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Few things are more nostalgic than the thought of an old schoolhouse with its resounding bell, tin ceilings, rough-hewn wood floors, black potbellied stove, desks with inkwells and slate blackboards. The rope or hand-operated bell’s toll echoed across the vast countryside each weekday, beckoning youngsters to and from school.

A 1912 poem, “Song of the School Bell,” by John Everett says: “Each day at nine are loudly sung, Clear greetings from my iron tongue, While children rush with romp and race, As though to meet my fond embrace.” This device’s distinctive wistful sound caused scurrying little feet to react each time it interrupted the silence. Community schools served the learning needs of rural children until farms grew larger and families became fewer.

When my great grandfather, Samuel Bowman, died in 1905, his obituary notice acknowledged that he once attended Swadley's Schoolhouse and “obtained what, at that time, was a fair education.” Not being familiar with this center of learning, I found reference to it in a 1969 Johnson City Press-Chronicle article by the late Dorothy Hamill.

The original school was built about 1870 by Henry Swadley on land along Oakland Avenue near the base of Master Knob. Noah Sherfey was principal and teacher; he was also a local minister. Four years later, a larger building, carrying the identical name, was erected on land just a few yards from the former school.

About this same time, Pastor Sherfey purchaseda hand-operated bell for the new facility. Noah’s son, Paul Sherfey, later inherited the bell from his father, describing it as being slightly larger than 4×7 inches. The solid brass bell, according to Sherfey, had a distinct tone, was clear, loud and commanding; it could be heard across a fairly wide vicinity.

During the 1875-76 school year, students in the advanced history class were engaged in a study about Princeton University in New Jersey. The youngsters were so engrossed by the Ivy League institution’s name that they successfully convinced school officials to change the name of their school to Princeton School.

Noah taught at the newly named school for two years and then became employed at Union School on the Bristol Highway. The educator returned to his former institution about a year later. Sherfey served at Union School for another stint, eventually becoming a teacher in Sullivan County until shortly before his death in 1918.

Paul acquired the program for the closing of school in 1879, written in his father’s handwriting. The ceremony began with music, an address of welcome and a series of declamations and recitations by students. Mrs. Leighton wrote and read an essay on “The Beauties of Nature” and J.W. Scalf made a presentation on Indians. Another interesting relic was an 1883 contract for Noah to teach penmanship at Princeton during a 10-day summer period. The agreed upon pay was one dollar.

Paul Sherfey also inherited a collection of 13 pens from his father; some had broad, flat, serrated points and were termed shading pens, being of varying widths. An additional possession was a speech written by the senior Sherfey and delivered before a group of educators asking for “Uniformity of Textbooks.”

Although the old school bell’s metallic tongue no longer articulates for the students, the old building continues in service today as Princeton Arts Center.  

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Throughout its magnificent history, Johnson City has had numerous hotels to serve the lodging needs of the downtown area, especially around bustling Fountain Square.

A few establishments maintained the same identity throughout most, if not all, of their existence; others were short lived, usually selling to a buyer with a new name for their enterprise.

Here is a trivia question for you devoted history buffs. Which three of the 20 hotels listed below occupied the same downtown location between 1928 and 1953?

The building in question was located at 103 E. Market adjacent to a very popular eatery from the mid 1950s to the early 1970s. Choices range from the highly publicized to the totally unfamiliar: Colonial, Dixie, Fountain Square, Grant, Grand, John Sevier, Franklin, Piedmont, Windsor, Belmont, Arlington, Gateway, Travelers Inn, Savoy, Ramona, Lee, Commercial, Brown, Western and Martha Washington. The answer is revealed below.

Norma Myers, curator of ETSU’s Archives of Appalachia, recently shared with me an old photo from their Hotel Windsor Collection. The accumulated works contain many interesting items, including an old floor plan of the Fountain Square Hotel that once stood at 109 W. Fountain Square (also known as Windsor Way).

My research shows that this hostelry was built sometime between 1929 and 1935 along the historic west side of the railroad tracks linking Main and Market. A floor plan map of the 29-room facility gives amazing details about this old lodge. The two-story 3904 square foot brick building stretched 32 feet along the front and 122 feet to the rear. Upon entering the left side of the lobby, the customer encountered a set of stairs on the far left and the office and service desk straight ahead. There was no elevator.

To the right of the lobby was a business, the World News Store, appearing to be a hotel-owned newsstand. Customers accessed the store without going through the lobby; a hallway along the far north side connected with the merchant. The ground floor contained 11 rooms for rent and two public toilets with baths. The ground floor had a 14¼-foot ceiling.

The second floor plan displayed a smaller lobby at the top of the stairs, 18 rooms and 4 public toilets with baths. A window at the rear west wall provided the only means for fire escape from the upper level. The upstairs ceiling was 10 foot. The six bathrooms and bath facilities were designated on the drawing as “public,” meaning the guests had to share these facilities.

It is almost unfathomable today to visualize patrons in 29 rooms sharing six bath amenities until we realize that many folks of that era were accustomed to outdoor facilities at home. The common use of indoor plumbing would have been a sheer luxury. As mentioned in my Windsor Hotel column, the Fountain Square Hotel was also razed in the summer of 1971 after serving the downtown’s guest housing needs for about 40 years. If anyone has any memories of this largely forgotten hotel, please let me hear from you.

Now let me answer the trivia question. The building was located adjacent to the popular Byrd’s Restaurant situated near the Southern Railway Depot. The three hotels once operating at 103 E. Market were the Commercial, Martha Washington and Gateway. 

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It is 7:00 pm on a balmy July 7, 1953 Tuesday evening in Johnson City. The four members of the John Doe family have decided to attend a local drive-in movie, having several motion picture choices:

Van Johnson and Paul Douglas in “When In Rome” at Family Drive-In, John Derrek and Donna Reed in ‘Saturday’s Hero” at Tri-City Drive-in, Anthony Dexter and Eleanor Parker in ‘Valentino’ at Twin-City Drive-In, and Edmond O’Brien and Joanne Dru in ‘711 Ocean Drive” at King Springs Drive-In.

They choose the Family Drive-In with two nightly showings, 8:45 and 10:45, opting for the earlier one. The ticket booth attendant charges them $1.25 (a quarter per person and a quarter per vehicle), giving little thought to anyone hiding in their trunk, an occurrence commonplace with the younger crowd.

Upon entering the establishment, the Does search for the most favorable viewing location, directly in front of the big screen without being too close or too far from it. They next remove the gray-colored speaker box from the outside post and hang it on the driver’s side window. Just prior to the start of the movie and while it is still light, the Doe children visit the playground and stop by the concession stand before returning to their vehicle. The family is now ready to enjoy, “When In Rome.”

About halfway into the picture, an intermission “trailer” comes on the big screen, further enticing people to visit the snack bar: “It’s Intermission Time, Folks. Time For a Delicious Snack in Our Sparkling Refreshment Building.”

Drive-in movies had good and bad aspects to them. On the positive side, patrons could enjoy a motion picture in the privacy of their automobile. That meant making it a family affair, talking and eating without disturbing others around them. Those who owned convertibles could let the top down and literally enjoy movies under the stars.

On the negative side, drive-ins featured mostly second-run movies that required total darkness, yielding a picture quality inferior to that found at indoor theatres. Also, customers had to contend with bugs in the summer and chilly air in the winter, prompting some theatres to issue small heaters for patron use. The speaker’s monophonic sound quality was poor with just one knob for level control. People would sometimes intentionally or inadvertently drive off with the speaker still attached to their vehicles, leaving a snapped cord dangling behind. This prompted theatre management to flash these words on the screen before customers left: “Please Remember to Replace the Speaker on the Post When You Leave the Theatre.”

At the conclusion of the first showing, there was a flurry of activity, as patrons began leaving the premises, making room for those coming to the second showing.

Drive-in theatres began with just a handful of establishments in 1933 and peaked at 5000 in 1955. Their demise occurred in 1980, victimized by cable television and VCRs. Today, fewer than 900 are still in operation for diehard nostalgists. Many of the old drive-ins have been razed for urbanization. A few sit idly with dilapidated decomposing buildings, cracking discolored asphalt, waist high weeds and a screen either gone or falling apart.

Fortunately, some establishments have been reopened, preserving this unique film genre and allowing a new generation of moviegoers to enjoy cinemas “under the stars.”  

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Several folks responded to my Biff-Burger column, revering the tasty little saucy burgers to this day.

William Dyer replied first: “I read with interest your recent column about the Biff-Burger once located on (West) Market Street. I suppose it was appealing to me because my nickname is ‘Biff’ and to this day some people still call me ‘Biff-Burger.’ My mother tells me that I did not derive my name from the well-known eatery; instead, she got her brilliant idea from a popular soap opera star, Biff McGuire, on ‘Another World.’ I can only picture my beautiful mother, Ruby Evelyn, sitting in front of her black and white TV, devouring a delicious roto-broiled hamburger with 27 secret spices, watching some suave ladies’ man make his move on a poor unsuspecting damsel.”

Harriet Baker dropped me this note: “You will probably be delighted to know that our employee, Jim Nave, was a former manager of Biff-Burger and has the recipe in his brain. One of the points that he made was that the meat patties have to be really thin and the buns toasted. Jim made them for SHHS graduates at a picnic a couple of years ago; maybe we could get him to cook some for lunch one day.” 

Bill Durham offered this correspondence: “Thanks to your column, I've been craving a Biff-Burger since 6:30 this morning. I can still think about them and my taste buds go into overdrive. Thanks for reminding me of yet another intangible I long for but can no longer have.  We've lost so much of what we used to take for granted, haven't we?”

Bill Ledford submitted this most welcomed news: “I thought you might enjoy knowing that the Biff-Burger is still in St. Petersburg, Florida.  I am also an old fan of that great burger and plan on stopping by for one shortly when we go to Florida.”  

After receiving Ledford’s note, I contacted my second cousin, Jean Moore, who lives in St. Petersburg and beseeched her to find the place and consume a Biff-Burger. When Jean drove to the establishment, she immediately recognized the distinctive architecture: “Most of the employees were too young to remember when the restaurant was in its heyday. However, one old timer did, fondly recalling the 1950s business. I went to the order window and glanced at their huge menu. I quickly spotted ‘Biff’ as the first item of several charbroiled burger selections. The price of the Biff has increased from the half-century ago price of 15 cents to 99 cents. I was not sure it was the same burger I remembered, but I was about to find out. I placed my order for a Biff and waited patiently. Unlike the original restaurants, this one did not allow me to see the burger being prepared. I held my breath hoping that I would not be disappointed.”

Jean said she knew it was the real thing just by observing the petite patty on a sesame seed bun and smelling the tantalizing spicy aroma. She confirmed her suspicions when she munched into it. She said for a few brief pleasurable moments, it was like stepping back into the 1950s.

I will feature the remembrances of former Johnson City Biff-Burger manager, Jim Nave, in a future column. 

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A distinguishing vestige of the era between 1908 and 1927 is the image of a black Model T Ford slowly chugging along a narrow city potholed dusty road, honking its distinctive “ahooga, ahooga” sounding horn.

In 1925, Johnson City’s Ford dealership, Universal Motor Corporation, was located at the corner of King and Boone streets, having previously resided on Ash Street. After the turn of the century, the emergence of motorized vehicles brought a significant decline in the horse-drawn buggy as being the principal means of transportation. A Model T roadster sold for under $400, traveled at 45 mph maximum speed, possessed a 10-gallon gas tank and achieved 27 mpg. Gas cost eight cents a gallon.

I recently acquired a 1926 automobile road guide that displayed a Model T Ford on the cover. The publication lamented the fact that many roads around the country were still unpaved, making it difficult for vehicular travel. Ownership and maintenance of this esteemed auto 80 years ago was no small endeavor.

Travelers planning a vacation were advised to carry an astonishing list of spare parts and tools with them: Open-end wrenches; adjustable (monkey) wrench; Stillson wrench; spark plug socket wrench; pair of pliers; chair repair pliers; mechanic’s hammer; large and small screwdrivers; assortment of files; spool of soft iron wire; box of assorted nuts, bolts and cotter pins; box of extra tire valves; tire pressure gauge; extra spark plugs and rim lugs; box of talcum power; several feet of high and low tension cable; roll of tape; extra valve and spring; grease gun, extra clip and bolts; extra fan belt; sheet of cork for emergency gaskets; and a small bottle of shellac; two extra tires with covers, preferably inflated on rims; three extra tubes, carefully rolled and packed in burlap to keep from chafing; a tube patching outfit for punctures and a blow-out patch or inner boot; tire pump in good working order; jack; 2”x8”x18” wooden plank to allow lifting the car on soft ground; tire chains for winter driving; extra cross chains; rope for towing a collapsible bucket; one upper and one lower rubber hose connection for radiator with clamps; box of cup grease, a spout oil can; and an extra can of oil.

The publication strongly urged proper lubrication efforts, including turning down grease cups and filling oil cups and oil holes daily. Crankcase oil was to be replaced every 1000 miles, universal joint grease every 500 miles. The guide offered these amusing and dated admonitions: “Keep your windshield clear of mist by rubbing sliced onion over the glass.” “Always stop for streetcars unloading or taking on passengers.” “While driving through large cities, watch the signals of the traffic officer on busy corners.” “A few (penny) postcards are much more practical to take along than postage stamps, which will gum together when damp.” And finally this attention-grabbing item … “Women drivers of motor vehicles should be given special consideration – and watching.”

After reading this old road guide, one has to wonder how a large family and the recommended spare parts and tools could possibly fit into a cramped Model T Ford for an extended journey. No one really minded this inconvenience though; this was the exciting era of the roaring twenties. 

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The end of each high school year signals the distribution of much anticipated annuals. I purchased a 1925 Science Hill High School yearbook, The Wataugan, having belonged to Billy Joe Crouch, a senior with impressive student credits.

I find it heartrending that what was once a priceless possession of Ethie, as he was called, became an object of financial gain eighty-one years later. This was the fifth volume of the Wataugan. The school year began on Monday, September 8, 1924 and concluded on Tuesday, May 26, 1925.

This educational institution is alternately referred to in the periodical as Johnson City High School and Science Hill High School. Two students, Ada Gray and Mallie Martin died that year and were each honored with a four-verse memorial poem. The senior class motto, color and flower were “Post proelium praemium” (After the battle, the reward) and “Purple Iris” respectively.

Surprisingly, the 70 senior photographs were not alphabetized. The sophomores and juniors had their photos displayed but without their names. I recognized one prominent individual, Howard McCorkle, the president of the sophomore class. He later became superintendent of Johnson City public schools. Of the 27 faculty members listed, I recall three: E.E. Hawkins, A.C. Graybeal and Margaret King. The latter was my principal at Henry Johnson School when I attended there between 1950 and 1956.

The library had bookcases that were attractive pieces of furniture, each containing five shelves and placed side by side. A view of one wall shows seven such units.

Men’s sports included football, basketball and baseball; the ladies had only basketball. The cheerleading squad comprised three ladies and two men. Two unusual photos were made of the baseball team. The first shows them facing the camera with “Johnson City” embedded on their shirts. The second is an unflattering posterior view containing the names of their sponsors: Quick Service Tire Company, Hotel John Sevier, Free Service Tire Company, Joe Summers Agency, Masengills, Harrison’s Studio, Tenn. Nat’l Bank, Busy Bee Cafe, Tenn. Trust Co., Unaka City Nat’l Bank, Vee Bee Grocery and J.C. Steam Laundry.

The senior class’s play, “The Charm School,” was presented in three acts. Billy Joe Crouch had the part of George Boyd, “an expert accountant.” Another page contained jokes, personalized with the names of both teachers and students. Even the superintendent got into the act: “Supt. Rogers (addressing the student body): ‘Never be sure of yourself, students; no one but a fool or a hypocrite is sure of himself.’ Jordan: ‘Are you sure, Professor?’ Prof. Rogers: ‘Absolutely sure, my boy, absolutely sure.’”

The last several pages of the annual contained old ads, one purchased by 13 well-known area doctors: Dr. E.T. West, Dr. H.R. Miller, Dr. Ward Friberg (my delivery room doctor), Dr. L.K. Gibson, Dr. G.E. Campbell, Dr. J.W. Wallace, Dr. N.E. Hartsook, Dr. W.E. Swan, Dr. J.G. Moss, Dr. H.M. Cass, Dr. R.C. Miller, Dr. C.R. Smathers and Dr. W.S. Weaver.

A page near the end of the yearbook had these poignant words: “If this little volume does nothing more than bind you a little closer to the school we all love, and in later years, become a source of happy reminiscences of high school days, we shall not have worked in vain.”

Mr. Crouch, your work was certainly not in vain.  

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No program was so enduring to the hearts of area housewives in the 1940s and 1950s, as was “Ma Perkins,” a quarter-hour “soap opera” broadcast over radio station WJHL every weekday afternoon at 1:15.

Each segment opened with these memorable words:  “And now … Oxydol's own Ma Perkins,” followed by an organ theme song, appropriately titled “Ma Perkins,” a slight variation of “My Old Kentucky Home.”

Our small apartment radio never missed an episode; my mom was an ardent fan of the widow Ma and her simplistic radio gang – John, Evey, Fay, Willie, Junior and Shuffle. Over time, some 68 unique characters were introduced over this much-listened-to radio production. Being a child, I was less ecstatic about the popular program, but usually listened inattentively to the story plots due to the smallness of our apartment.

Virginia Payne assumed the title role of Ma, a pleasant soft-spoken lady, who was co-owner of a lumber company in the fictitious town of Rushville Center.  The series began in 1933 over NBC radio with the 23-year old Payne sustaining the title role for an amazing 27 years, without missing a single broadcast. Ma’s distinctive motherly voice preserved her longevity over the entire series; she could be heard by radio listeners but not seen. The nifty actress would later become affectionately known as Oxidol’s “Mother of the Air.”

Over the golden years of radio, more than 50 radio “soaps” floated across the radio stage including: “One Man's Family” (dedicated to the mothers and fathers of the younger generation and to their bewildering offspring), “The Romance of Helen Trent” (just because a woman is 35 or more, romance in life need not be over), “Stella Dallas” (the true-to-life story of mother love and sacrifice), “Portia Faces Life” (reflecting the courage, spirit and integrity of American women everywhere) and “When A Girl Marries” (dedicated to everyone who has ever been in love).

These shows were aimed primarily at working housewives, allowing them to concurrently perform their routine domestic chores while listening to their radios. These weekday serialized melodramas were so-named because their sponsors generally sold cleansing products – soaps, detergents, cleaning agents and toothpaste. Unlike modern day television soaps, the story lines were as squeaky clean as the products they advertised, with plots focusing predominantly on didactic family values.

The mild mannered Ma was a homespun philosopher, always ready to dispense needed guidance on sundry issues to her family members and friends. Her life emulated the Golden Rule. Since the programs were only 15 minutes (including commercials), some scenes took weeks to fully develop as if being broadcast in slow motion.

Radio began to transform heavily by 1960, as TV became the dominating medium. Sadly, Ma and her gang ran out of soapsuds on November 25, 1960 after 7065 broadcasts. Another popular soap, Young Doctor Malone, performed its last operation that same afternoon. On the last show, Ma spoke resolutely to her tearful radio audience, telling them goodbye and assuring them that the characters they had grown to know and love would “live happily ever after.”

Virginia Paine parted the airways forever with these final words: “Goodbye and may God bless you.” With that, the lumber company co-owner and her group closed their factory and faded into radio history. 

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S&H Green Stamps were once known as “America’s Most Valuable Stamps,” at one time printing three times as many as the U.S. Post Office. Printed by the Sperry and Hutchinson Company, they had been around since 1896 but did not reach their zenith until the 1950s.

The concept was quite simple. When you purchased food by cash from a participating store, the business would dole out one small green stamp for each ten cents spent. Patrons meticulously licked the stamps and placed them into small books, each containing spaces for 1200 serial numbered stamps.

The 30 empty pages contained advertisements promoting the lucrative benefits of the program. After accumulating several full books, consumers traveled to local “redemption centers” and exchanged them for predetermined merchandise. The business’s catalog, known as an Ideabook, offered customers a wide variety of choices and corresponding book requirements: Pair of bookends (1), Baldwin piano (380), Singer sewing machine (35), week’s vacation in Hawaii (190), pair of Speed King roller skates (1), Kodak Hawkeye camera (5½) and a Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder (43).

I recall a humorous event from the mid 1950s when a neighborhood acquaintance named Lucy invited my mom and me to ride with her to the S&H Redemption Store at 208 N. Roan Street near the old Power Board. Lucy placed a box of previously counted loose stamps on the counter in front of the attendant, informing him exactly how many books the stamps represented and the desired merchandise. The perplexed clerk informed her that stamps had to be in books in order to be redeemed. He proceeded to give her a handful of empty ones, assuming she would take them home and return with the stamps affixed to them. Not so. Lucy’s less than cordial response was “If you want my stamps in your books, then you lick ‘em and stick ‘em there yourself.”

Had Lucy read the fine print on the backside of the front cover of a book, she would have understood the rules: “The stamps when received from you must be pasted in the book, as that is the method we have adopted for the purpose of preventing their further use.” The clerk’s congenial reply angered Lucy, prompting her to begin licking whole sheets and sticking them on the pages with many stamps protruded outside the book. Mom wisely suggested we depart the premises. She hastily picked up Lucy’s box of stamps and empty books and the three of us abruptly exited the establishment. 

As demonstrated by our neighbor’s little temper tantrum, putting the stamps into books was a bit laborious, not to discount the foul taste of the glue. Nevertheless, most people overlooked this slight annoyance in order to select a prize from the attractive catalog.

The success of the S&H rewards program spawned competition from other companies: Gold Bond, Gift House, Triple-S, Plaid Stamps, King Korn, World, Blue Chip, Top Value and others. By about 1980, the “lick ‘em and stick ‘em” world of redeemable stamps ran out of glue and went dry. Sperry and Hutchinson Company is still in business but with a new marketing strategy.

Today, the only remnants of this unique rewards program are musty smelling books, stamps and catalogs found at flea markets, auctions and antique stores.  

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Merrill Moore, former anchorman at WCYB TV, attempted for years to learn the truth about a purported military plane crash in East Tennessee during World War II. 

Eugene “Jeep” Jones, former chief engineer at WETB Radio and a friend of Moore, recalled hearing about a P-51 Mustang going down on Coffee Ridge in Unicoi County. The newsman’s first big break occurred in 1987 while working on a television story regarding the apple orchards on Coffee Ridge.

Merrill remarked, “The ridge was the location of many orchards in the early part of the 20thcentury, but over the years, hard times and high costs had forced most growers out of business. The theme of the story I was working on centered on the fact that only seven orchards remained. Brothers Harley and Merley Willis owned one of the few remaining ones. During the interview, I mentioned about the tale of the downed plane. Merley said, ‘You see that tree up there on the hill and that sunken area next to it? Well, that’s where the plane hit.’”

The two young boys were sitting on their front porch one afternoon during a severe rainstorm and heard what they believed to be a truck out of control. Suddenly, an airplane descended through the fog, crashed and exploded within 200 feet of their house, sending a ball of flames across the field and setting their barn on fire. As the boys ran to put out the blaze, they unexpectedly spotted the slightly injured pilot, a Lt. McKinsey, floating earthward in a parachute.

A thorough investigation by Army personnel ensued over the next three days. The aircraft was determined to be P-39 Bell Airacobra plane. Additional facts about the event occurred in August 2002 while Merrill was working at the Appalachian Fair. Ms. Helen Edwards, who grew up in Coffee Ridge, recognized the popular TV newscaster and began talking with him.

Merrill questioned her knowledge of the crash: “She said her mother kept a journal on everything that happened and felt she surely would have written something about it. She promised to go home and try to find it.”

True to her word, the lady returned to the fair a couple of days later and handed Merrill a piece of paper. She had located the journal containing this handwritten entry: “An airplane crashed in Jasper Willis’ field on June 17, 1943. It was a P-39 pursuit plane with a pilot. He bailed out in his parachute. As he left the plane, he hit his arm and broke it twice. He was taken to the hospital in Johnson City, Tennessee. Horace Higgins took him to Erwin, and an ambulance took him to Johnson City. The pilot had started from Charlotte, NC, headed for Knoxville, Tennessee. The plane had four machine guns and one cannon. The plane was blown up and the propeller and cannon were driven seven to nine feet into the ground.

“Government officials arrived on June 18 to guard it until the truck and wrecker came from Charlotte. On June 20th, they picked up what they wanted to get and pulled the propeller and cannon out with a winch. The first plane to crash on Coffee Ridge Creek, 14 miles south of Erwin. Written June 20th, 1943.”

Mystery solved. 

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Today’s modern I-26 highway between Johnson City and Asheville is a far cry from the narrow winding old highway 19/23 of yesteryear.

John Hughes, a retired Johnson City bus and truck driver drove a Queen City Trailways bus across this treacherous mountainous terrain daily between 1946 and 1948: “I began my route in Bristol each morning around 8:00, traveling through Bluff City, Dead Man Curve, Bullet Hollow, Elizabethton, Johnson City, Unicoi, Erwin, Ernestville (traveling across a single lane bridge), Flag Pond and Mars Hill (stopping for a 15-minute break), before arriving in Asheville some five hours later. My pay was a little over $73 a week for a six-day work week. No one every tipped me; that just wasn’t done then. I wore an impressive looking dark beige gabardine uniform with maroon stripes, tie with pin and a cap with a bill.”

John said that it was commonplace for people to get motion sickness during the long curvy jaunt: Initially, I had to detour up a gravel road to Spivey Mountain and back across Tilson Mountain. Meeting another vehicle on this narrow road meant stopping to allow one to squeeze past the other. Passengers wanting to depart the bus signaled me by pulling a buzzer cord located along each side. My job responsibilities included carrying a rate book, figuring people’s fares, cutting tickets, taking money and dispensing change. Best I remember, it cost about $1.75 to ride from Johnson City to Asheville.” 

John chuckled when he recalled stopping near Flag Pond to pick up a young boy and girl sitting on the side of the road. The youngsters, dressed in Easter outfits and carrying a basket, handed him a dollar and asked him to take them down the road to Aunt Louise’s house for an Easter egg hunt. 

Hughes said that he failed to return home only once in his three years of service: “The bus got through ice and snow pretty well because it was heavy and the engine was in the rear. There was a small hand ax mounted next to me on the side of the bus for the purpose of beating out windows and freeing passengers should the bus turn over on the door side.”

John stated that his vehicle occasionally became so full of passengers that the company had to run a second bus, a Fitzjohn, following behind as a double: In the early days if the bus had a flat tire or developed engine trouble, I had to flag down someone on the road and ask them if they would locate a phone and call the company to request a service crew. After dropping off my passengers at Asheville’s large busy terminal, I had about four hours of unpaid time before starting my return route. Trailways rented rooms for us at the nearby Earle Hotel. I left Asheville shortly after 5:00 and got back to Bristol usually around 10:20, making for a long day.”

In September 1984, John retired and was recognized for working 54 years without having a single accident. Asked how he accomplished this amazing feat, the seasoned driver answered without hesitation: “The good Lord above looking down on me and the drivers down here dodging me. The Lord had it all planned that way.” 

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