and highly breakable. They cracked and chipped easily. Most folks continued playing a favorite damaged record, even with its annoying pop that occurred with each revolution. Some records were played so frequently that the center hole became enlarged, causing the record to rotate on the turntable in a distorted jerky motion.

Record needles, resembling slightly refined nails, usually sold 25 to a pack for a quarter. Manufacturers suggested replacing them after about 12 plays, warning consumers that failure to do so could result in damage to their prized discs. I ignored such admonitions, opting instead to plop one in only when I detected a drop in audio quality.  

Many of the old record players had “changers” on them, allowing a stack of records to play automatically. A two-record set would have sides 1 and 4 located on the first record and 2 and 3 on the second. Side 1 would be placed on the changer spindle first, facing upward. In like fashion, side 2 would be placed on top of the first record. The unit’s stabilizing arm would then be placed over the top record. Once both records played, the listener would remove them from the changer, flip the stack over and place them back on the spindle, allowing sides 3 and 4 to play.

Radio disc jockeys “cued” a record for instant play by placing it on the turntable, rotating it by hand until sound was detected at the needle and reversing it about a quarter turn.

As record formats changed, their producers began issuing records utilizing both formats. There was a time when 78s and 45s were manufactured for the same recording and artist; the same was true for 45s and multi-selection 33.3s. Unfortunately, a few 78s ended up in carnival sideshows, where people threw balls at them to win prizes. Fortunately, many records survived by being stored in attics, basements, garages and closets.

Old records became good sources of history. Vernon Dalhart, in the early part of this century, regularly recorded tragedy songs ranging from the Titanic sinking in 1912 to Floyd Collins’ untimely death in a Kentucky coal mine in 1925. A visit to an antique store often reveals these nearly extinct tube model record players sitting idly in a corner, not having been played for decades, missing a needle, often without power and seemingly begging to perform again.

Sadly, these dusty relics of yesteryear have had their day in the big spotlight of progress. Except for a few avid collectors, their time has come and gone.  

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One of the most listened to area radio programs between 1960 and 1966 was “Hap’s House,” a creation of WBEJ Radio in Elizabethton.

“Hap” Harold Henley, alias Ziggy Ziggy Higginbotham, was a popular comedic deejay with a weekday morning eight to noon broadcast. The five-foot five-inch slightly stocky DJ beckoned his faithful listeners to their radios with “good listening, laughs galore and toe tappin’ tunes,” according to an old promotional “Wanted” poster. Those of us who remember his lively program further recall that his favorite recording artist was Elvis.

Cleo Reed, longtime general manager of the station fondly recollects the jovial entertainer: “During a broadcast, Hap put a record on the turntable and played it over and over. I went upstairs to see what was going on. He told me he was going to keep playing that song until people started calling the station. He wanted to see how many people were listening to his program. About that time, the phone began ringing off the wall.”

Given that one of his sponsors was a shoe store, Hap appropriately used as his daily theme song an instrumental recording, “Red Shoes.”

Ms. Reed recalled that the witty disc spinner once conducted a “Man on the Street” program at 12:15 pm in downtown Elizabethton in front of Parks Belk. Hap wore a bright red hard hat, interviewed people and awarded them sponsors’ prizes. The red hat is currently on display at the station’s new location at 510 Broad Street.

Cleo commented with fondness on Hap’s annual Santa Claus program, asking children or their parents to send letters to the station, receiving between 150 and 200 responses.  The clever announcer would then attempt to reach Santa at the North Pole with words like “Calling Santa Claus; come in Santa” and adding line static and wind gust sound effects to achieve even more realism.  After reaching the jolly old man, the DJ switched roles. He imitated Santa by sticking his head into a metal waste can, containing a microphone surrounded by several wadded up papers and reading the youngster’s letters over the air. The kids loved it.

Smithdeal’s Supermarket sponsored a cooking segment on Hap’s House at 10:00 each morning. Hap gave clues to secret recipes and called two fortunate listeners to see if they could identify the gastronomic delight. Prize money often exceeded $100.

 Hap had suffered terrible burns in a plane crash in World War II. Ms. Reed recalled that he was very regimented in his life activities, such as eating a thermos bottle of pea soup and a can of sardines for lunch every day. Hap was a perfectionist. He kept a huge unabridged dictionary 8” thick in the control room with him. Lynn Williams, former station engineer, located a second large dictionary at a book sale and purchased it for his friend.

Cleo summed up her feelings for her former good friend with these succinct words: “If you ever met the man, you would remember him forever.” After working at the station for six years, the well-liked radio entertainer died in October 1966 after a 13-week lingering illness. He was about 52.

The door of Hap’s House at 1240 WBEJ was closed and locked forever; Hap Harold Henley, alias Ziggy Ziggy Higginbotham, had left the building. 

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Billy Jones and Ernest Hare, known as the “Happiness Boys,” recorded a song in 1921 called “Down at the Old Swimming Hole.” “Come along with me, down to the old swimming hole. Come on and be a kid again. It’s great to lie on the bank and look at the sky. And let the rest of the world go by.”

As a youth growing up in Johnson City, I regularly patronized several city and surrounding “swimming holes.” In the late 40s, my family often traveled to the refreshing mountain waters of Hungry Mother Park in Southwest Virginia. It had a homemade beach and a kiddy wading area that was completely surrounded by a white wooden picket fence.

Another cold-water excursion was to Rock Creek Park in Unicoi Country, sporting a rocky natural pool and picnicking facilities. Mom insisted that I wait an hour after eating before entering the chilly streams so as to prevent cramps. I usually cheated on my time, not believing her worries held much water.

A third popular “hole” was the Sur-Joi establishment (formerly Watauga Swimming Pool) once situated on the site of Carver Recreation Center. Mom literally carried me there in the late 40s as a spectator because I was battling rheumatic fever and restricted from physical activities, including walking. I later became a regular active patron of that facility.

Moving to Johnson Avenue in 1950 afforded yet another selection. Mrs. Dorothy Keezel would occasionally load several neighborhood kids into her convertible and escort us on a day’s outing at Willow Park in Erwin.

Munsey Memorial Methodist Church’s natatorium (indoor swimming pool) provided folks with perennial swimming. The pool operated on an hourly basis with lifeguards blowing whistles promptly on the hour to usher in a fresh batch of waiting swimmers. The hourly charge was 50 cents. I usually stopped at their modest snack bar opposite the pool for a bite and to watch the other swimmers. I learned to swim there from an instructor who, strangely enough, stayed dry by tutoring her students from the side of the pool.

I infrequently dipped in the Franklin Pool in Elizabethton at an early age, so my recollection of that enterprise is a bit blurred. I can, however, recall visiting Woodland Lake near Jonesboro, an establishment offering two large pools – a normal one and another containing all deep water for lap swimmers.

Unquestionably, my favorite aquatic location was Cox’s Lake (formerly Lake Wataussee). Its remoteness made it further desirable. In the late 1940s, Baxter Street was paved only as far north as Woodland Avenue.

Cox’s Lake had it all – swimming, picnicking, canoeing on the pond, a large screened in recreation area over the water, a jukebox and dime pinball machines, offering the potential for free games. The elongated towering wooden sliding board along the west side of the pool was thrilling, as was the high diving board at the deep end. Patrons entering the murky pool had to contend with a chlorine footbath with its strong trenchant odor.

When the city opened the municipal pool in the early 1960s, I became attracted to its dual low and high diving boards.

Oh how I long for those carefree days of yesteryear when this boy went “down at the old swimming hole” and “let the rest of the world go by.”  

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