“Winky Dink and you, Winky Dink and me, Always have a lot of fun together. Winky Dink and you, Winky Dink and me, We are pals in fair or stormy weather.” Saturday mornings at 10:00 were reserved for a unique interactive children’s television program, Winky Dink and You.

The popular series made its debut on CBS on October 10, 1953. Jack Berry hosted it for those youngsters whose families were fortunate enough to own a television set or had access to one. Unlike previous television shows that we simply watched on the small screen, this one required us to be an active participant. We were told that our assistance was desperately needed.

The youthful Winky was an unusual looking lad with hair in the shape of a five-pointed star, one point hanging over his right eye. He possessed oversized eyes with equally large pupils. Mr. Dink wore a star around his neck that matched his hair. His playsuit appeared to be multicolored, but we couldn’t be sure since we did not have color televisions. If we had listened closely to Winky’s voice, we would have heard Popeye’s Olive Oyl and Betty Boop from the versatile Mae Questel.

The whole premise of the show was for youngsters to help Winky and his little dog, Woofer, out of frequent precarious situations, usually involving the evil characters, Harem Scarem or Foxey Maxey. To participate on the show, we had to mail the company fifty-cents for a Winky Dink Magic Kit, containing a green plastic “magic” shield to cover the TV screen, four “magic” crayons (red, yellow, blue and green) and a “magic” cotton cleanup towel. Everything was “magic.”

At the beginning of each program, Jack Berry instructed us to carefully place the shield over the television screen and rub it firmly with the towel. It was “magically” held on the TV by static electricity. The host further warned his youthful fans to make sure the shield covered the entire screen before marking on it and to use only the specially designed crayons supplied in the kit. A typical story line involved a heinous villain dynamiting a section of train track. The train, on which Winky was riding, was chugging along toward certain disaster. We were told to quickly repair the track damage using a designated colored crayon to connect a series of consecutive small numbers. Miraculously, we accomplished our important task only seconds before the train arrived.

Some mischievous kids purposely did nothing to help Winky only to find that nothing bad happened, adding doubt to the value of marking on the protective shield.

Each show contained an important secret message that was revealed by connecting the numbers in some alphabetic letters. A typical one was “Eat your vegetables.” Old Wink was ahead of his time; the shield had a small logo of the lad embedded at the bottom center, characteristic of today’s television networks.

The show left the air on April 27, 1957, after a successful three and a half year run. It ran in syndication from 1969 to 1973 and was revived again in the 1990s as digitized cartoons. By this time, poor old Wink had lost his “magic.” The shield and crayons were summarily retired and the once unique popular show went into the television history books.  

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In 1895, H.G. Wells wrote the widely acclaimed novel, The Time Machine, recounting an imaginary avant-garde device that instantly thrust travelers into another age. Climb aboard my Yesteryear Time Machine for a 1910 visit to downtown Johnson City, a picturesque community of about 8500 inhabitants.

After activating the time lever, we find ourselves in Market Square gazing at the Lady of the Fountain, an imposing six-foot solid bronze statue. A nearby watering trough is large enough for six to eight harmonious horses to stand side-by-side and enjoy a refreshing drink after a weary trot to town. We immediately realize that we are in another era when we spot a grocery store sign advertising sirloin steak at 25 cents per pound.

The business district is no longer dusty or muddy. Instead, it has nice pebble block brick streets and concrete sidewalks, resulting from street improvements made about two years prior. Crossing streets in 1910 is less stressful because automobiles are nearly non-existent, having come into limited production only seven years earlier. Even so, we must keep an eye on the modern electric trolleys that constantly travel from the inner city to several remote locations.

Our casual dress appears to be out of step with local residents; the ladies are adorned in long dresses and the men are decked out in coats and ties. A much-ballyhooed discussion around town is the forthcoming relocation of the remains of city founder, Henry Johnson, and his wife, Mary, from a residence off Fairview Avenue to Oak Hill Cemetery.

Street vendors are everywhere, peddling their wares from wagons, positioned at strategic locations for attracting customers. Fountain Square appears to have the highest concentration of them. Shoppers park their wagons anywhere they desire without fear of receiving a ticket from a meter attendant meandering down the street on a mule.

A brochure from the Commerce Club (later renamed Chamber of Commerce) indicates a profitable business opportunity for wooden casket manufacturers. This need is generated by a growing populace and an abundance of low-grade chestnut and other suitable timbers in the area.

The Bee-Hive, a large variety department store occupying three stories and a basement at 209 E. Main (later the site of Parks-Belk), is a favorite among locals. Another attention grabbing shop is the ever-growing New York Bargain House (111 Buffalo), advertising “Good Merchandise Cheap.”

Two banks, the City National and the Unaka National and two twice a week newspapers, The Comet and The Staff, serve the town’s needs. Interestingly, tax rates are said to be high at $3.40 per hundred, but property is assessed at no more that 25% of its actual value.

Before returning to 2006, let’s patronize one of the downtown eateries – the American Restaurant (111 W. Market), Silver Moon Restaurant (113 Railroad Street), Greek Restaurant (117 W. Main) and Idol Inn Café (future site of Byrd’s Restaurant). One tempting menu option offers two pork chops, beans, potatoes and baked apples, topped off with coffee and cake – all for only a quarter.

As we embark the Yesteryear Time Machine for our return to the present, we ponder what we would have found had we instead chosen to travel downtown … in the year 2110.  

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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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