In 1965, songwriter and recording artist, Billy Edd Wheeler, hit the pop charts with the novelty tune, “Ode To The Little Brown Shack Out Back,” referring to outhouses. In the amusing song lyrics, Wheeler begs for the traditional little brown building to be spared its rapidly approaching demise.

Many Johnson Citians can recall these little icons of the American backyard, affectionately dubbed by additional names as privy, necessary house, shanty, backhouse, throne and john. The little pine shed with its sloped roof was about 4x4x7 feet, positioned over a hole that was 4-5 feet deep. A quarter moon cutout along the top of the door allowed some light and ventilation.

Outhouses stood about 100 feet behind a family’s primary residence, which in the winter was 100 feet too far (bitter cold), but in the summer was 100 feet too near (lingering fragrance). The specified distance was a decided compromise. The average privy was a one or two “holer.” Some had one seat for adults and another modified for toddlers. Those at churches, schools and public places had additional amenities to handle crowds.

A Sears and Roebuck catalog was a standard fixture inside an outhouse, but the number of pages in the big book seemed to decrease with each passing visitor. Also present in many backhouses were spent corncobs and a bucket of lime. Every 1-2 years, the evocative little shack needed to be moved and centered over a nearby freshly dug pit. The old hole was promptly covered and packed down with dirt from the new one.

Most outhouses were unpainted and seemed to unassumingly blend in with the surroundings. The little sheds became the targets of Halloween pranksters who would move them, sometimes with some poor hapless soul sitting inside. Others would have signs painted on them that read “Sitty Hall,” “Half Moon Inn,” “Rest Home” and “The Establishment.” People learned to keep the door closed when not in use. Many a hound dog found solace from adverse weather by curling up inside a privy with an opened door.

Slop jars, or chamber pots as they were alternately called, were used in tandem with outhouses. These were three-gallon metal pots with lids that conveniently sat at night under the bed or in a nearby closet. A person waking up in the middle of the night with that certain urge had a decision to make. He or she could go to the privy outside or utilize the slop jar inside. Choosing the privy meant exiting the house and traveling to the john in the darkness of night and whatever weather conditions might exist. This choice occasionally resulted in a chance encounter with a mouse, rat, snake spider or even a colony of ferocious bees or hornets. Conversely, selecting the slop jar at night meant having to “live with it” until morning, after which it had to be taken outside, emptied, cleaned and dried for the next night's exploit.

The universal desire for in-house facilities led to numerous patents over the years, including several from 19^thcentury Chelsea, England plumber, Thomas Crapper. (I am not making this up.) Billy Edd Wheeler’s worst fears in the song were realized when health regulations outlawed the familiar little sheds, leaving behind a lingering thick green vegetated plot of land.  

During the cold weather months of 1942 to 1950, my family regularly awoke each morning to a clanging sound vastly different from that of an alarm clock. Our small rented Watauga Avenue apartment contained steam heat and the noise was emanating from one or more of the radiators.

Although the racket was a bit bothersome, it was comforting to know that the atmosphere would soon be toasty warm. Steam heat was wonderful. Ernest Green, the apartment custodian, made his early morning excursion into the cold, damp and dimly lit rodent-infested basement long before residents crawled out of their cozy beds. The caretaker’s mission was to get heat flowing from the coal-fired furnace to the large apartment complex. As steam circulated to the building, some radiators began making a “hammering” or “knocking” noise, sometimes being quite loud.

Steam systems generally had one pipe with the dual purpose of supplying the radiator with steam and providing for condensate to return to the boiler. Torpedo shaped vents hissed each time steam pressure was released. Three malfunctions – improperly sloped piping, steam valve not fully open and defective or plugged steam valve – orchestrated these annoying early-morning “radiator recitals.”

Drain piping was supposed to be slanted toward the boiler supply valve to allow condensate to completely drain from the radiator. When steam flowed into a unit, any cool water present would forcefully collide with hot steam, producing the aggravating noise. An age-old trick was to place wooden blocks under the opposite end of the radiator to insure adequate slope for condensate removal. Radiators were generally located under a window where heat loss was the greatest. They were usually about the same width as the window, flush with the windowsill and approximately 2.5” from the wall.

A 1947 booklet titled, “1003 Household Hints and Work Savers,” offers some practical suggestions for saving on heating bills. The publication said to keep radiators clean to insure maximum heat from them. The best way to clean one was to hang a damp cloth behind it and use the discharge end of a vacuum cleaner to blow dust off the fins onto the cloth. Another trick was to “Go over your radiator with an oiled cloth to prevent rusting, save paint and increase heat efficiency.” An added suggestion was to leave the radiator full of water during warmer months: “This water cannot rust the radiator because it is deoxygenated.”

The brochure went on to say that bronze or aluminum paints should not be used because they could reduce heat output by 10%. Instead, dark colored oil based paints were recommended as the best choices. Cast-iron radiators became a common fixture in urban schools during the first half of this century. They were purposely oversized to compensate for classroom windows that were partially left open for ventilation.

I became quite familiar with steam heat since we had radiators at school – West Side, Henry Johnson, Junior High, Science Hill and even my old University of Tennessee dorm, Melrose Hall. Steam systems eventually gave way to hot water ones and then to air units that allowed hot air to flow from a coal fired furnace to individual rooms via floor registers. Many area folks can remember when these were popular.

For the most part, the nostalgic early morning “radiator recitals” have been silenced by technology. 

Ruth Cacy Fink has a 94-year story to tell that chronicles her long life in East Tennessee. The Johnson City resident wisely documented her remembrances in a 21-page well-written journal.

Three of Ruth’s family members contributed to the project: Judy Steven (niece who urged her to write her memories and who was impressed that she raised two children during the Depression years without government help), Patsy Hayes (daughter who published her work) and Julia Rhees (granddaughter who videotaped an interview with her and made DVDs from it.

Ruth became quite animated as she related her memoirs:  “I was born on July 20, 1915 in Dante, Virginia. My parents, George Beverly Cacy and Virginia Belle Steele Cacy, had eight children. I was the youngest of three boys and five girls. Mother married very young. She died a few days before Christmas in 1916 when I was only 17-months-old. My 16-year-old sister, Jessie, and a black lady who we called Aunt Sally, who stayed with us, helped raise me.”

Ruth shared several prized family items. They included the only photo she has of her mother that was taken at about age 35, a letter her mother wrote to her husband before Ruth was born and letters from two sisters, Lulu and Jessie, and two brothers, Garnet and Basil, written to their father asking him to come home to a church baptism and dinner on the ground that day. Mr. Cacy was working in the shops of the Clinchfield Railroad and came home only on weekends.

When Ruth was about three years old, the railroad transferred her father to Erwin, Tennessee after he severely injured his leg when accidentally stepping into an open manhole, leaving him with a noticeable limp. According to her, “We lived on Main Street across from where the old YMCA is now located. We children used to get in the front porch swing and sing and swing until our bare feet hit the ceiling. A railroad man often came by and taught us songs.

“Occasionally, hobos come by our house in search of a meal or wanting work. My sister would go inside, fix them a plateful of food and let them sit on the back steps to eat.  

“We were living on First Street in Erwin when our house burned. The only thing saved was the piano and a statue that sat on top of it. After that, we began living in rental houses that Papa located for us. When he moved into one of them, he made so many house improvements that the landlord would eventually sell it, forcing us to find another rental house.

“I attended a one-room school for grades 1-8, with each row of seats designated for a different grade. I recall receiving a “box supper”one day at school. One of the teacher’s brothers bought one for my niece, Pauline, and me. I was so shy I do not think I ate very much of it.

“My sister and I occasionally rode the passenger train from Erwin to St. Paul, Virginia where she lived. I stayed at her house a while and then rode the train back home. Daddy gave us free railroad passes to use. Occasionally, we took the train to Elkhorn to view the scenery. I rode the Tweetsie Railroad a few times. About twice a week, locals traveled by train from Erwin to Johnson City to shop at downtown businesses.

“During the Great Depression, Papa was only able to work about twice a month. To make ends meet, he raised chickens and planted a garden. The happy times from that era were when we moved near the Fishery on the other side of the railroad tracks. When the fishponds froze in the winter, we went ice-skating. Pauline and I were so young we did not do much skating because we kept running home to get warm. I went to Sunday School at the Fishery in a little one-room church on the hill. We had fun picking persimmons on the way home. We lived in this community for about a year.

“In 1935, I graduated from Unicoi County High School. After I was grown, Papa retired from the railroad and we moved from Erwin to Johnson City. I married Robert Fink in 1937, but the marriage lasted only 4 years. Afterward, I moved in with my daddy on Myrtle Avenue just a short distance from Roan Street. He rented an apartment upstairs. His first monthly Social Security check was $18. My son paid $5 for our first car. I took it home and put it in the backyard where he disassembled it, replaced parts and got it running.”

Ruth recollected several downtown Johnson City businesses in the early 1940s: Penney’s, King’s, Charles Store, Masengill’s, Home Federal Savings and Loan, Walker Furniture Store, Siler’s, Travis Kinkead’s Flowers, S.H. Kress, Woolworth's, McLellan’s, Betty Gay, Hannah’s, The Chocolate Bar, Thomas Ladies’ Shop, Thomas Men’s Shop and the Squire Shop.

Over time, Ruth worked for numerous area businesses: Walter Martin Agency (insurance), a service station owned by Carl Young (also owned The Little Store), Montgomery Ward (was credit manager), Walker Furniture Company, Baylor-Nelms Furniture Company (Kingsport) and Swift & Company (during the war years). The latter one supplied meat to the Spot and Dixie Barbeque restaurants.

Ruth recalled when her father and stepmother, Allie, once worked at the John Sevier Hotel. He was employed in the shops maintaining the hotel’s equipment; she was a telephone switchboard operator. Monroe McArthur was hotel manager.

Mrs. Fink concluded her journal with the words: “This is the best I can do with this story. I hope you can make sense out of it.” This family did a superb job of preserving Ruth’s story, both in a journal and on video. Thank you Ruth Fink for the memories.  

Few area residents can remember Johnson City’s grand “Lady of the Fountain,” who once adorned the downtown area along the east side of the railroad tracks. Over time, she became an icon, overlooking the very vicinity that would later bear her name, Fountain Square.

While her history is a bit blurred from a dearth of accurate record keeping, sufficient information exists that offers a hint of her once colorful past.

The lady, an imposing six-foot solid bronze statue, stood barefooted on a pedestal in the center of a three-foot tall circular concrete multi-spigot water fountain, facing southeast toward the Unaka National Bank building on Main Street.

Through the years, many a weary traveler has navigated through the city’s central business district, pausing just long enough to imbibe from her cool refreshing fountain. Several small pans situated around the base collected runoff water, further supplying water for horses and small animals.

This beautiful yet unsmiling melancholic lady was always modestly dressed in apparel resembling a Roman toga with sash, wearing earrings and a bracelet, Roman style “rolled” hair, and holding a large urn behind her right shoulder.

Considering her long exposure to the cold East Tennessee winters, her somewhat scantily clad garments were a bit surprising, perhaps accounting for her slate blue appearance. The hard-working townspeople were attracted to their pretty “fountain lady,” possibly because of her plaintive and unassuming subservient appearance.

It is believed that the shoeless beauty became a part of the city about 1904, soon after “Mountain Home,” known as “a city within a city,” was built. One conjecture suggests that then Mayor James Summers and other city officials sought a way to honor Congressman Walter Preston Brownlow of Tennessee's First District, U.S. House of Representatives (1896-1910), nephew of controversial governor, William “Parson” Brownlow.

The popular congressman was largely responsible for Johnson City being selected as recipient of the “Mountain Branch of the National Homes for Disabled Volunteer Veterans,” from an Act of Congress dated January 28, 1901.He had sympathized with the plight of thousands of Union Civil War (and later Spanish-American War) veterans, maimed during the four-year conflict and shamefully reduced to mere homeless beggars.

The city fathers reportedly chose to honor Brownlow with a statue to be placed in the heart of their town. After fabrication in a Lenoir City foundry and delivery to the city, the “Lady of the Fountain” reigned in the downtown district over the next approximately thirty-three years, observing the city’s colorful history unfold before her very eyes and ears.

In 1905, the lady watched in shock as the buildings along the south end of Main Street, between Roan Street and Spring Street, burned with one notable exception – the little wooden First Baptist Church. In 1908, she witnessed improvements made for downtown transportation by the paving of the streets with brick.

In 1918, the modest lady celebrated as the Armistice Day (Veteran’s Day) parade marched down Main Street, honoring the return of our soldiers from World War I. Over the years, the lady saw private transportation slowly transform from horse to horse-driven wagon and automobile, and public conveyance from trolley to bus, cab, and train. She routinely viewed busy shoppers, especially on Saturdays, as they crowded into the shops along Fountain Square.

Just when things couldn’t get much better, they got worse. Fate struck the unpretentious lady about 1937 when the city needed to alter parking and traffic flow around Fountain Square, necessitating the use of the site where the statue stood. Workmen came and abruptly separated her from the fountain she had always known.

While the base was summarily discarded, she was spared the same destiny, instead being relocated to the north entrance side of Roosevelt Stadium (now Memorial Stadium). Ironically, this occurred at about the same time that Lady Massengill and her family were arriving in town in the form of another statue, then located at the “Y” intersection of the Kingsport and Bristol highways. 

No longer being the “Lady of the Fountain”, the statue observed very little goings-on in her new location, except for occasional sporting events. The hurrying crowds who passed by her scarcely gave her a glance.

No longer able to provide refreshing water to thirsty pedestrians, she sensed that the populace had forgotten the rationale for bringing her to the city many years prior. Life had become very different and extremely lonely for the former Lady Fountain.

The lady’s tenure at Roosevelt Stadium would prove to be a short one. In about 1943, city officials decided to replace her with yet another statue, a World War I Doughboy.

The city apparently had no plans for the lady, as she quietly vanished to the city dump, without anyone noticing or even caring what had happened to her.

Such an action demonstrated her true current worth to the city that had adopted her. That was no way to treat a lady.

The lady was soon rescued from the trash heap and temporarily stored in a barn along Watauga Avenue.

By 1951, the lady was adorning a flower garden at a home in Henderson, North Carolina, where she would remain for the next roughly thirty-two years. The confused statue was now living outside the very state that had acquired her as a tribute to a U.S. congressman. 

The year 1973 brought renewed interest in the statue. The local Chamber of Commerce began efforts to retrieve her from her garden home, but initial efforts failed because the new owners were not willing to part with her.

There was another problem; the lady had fallen into poor “health” with elongated cracks forming along her legs. Her “doctors” made an effort to restore her health by improperly filling the cracks in her legs with concrete and painting over her characteristic slate blue appearance, demonstrating gross malpractice on their part. That was no way to treat a lady.

When the owners finally agreed to part with the attractive statue, the city immediately procured her, returned her to Johnson City, and began efforts to restore her to her original condition.

A Carter County high school teacher and sculptor, along with her students, carefully stripped the paint, removed the concrete, and properly filled the cracks, giving the lady the look of her former identity when she once graced downtown’s Fountain Square.

 The city showed some long overdue respect for their lady when they declared September 20, 1983 as “Lady of the Fountain Day.” Now, that’s the way to treat a lady. After residing in an academic environment of the old Johnson City Public Library for several years, she now stands in the downtown Municipal and Safety Building’s lobby.

The lady has played an important role in Johnson City’s magnificent past, but the question begs to be answered… “What role will she play in the city’s uncertain future?”

Has the ageless beauty been retired to the comfort and serenity of a government building, or will she once again be prominently displayed where she can reclaim the attention and admiration of future generations of Johnson Citians? Time will tell.