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I have vivid memories of each December during the 1950s when downtown Johnson City was magnificently transformed into a winter wonderland of holiday enchantment, thanks to city officials, storeowners and eager shoppers.

The recognized commencement of the Christmas season was launched at the conclusion of the Thanksgiving Day parade, with the appearance of Santa Claus sitting on a big colorful float and throwing out candy to youngsters. Should some persons not be in the holiday mood, all they had to do was spend some time within a half-mile radius of Fountain Square.

I recall making several trips downtown with my parents each Christmas season to savor the festive atmosphere. Moving through traffic and finding parking was a challenge, especially at nights and on Saturdays. Main and Market Streets were profusely decorated with large colorful decorations, perhaps gaudy by today’s standards. Storeowners decorated inside and outside their lively establishments.

It was imperative that Christmas be cold, not cool and certainly not hot. Cold air and Christmas seemed to blend together wonderfully. Occasionally, things got even better when snow blanketed the area, adding even more winter wonderland realism. As kids, we cheered the icy covering, leaving worries about the slippery roads in the hands of grownups. The town was heavily adorned with large colored lights, unlike the miniature white ones so prevalent today. Such illumination was magnified by the darkness of the night.

A dilemma for some parents was explaining to their youngsters how Santa could be at several downtown stores at the same time. My mom’s explanation was that one was the real Santa and the others were his helpers. My next question was quite predictable: “Which one is the real one?” Santa did not charge us to have our picture taken with him; instead, he freely gave us candy and special holiday comic books.

Kings’ Department Store appropriately placed Santa on the fourth floor between the toy department and the elevator. Penney’s Department Store located him in the basement where youngsters could sit on his lap, tell him what they wanted for Christmas and simultaneously be broadcast over a local radio station.

Businesses stayed open late at night, adding more excitement to shopping. You could feel the exhilaration in the air as a host of shoppers navigated from store to store. Merchants offered several choices of merchandise but not an abundance of them. Self-service had not yet arrived on the scene; each counter had one or more attendants waiting on customers.

Kings Department Store was, without question, the winner for their store window decorations, reserving one section of their wrap around window for the Nativity Scene. People from neighboring cities came just to see this highly inspirational display.

 

  

     

 Christmas chimes floated melodiously through the air, being played from Home Federal Savings and Loan. The steady ringing of bells was heard all over town as the Salvation Army manned their big pots, collecting money for the needy.

After Christmas, a trip downtown just wasn’t the same. The city seemed to lose something after the decorations were taken down and the crowds diminished. It was time to think about the approaching New Year, which at its conclusion would once again bring back the festive holiday spirit with all its holiday enchantment.  

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Saturday afternoons in the 1950s often meant a trip to downtown Johnson City for a neighborhood buddy, Hagan Reed, and me. We walked east on West Market Street from Johnson Avenue, a distance of about a mile.

The main department stores then were S.H. Kress, McLellans, Woolworths, Charles Stores, Sears Roebuck, Powells, J.C. Penney, Dosser’s, Kings and Parks-Belk. Our first stop was Earl Hicks’ Produce, where my great uncle, Walter Bowman, would offer us a sample of fresh fruit. We initially walked the entire length of Main Street, entering whatever stores suited our fancy. If our shoes needed repair, that necessitated a stop at the Arcade Shoe Shop for a Cat’s Paw heel or sole. The staff gave us a sheet of white paper to rest our stocking feet on while we waited.

Wallace’s Shoe Store had a new x-ray machine used to fit shoes. We inserted our foot into a bottom slot, glanced into the top viewfinder, wiggled our toes and watched the bones in our foot move. Kings Department Store’s attraction was an open-cage elevator ride, traveling from the basement to the fifth floor and back. This excursion, with its creepy looking fully exposed shaft, was as exciting as any carnival ride. The attendant often had to move the elevator up and down to align it with the floor, negating a tripping hazard for customers.

Another stopover was Pat Watson’s Trading Post to exchange some of my dad’s paperback books for comic books. Our choice for lunch was often John’s Sandwich Shop; a couple of dime hot dogs and a nickel coke would send us on our way. Sometimes, we patronized Kress’s food counter, usually consuming a hamburger, French fries and a soft drink for under a half dollar. Before departing, we spent several minutes gazing into their tropical fish tanks.

Henry Frick’s Music Mart and Burgess Smythe’s Electric allowed us to preview some records in one of their enclosed sound booths. The Southern Railroad Depot afforded us the excitement of watching trains being loaded and unloaded. It also included a brief pause at Zimmerman’s News Stand next door. Saturdays were always enhanced by a chance encounter with John Kilby, a comedic person frequently seen in the downtown district. This hilarious old chap was a delight to his many fans.

If we needed a haircut, we could choose between fifteen barbershops within walking distance of Fountain Square. We usually patronized Primus Dees at the Majestic Barber Shop or Boyd Purdy at the Palace Barber Shop, paying 50 cents for a trim, all the while listening to Paul Harvey on the radio. The highlight of the afternoon was watching a movie at the Liberty, Tennessee, Majestic or Sevier Theatre, the first two establishments being our favorites.

Before trekking home, we stopped at Market Street Drug Store to purchase any needed three-cent stamps or penny post cards from their small post office in the back. Our final digression was the Red Shield Boy's Club for some brief recreational activity, accompanied by a free bottle of Pepsi.

Today, I cannot drive downtown and walk the streets without thinking of those simple carefree days of yesteryear when our parents, without worry, permitted two pre-teenage boys to enjoy an entire Saturday in the heart of Johnson City.

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Between 1945 and 1956, the traditional annual Thanksgiving Day dinner was sandwiched tightly between two separate Burley Bowl celebrations. This much anticipated event consisted of a parade held in downtown Johnson City in mid-morning, followed by a football game at Memorial Stadium in the afternoon.

Both heavily attended proceedings originated soon after the close of World War II as a way to celebrate the opening of the upcoming tobacco market season. I have warmhearted memories of this parade, attending it with my father for as far back as I can recall. Almost without exception, the weather was cold and blustery, occasionally with light snow or flurries and requiring us to dress appropriately. A thermos of hot chocolate was a necessary ingredient in our survival kit.

Dad and I always left early that morning, usually parking our car along Boone Street between King and Millard streets. The downtown portion of Main Street had previously closed to vehicle traffic, restricting it for pedestrian use. Such action allowed sufficient space for the massive parade and sprawling crowd.

The parade route originated in front of City Hall at Main and Boone streets, with stationary floats and school bands positioned bumper-to-bumper for a distance extending west, well beyond West Side School. Each of the numerous community clubs in the county sponsored a float and simultaneously entered a pretty contestant in the Burley Bowl queen competition. Dad and I claimed our favorite spot in front of the Tennessee Theatre, a location that permitted us to view the parade at its point of origin while it was “fresh.”

At the precise designated start time, the procession began to the accompanying cheer of the crowd. It journeyed east to Memorial Stadium, a pilgrimage of nearly a mile. What followed was a volley of police and fire vehicles with sirens blaring and lights flashing, city officials riding in convertibles, colorfully decorated floats (usually with a hint of tobacco displayed), area school bands and outrageously dressed clowns.

One year, a family member invited us to join them in viewing the parade from their second story Franklin Apartments residence at the corner of Division Street. While I enjoyed the warm unobstructed view of the spectacle while kneeling at a window, I missed the exhilaration of being part of the shivering crowd below. The parade always concluded with jolly old Saint Nick, perched high on a fire engine, waving and tossing goodies to his enthusiastic youthful congregation below.

After the pageant ended, Dad and I navigated through the dense, almost impenetrable, mob to our car. We then drove home to feast on the scrumptious Thanksgiving dinner that Mom had prepared for us.

The Burley Bowl football game began in early afternoon, with the previously selected homecoming queen crowned during halftime. According to the late Ray Stahl’s book, “Greater Johnson City: A Pictorial History,” twelve colleges and universities participated in the event during its relatively short history: East Tennessee State College, Milligan College, Emory and Henry College, Carson-Newman College, High Point (North Carolina) College, Southeastern Louisiana College, West Chester (Pennsylvania) College, Appalachian State University, Hanover (Indiana) College, Morris Harvey (West Virginia) College, Lebanon Valley (Pennsylvania) College and Memphis State University. East Tennessee State College joined the competition in 1952, playing in the last five games and winning three of them.

After the 1956 Burley Bowl tobacco market celebration concluded, the event went up in smoke and quickly vanished into yesteryear.  

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I love a good mystery, especially when it concerns Johnson City’s history. Earl Buchanan sent me a very interesting advertisement, in the form of a letter, dated April 23, 1918, of the Farmers’ Exchange. The business sold an extensive assortment of agricultural supplies: “wagons, plows, mowers, rakes, harrows, mills, drills, gasoline engines, silage cutters, seed cleaners and other farm items.” While the ad contained no street address, the letterhead showed a small photo of the exchange building, which slightly resembled the Arcade building. 

The letter was dated five years before the Arcade was constructed in 1923, ruling out that possibility. Where then was this large business of yesteryear located? The depiction showed a road flanking the left side of the building and a train on the right, billowing black smoke from its stack as it chugged along.

 

After some research, I determined the address of the Farmers’ Exchange to be at 106-110 West Market Street, in close proximity of the future Arcade Building. The London-Kirkpatrick Hardware occupied the site in 1928, becoming known two years later as London Hardware Company. The road in question was Commerce Street and the train was leaving the Southern Railway Depot, suggesting that the exchange building was built before the Taylor Brothers Building next door.

The advertisement identified the officers of the business as W.F. Carter (president), E.L. Anderson (secretary and manager) and R.S. Pritchett (treasurer). The letter illustrates the strong male influence of the early 1900s, containing some unusual language: “We hereby extend to you a cordial invitation to our anniversary May 4, 1918.

“The enclosed button may be worth several dollars as there are five hundred duplicate numbers, and if you will find the fellow wearing the same number you have and bring him to our store, we will give each of you a silver dollar.” Another benefit of wearing the button was receiving an additional 5% of all cash sales. The letter cautioned the receiver not to lose it, lest both parties miss an opportunity to win a dollar coin.

Not to be completely excluded, the farmers’ wives were addressed in the letter in a rather impersonal manner: “For the convenience of our farm women and other visitors, we have just completed a Ladies Rest Room on the second floor of our building where we will be glad to have them leave their bundles, eat their lunch or rest while they wait for trains or friends. Bring the women along.”

The brochure announced some quality improvements made to their product line: “We no longer sell you pea hulls, sticks and trash in your millet, for we have installed a seed cleaning plant and all peas, millet, cane seed, buckwheat, etc. are put in first-class condition before we send them to the farm. We have a power sheller and can handle your corn in the ear. We will also make corn meal and chop for you while you wait.”

The ad concluded by promoting their Sharples Suction Feed Separators, which they proclaimed to be “the most perfect separator on the face of the earth.”

The exchange either closed or moved to another location sometime between 1918 and 1928. One has to wonder if they took the Ladies Rest Room with them when they closed.

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Last May, I spoke at the 2005 International Country Music Conference in Nashville where I met Dr. Bob Taylor, a retired history professor at Middle Tennessee State University and a grandson of Alf Taylor, former governor of Tennessee.

In 1886, the Taylor brothers, Bob and Alf, competed against each other in one of the most unusual political campaigns ever to transpire in the state.

 I related to Bob that my great uncle, Fiddlin’ Charlie Bowman, a member of a string band known as the Hill Billies, made a unique 78-rpm record in 1926. “Governor Alf Taylor’s Fox Hunt” was recorded in New York on the jointly owned Vocalion and Brunswick labels. The composition depicts a fox chase on Buffalo Mountain with Alf; four sons; his favorite hunting dog, Old Limber; and a friend, Ben Jenkins, with his dog, Old Zeke.

Al Hopkins narrates the pursuit; Charlie fiddles, imitating Uncle Alf, himself a fiddler, and the barking of the two dogs. Throughout the record, Al instructs Uncle Alf (Charlie) to “have a little tune” each time the dogs run out of hearing range. The recording concludes with Old Limber catching a red fox and Old Zeke seizing a rabbit.

Bob later wrote me a letter: “Thank you for introducing me to the remarkable music of your great-uncle Charlie Bowman. “I learn from it that my grandfather, Alf Taylor, and Charlie Bowman are quaintly yoked by ‘Old Limber,’ the storied Tennessee foxhound. Our forbears collaborated in spreading Limber’s little legend.” Dr. Taylor noted that Bob served three times as governor and was a state senator at the time of his death in 1912. Alf won the governorship in 1920 with help from the still lingering appeal of his deceased brother.

The retired educator further commented: “In his first gubernatorial race in 1886, Bob had defeated his brother Alf in what became known as ‘Tennessee’s War of the Roses.’ In 1920, Tennessee Democrats were the majority party, but they were divided on issues, menaced by a national Republican tide and burdened by an unpopular tax that infuriated the farmers.”

Bob explained that Alf and his wife, Jennie, once lived near Buffalo Creek, adjacent to Milligan College in Carter County, maintaining a farm on the Nolichucky River. Bob offered a colorful depiction of his famous grandfather: “He was a farmer, public lecturer, and story-teller of energy and artfulness. His voice was a rich baritone. He was short and stout.  He was also a fiddler and a hilltopper (in his case, an unmounted hunter of foxes).”

Bob then unfolded the Old Limber myth: “As Alf Taylor saw it, his chief obstacle to winning the governorship was his age.  He was seventy-two years old. His stratagem for assailing the age issue was predictable. He would construct a myth. The myth would revolve about Old Limber, an aging Walker hound from his sons’ substantial pack. Old Limber was approximately age six at the time. His name was further accentuated by the Old Limber Quartet (often spelled “Quartette”), comprised of three sons (Nat, Alf, Jr., and Dave) and their friend Bob Wardrep.  The Old Limber myth differed from telling to telling, year to year.  It was studded with superlatives, digressions, and humorous exaggerations. 

“Alf Taylor believed that Limber was ‘the greatest dog that ever lived.’  His sons’ dogs pursued ‘the finest runners on American soil.’ The tall tale would be told from political platforms and before service clubs. It was sometimes coupled with the promotion of Henry Ford’s doomed bidto lease dams and purchase nitrate plants in the Muscle Shoals area, a project Taylor believed would deliver cheap power and fertilizer to Tennesseans.”

Bob alleged that in 1922 a stenographer from a Memphis newspaper, The Commercial Appeal, recorded the only complete printed version of the myth: “It was set in or near Carter County, although Old Limber’s hunting territory also touched other East Tennessee counties, especially Washington. When the other dogs ‘heard and recognized the voice of Old Limber it took two men to hold each dog. (Laughter.)’ Old Limber led the pack of thirty-two Walker hounds during the last three hours of the chase, which culminated in Happy Valley (Carter County). Alf indicated that, in the past and in a manner of speaking, he had followed the pack on foot and boasted that he ‘could break down any boy (of his seven surviving sons) I have behind this pack of Walker dogs after a red fox and have done it a hundred times in the Appalachian Mountains.  So get it out of your heads that I am too old to be governor of Tennessee.’ 

 “Alf Taylor was elected governor in 1920, assisted perhaps by the Old Limber myth.  Old Limber’s apparent magic could not be rekindled during the 1922 campaign: a national tide (fueled by a devastating recession) had turned against incumbent Republicans, the tax law had not been changed sufficiently, and Alf Taylor had his own party’s factions to contend against. Furthermore, the opposition press was attacking both the governor and his dog. Austin Peay defeated Alf Taylor soundly. But Limber had inspired a small stirring in the popular arts. J.E. Wallace sculpted a statue of him (and a bust of Alf Taylor) out of Belle Meade Butter Company butter. The statue was exhibited at the Tennessee State Fair in 1921, and its photograph is preserved on a post card.  A painting of Limber hung in the capitol during Alf Taylor’s tenure.”

Bob said that Alf and the Old Limber Quartet went to New York in 1924 and made a record for the Victor label, possibly being an abbreviated version of their campaign routine: “The Center for Popular Music, Middle Tennessee State University, has an original. On it, the former governor, employing his gift and taste for vivid detail, introduces the Quartet. He declares that the spirituals they would sing (‘Pharaoh’s Army Got Drownded’ and ‘Brother Noah Built an Ark’) were learned from hearing the master of the hounds (probably an African American named Ace Harding) around the foxhunt campfires. He only refers to Limber and does not recount the hunt story.”

Bob credits Charlie Bowman for furthering the foxhound myth: “Apparently, the composing talents of your great-uncle Charlie Bowman, of Washington County, then embellished the Old Limber myth by setting it to fiddle music. It thus appears that music was as much a part of the Old Limber myth as the hounds themselves. Music, Alf Taylor, and Limber himself were given immediacy and durability by the recording devices, which by the mid-1920s were obviously attracting southern performers. When a concrete walk was poured in front of Alf Taylor’s Milligan home, Old Limber’s prints were embedded and enshrined with the inscription: ‘Old Limber’s tracks—age nine years—Nov. 2, 1923.’

“Milligan College subsequently acquired the adjacent Taylor property.  Weather had eroded the walkway inscription and tracks substantially, but an heroic preservation effort–led by Clarinda Jeanes, the college’s first lady, and Clinton Holloway, a Milligan alumnus–saved the home and the part of the walkway containing Old Limber’s tracks, which remain on display.”

I find it especially enthralling when two individuals can bring two separate historical events together and weave them into one. Alf Taylor’s Old Limber myth should be remembered in East Tennessee history as the foxhound that helped elect a governor.  

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My great uncle, Alfred Bowman, delivered mail in Johnson City between 1919 and 1946. Having been born in 1877 and raised in Gray, he witnessed firsthand the difficulties of receiving mail in a rural countryside prior to the turn of the century.

Unlike urban residents whose mail was delivered directly to their homes, country folks were not afforded this luxury, having to trek two or three times a month to a local post office, such as Gray’s Nellie facility, to receive their correspondence.

A significant change occurred in 1902. The new federally funded program, Rural Free Delivery (RFD), was ushered into America’s farmlands. Rural inhabitants began receiving mail at their dwellings, forcing the closings of most of the countryside post offices. Delivery to the numerous remote sprawling farms presented a formidable challenge for the carriers, attributed to unpaved potholed roads, unpredictable weather, elongated routes and the use of horse-drawn mail wagons.

Carriers received less than $50 a month and had to supply their own transportation. They had very little of the romantic aura that their distant cousins, the short-lived Pony Express riders, enjoyed in 1860 and 1861. Arrival of the semi-reliable automobile was an improvement to mail delivery, but it too had limitations. These newfangled vehicles frequently got stuck in mud, snow, ice and manure.

Local residents often beckoned their trusty old mules to assist some stranded mailman, after sliding into a ditch while trying to navigate along a narrow winding country road. These unserviceable and inaccessible roads caused many rural customers to be rejected for mail delivery, prompting local governments to orchestrate road improvements to meet RFD requirements. The post office attempted to standardize mailboxes, which consisted of anything from cigar boxes to lard cans and nail crates to feed containers. Residents were reluctant to spend their hard earned cash on something as frivolous as a mailbox.

The ongoing plight of these country mail carriers very likely prompted Alfred to seek an urban postal occupation in 1919. Johnson City hired him and assigned him route #4 from among eight choices. 

Alfred Bowman Standing Beside His Postal Truck

Bowman was featured in an October 11, 1941 Johnson City Press-Chronicle newspaper article titled, “Get Acquainted with Your Mailman,” summarizing his career and relating a humorous event: About 1924, two postal employees, Joe Britt and C.G. Campbell, stopped in downtown Johnson City (probably at Fountain Square) to rest and water their horse. As a prank, C.G. offered Joe a ten-dollar bill to assume the role of the horse and pull him along Main Street, while he sat on the wagon.   

About that time, Alfred came walking down the street and encountered his two coworkers. Joe upped the ante by asking Alfred to sit on the wagon with him for one dollar of his prize money. Joe released the horse from the wagon, put the two wooden shafts under his arms and slowly pulled the big wagon, containing the two men, along Main Street.

Their bizarre antics drew a sizable crowd of curious onlookers. Alfred accepted his eight-bit compensation from Joe and, without hesitation, handed it to a nearby blind beggar. Those were “the good old days” of yesteryear when people were more concerned with what was lying on the street than what was coming down it.

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Harriet Barkei, formerly of Johnson City, wrote me sharing additional memories of West Side School. We attended separate classes there during the 1949-1950 school year.

She remembers an early morning ritual: “The school had a bell tower, and the principal, Mr. Mahoney, pulled the rope hanging in the upstairs hallway and rang the big bell every morning to call us ‘youngins’ to school.” Ms. Barkei recalled that there were three entrances to the building:Watauga Avenue (west side, with “Built in 1907” inscribed over the door), Main Street (north) and the side facing downtown (east).

She further commented: “The principal’s office was opposite the Main Street entrance. The doors to the first floor rooms were on a diagonal, making the large inside hall an octagon. There were large cloakrooms by the side of each classroom. The classrooms had thick wooden doors with glass transoms on top that could be opened to let a breeze through without opening the door. Those were the days before air conditioning.”

Harriet remembered the little white chairs at the back of the room, where Miss Taylor held her reading circles: “My first grade readers were the Dick and Jane books, written in the 1930s. The famous sentence in those primers was “See Spot Run.”

By 1949, the school had switched to the John C. Winston Company, “Easy Growth In Reading” series, ten books authored by Gertrude Hildreth. Our first book was titled, At Play, with siblings, Bob and Nancy, and their pets, Mac (a black Scottie dog) and Muff (a calico colored cat). How well I remember these characters.

The former student recalled all six of her teachers: Mildred Taylor (first), Mrs. Deer (second), Miss Tomlinson (third), Mrs. Sisk (fourth), Miss Adams (fifth) and Miss Ruth Martin (sixth). The music teacher, Mrs. Meek, was one of her favorites: “When I was in the first grade, she saw that I had a loose tooth, and she tied a string around it and pulled it out for me right during music class.”

Harriet and I both remember the two unique disciplinary techniques used by Miss Taylor: “She would either shake your ear or grab you by the chin and rattle your teeth.” She further recalled the weekly assembly programs on the second floor: “We attended assembly every Friday morning. It always started out with Bible reading and prayer. I was the mother bear in the first grade play, given on one Friday morning and later repeated for a PTA meeting. What fun!”

Today, the only vestiges of this former grammar school are the block walls and concrete steps at the northwest corner of the property. Harriet recollects that these blocks matched the foundation blocks of the school.

The concluding lyrics to “School Days” seem to lament the passing of this and other old schools: “Member the hill, Nellie Darling; And the oak tree that grew on its brow?; They've built forty stories upon that old hill; And the oaks an old chestnut now. 'Member the meadows so green dear; So fragrant with clover and maize; Into new city lots and preferred bus'ness plots; They've cut them up since those days.” 

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“School days, school days; Dear old golden rule days; Readin' and 'ritin' and 'rithmetic; Taught to the tune of a hick-ry stick.”

Composers Will Cobb and Gus Edwards wrote that nostalgic song in 1907, the same year that West End School (later renamed West Side School) opened along what was then the west section of town. The massive box-shaped brick building stood on high ground at 265 W. Main Street in the southeast intersection with Watauga Avenue, facing the Holston Apartments to the north.

I attended the first grade there during the 1949-1950 school year. The principal was Mr. Mahoney; my teacher was Miss Mildred Taylor, for whom I have fond memories. Grades 1-3 were on the first floor, grades 4-6 and the auditorium on the second and the cafeteria and bathrooms in the basement.

Surprisingly, first grade students attended classes for only four hours each weekday, with students assigned a morning or afternoon shift. I was given a morning one. Miss Taylor's room was on the southwest corner of the first floor and contained several long tables as opposed to individual desks.

On our first day of school, Miss Taylor read us the Scandinavian folktale, “The Three Billy Goats Gruff. It involved three goats individually crossing a bridge and being targeted as a tasty meal by an ugly evil troll hiding under it. The story concludes with the biggest and tastiest goat physically and graphically disposing of the menacing troll. Miss Taylor’s foot stomping imitation, “trip, trap, trip, trap,” of the goats crossing the bridge still echoes in my memory. Perhaps she chose this violent tale to ensure that we behave in class, lest we fall victim to the same fate. The only punishment I received that year was a mild scolding, resulting from my talking to a cute little red-haired girl sitting at my table.

During recess, the boys played separately from the girls. We cared less what the girls did; they were out of sight and out of mind, at least for a few pleasant minutes. The boys tossed a basketball onto a sloped tin roof over a small storage shed that was attached along the east side of the building. We each fought for the ball so we could throw it back.

Twice a day at a designated time, Miss Taylor led us down some narrow steps to the basement bathrooms. On my first visit, I observed a long ceramic water trough firmly attached along one wall, something I had never seen before. After a brief few seconds of keen observation, I quickly added it to my restroom repertoire.

We next formed two lines on the steps leading back to the first floor, being instructed not to talk, not so much as a whisper. If anyone talked, we were instructed to point our fingers at the guilty parties until Miss Taylor arrived to identify and punish the offenders. This was my first experience at “finger pointing.”

Over time, West Side School slowly relinquished its role to Henry Johnson as the west end school. It was razed in 1961, making room for the Watauga Square Apartments.

In my next column, I will share additional West Side memories from Harriet Barkei, a former resident of our city.

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When Jack Harrison, former Washington County commissioner, passed away earlier this year, his obituary notice made reference to his being a member of the Friday Night Fish Gang, obviously something that had been very important to him.

The Fish Gang at the Firehouse Restaurant in Johnson City

I remember this gang; my uncle and late aunt, Ray and Hazel Reaves, were a part of this select group from its earliest beginnings. I asked Ray to tell me how this congenial assemblage got started. He predictably responded by inviting me to join them at one of their weekly eat-togethers. Ray said they were celebrating the 50th anniversary of their club this year:

“People often ask me how we got such a name. In 1955, several of us couples began meeting from 6:00 until about 7:30 every Friday night at the old Broadway Restaurant, on the Kingsport/Bristol highway, for their weekly fish night. “Our group got started pretty much by accident when two couples started eating out together. They soon invited others to join them and before we knew it, we had grown to twenty-eight people, all couples.”

Ray credits the late Harold and Irene Mahoney for getting the weekly seafood feast off the ground: “Harold was so committed to the event that he cautioned the members not to make any plans for Friday nights. I can remember only about eight or ten times that we failed to get together.”

Ray recalled some of the other participants through the years, several of whom are deceased: “There were Reece and Helen Sell, Aldon and Betty Speer, Jack and Dottie Harrison, Raymond and Martha Miller, Boyd and Carrie Jones, Estel and June Fair, Fred and Evelyn Moore, Harry and Nora Cook and several others.”

Ray said that most of the members over the years have been members of the First United Methodist Church of Johnson City. A former pastor of this church, Reverend Frank Settle and wife, Jean, once regularly participated in the Friday night offerings. Tragically, he was killed in an automobile accident.

Ray continued: “We were at the Broadway Restaurant for about ten years until they closed. For several years, we ate at various establishments around town, including Spot No. 2. We assigned someone to find us a place for our next meal. At first, all we ate was fish. Although we still called ourselves the Friday Night Fish Gang, we gradually began ordering individually off the menu.”

Ray said the organization has patronized only one eatery for the last few years: “Eventually, we began eating at the Firehouse Restaurant on Walnut Street, and that is where we meet today.”

The group has diminished from twenty-eight regulars to seven: Ray, Martha Miller, Aldon and Betty Speer, Evelyn Moore and Harry and Nora Cook. Ray laughingly remarked: “We don’t seem to have as much to talk about as we used to.” In their 50-year existence, the current charter members have individually consumed up to about 2600 “fish night” meals. That is a lot of eating.

With dwindling numbers, this half-century old club would appear to be munching its way into the sunset, but don’t tell that to this diminutive and devoted group. The Friday Night Fish Gang’s committed presence each week suggests that they have no thoughts of going away anytime soon. Happy birthday, gang.  

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The Liberty Theatre was the smallest and least pretentious motion picture theatre in Johnson City, yet the most evocative to area B-western movie fans. In the early to mid 1950s, patrons could enter the establishment at an affordable price (nine cents for children, fifteen cents for adults), consume a soft drink for a nickel, and munch on a big box of the best tasting popcorn on the planet for a dime, all the while being treated to a suspenseful cliffhanger serial, animated cartoon, newsreel, and an action-packed cowboy flick. 

Moviegoers once had five downtown theaters to satisfy their voracious big screen appetites. The Majestic (239 E. Main Street) and the Sevier (113-117 Spring Street) featured the latest contemporary upscale movies. The Tennessee (146 W. Main Street) and Liberty (221 E. Main Street) showed second-run movies, focusing heavily on budget pictures, “shorts” and serials. A fifth theatre, the Edisonia (236 E. Main Street), projected silent and early “talkie” movies, later becoming known as the Criterion and the State.

An afternoon of thrilling entertainment at the Liberty Theatre began with a newsreel, followed by previews of “coming attractions,” advertising such film celebrities as Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Rex Allen, Hopalong Cassidy, Johnny Mack Brown, Sunset Carson, Wild Bill Elliott, Allan Rocky Lane, Tex Ritter, Jimmy Wakely, and “Lash” LaRue. Next, a cartoon was shown featuring the antics of such animated characters as Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, Popeye, Tom and Jerry, Yosemite Sam, the Roadrunner, Tweetie and Sylvester, Woody Woodpecker, Droopy, and others.

Afterward, the next much-anticipated “chapter” of the featured serial was presented. This was a unique and clever film genre presenting a central plot in an episodic format of 12 to 15 installments, each about 17 minutes in duration. At the finale of each serial, the heroes appeared to die from one of an inexhaustible list of calamities: animal attacks, train wrecks, falling boulders, poisonous darts, burning buildings, airplane crashes, explosions and cave-ins. Each one concluded with such words as “To be continued… at this theatre next week.” The intent was to bring people back, no matter how busy or sick they were, at additional cost, to find out how their brave superman miraculously escaped impending death. It always worked.

The management frequently gave patrons a card with numbers that corresponded to each chapter of the current serial. The attendant would punch it with each visit, awarding free access to the theatre for those who arrived for the final chapter with a fully punched card. Area aficionados can still recall many of the 231 “talkie” serials, including “King of the Rocket Men” (Republic, 1949, 15 chapters), “Captain Video” (Columbia, 1951, 15 chapters), “Thunda, King of the Congo” (Columbia, 1952, 15 chapters), “Radar Men From the Moon” (Republic, 1952, 12 chapters), and “The Lost Planet” (Columbia, 1953, 15 chapters).

With the preliminaries out of the way, the fans were now ready to sit spellbound on the edges of their seats for about an hour of hard riding “shoot-em-up” western action. B-western movies had a recurring theme; a slick cowboy would mysteriously arrive to thwart some bad hombres from taking a fair damsel’s ranch, usually located on a proposed railroad line or containing a bed of rich deposits of oil or gold. With this western genre, the actions were quite predictable, and the final outcome was never in doubt. The good guys always triumphed over the bad ones; there were no exceptions.

A western film needed three things to be successful: an imposing hero, a faithful horse, and a funny sidekick. If a movie got too serious, the comedic sidekick was always ready to inject humor into the story line. Notable cowboys/sidekicks included Roy Rogers/”Gabby” Hayes, “Lash” LaRue/Al “Fuzzy” St. John, Gene Autry/Pat Buttram, Jimmy Wakely/Dub “Cannonball” Taylor, Charles Starrett (the Durango Kid)/“Smiley” Burnette, and Johnny Mack Brown/“Fuzzy” Knight. Western fans were equally familiar with their hero’s horses. Who could ever forget Allen’s Koko, Autry’s Champion, Cassidy’s Topper, Brown’s Rebel, Carson’s Cactus, Elliott’s Thunder, Lane’s Blackjack, Ritter’s White Flash, Rogers’ Trigger, Starrett’s Raider, and Wakely’s Sonny? A good horse not only provided its rider with reliable transportation, but also could be called upon to lend a hoof when needed in a precarious situation.

 

This genre displayed a slightly different flavor when singing cowboys the likes of Tex Ritter, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Jimmy Wakely, and Rex Allen rode across the big theatre screen carrying guns and guitars, proving to their loyal fans that real men could both fight and sing. Moviegoers marveled when those serenading cowhands rode their beautiful stallions over extremely rough terrain, bouncing around in their saddles, yet singing a song so smooth and perfect it appeared to have come from a recording studio (which it did).

A cowboy would courageously fight the most loathsome villain one moment only to sing to his horse the next in the fresh air of the open prairie, thinking about that pretty cowgirl waiting for him at the end of the long winding trail. This was romanticism at its very best. A fundamental rule of B-western films was that cowboys could not kiss their favorite girls, at least on the theatre screen. That was a definite violation of the “code of juvenile expectancy.” The youthful crowd would permit their heroes to kiss their colorful horses but never their favorite ladies. At the movie’s finale, youngsters would file out of the theatre, trek back to their homes, saddle up their old broomstick broncos or living room rocking horse chairs and continue the adventure in the privacy of their own residences, receiving a bonus for the money they had spent.

Sadly, the 1950s slowly brought down the big curtain on B-western movies, caused by escalating production costs and the arrival of television into homes. The studios were reluctant to bring in a fresh crop of eager actors to replace the now aging ones. Thus, the Liberty’s final chapter was fast coming to an end. The theatre closed its doors about 1956 after twenty-seven years of operation. The modest and popular organization mounted its big golden palomino, “Popcorn,” and gracefully galloped into the sunset, never to return. Avid cowboy fans were saddened as they watched their favorite downtown establishment give way to a lady’s dress shop — the New Vogue… without so much as a cowboy hat, chaps, boots, or saddle to be found on the premises. 

The now aging B-western film fans must sit back and be content with the memories of hundreds of Saturday afternoons spent watching their favorite saddle aces, most of whom are long deceased. Watching an old western movie on television today does not afford the same exhilarating thrill once experienced when kids crowded into the small Liberty Theatre, gazing intently at the screen and cheering their favorite heroes. Will the day of the B-western ever return?… Probably not!  

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