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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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