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Rockingham & Bennettsville Railroad
....a secret worth keeping
ca. 1951
by: Bruce Osburn
No matter how hard I tried to hide my misadventures from mom she usually found out anyway. Either someone told her or I became afraid she'd somehow find out so I'd just go ahead and rat on myself. But one secret I kept from her was an incident that came close to being my last act of youthful foolishness. That was the day a steam locomotive came within a hair's breadth of sending this thirteen-year-old kid to an early grave.
If I had been killed that day my family wouldn't have been able to boast that I had been done in by a fast moving Seaboard Air Line locomotive. Nor would they have been able to embellish my demise by saying that a heroic engineer desperately reversed his engine and squealed the brakes as he tried to stop a long line of freight cars.
No, they would only have been able to say that I'd been done in by a sorry old train that probably never reached a speed of more than thirty miles per hour, and even that speed is doubtful. Yes, I would have been done in by a slow moving train that passed by only once every day or so, a train so obscure that no one outside the sandhills had ever heard of it.
The Rockingham and Bennettsville Railroad was a "short line" and there were probably no more than three engines for the entire road. The tracks ran southeast from Rockingham, running parallel with the Airport Road for a short distance. They made a grade crossing of the SAL tracks and Lackey Street extension (now Gin Mill Road) about two miles south of our house. The road continued on to Gibson, NC, turned south and into Bennettsville, SC, covering a distance of about thirty-five miles.
The rolling stock for that road was old and worn. The roadbed was not in good condition for some of the cross ties were rotten and the rails were not exactly straight or level. There was so little traffic on the road that bushes and briars had taken over the right-of-way. Brambles and brush covered the embankments and ditches right up to the ends of the ties. There was even a scattering of weeds which had taken root between the rails and openly defied the cars to beat them into submission.
That was strictly a freight line with no passenger cars to be seen anywhere. One engine with four or five cars slowly made its way over an uneven road to the next stop. The cars swayed and squealed as they passed through farmland, swamps and pine woods. Long, shrill blasts from a steam whistle warned of the train's approach to unguarded crossings.
I was messing around on the trestle that spanned Marks Creek the day I had my breeches steamed cleaned by an exhausting steam engine but I can't remember why I was there. I don't think it was because I had been kicked off the school bus. If that had been the case I would've been better off to walk the highway because someone might come by and give me a lift. So, I guess I was there because I just didn't have anything better to do.
I was on that long trestle when I heard the wavering blasts of a whistle warning cars on the Bennettsville Highway of the approach of an engine. That crossing was less than two miles east of me but I knew I had more than enough time to run ahead of the train to the crossing at Lackey Street extension. I didn't feel an urgency to get off the tracks 'cause I knew the train always moved at a slow speed and I could easily run the quarter-mile distance to the crossing.
I started out at an easy trot, running between the rails on the uneven ties. I had covered nearly all the distance to the crossing when I heard the shrill scream of the whistle. In all these years I have never been able to determine if the engineer was blowing the whistle at me or if he was blowing for the crossing at Lackey Street extension. I glanced over my shoulder only to see that the engine was already on the trestle - much closer and much sooner than I expected to see it!
I speeded up until I was fairly flying over the ties, unable to run a step faster than I was already running. The whistle spurred me on as I heard the rumble of the wheels and screech of the cars as they lurched from side to side. A thousand thoughts must have run through my terrified brain. How was I going to get out of this mess? What happens if I stumble on these rotten ties?
I jumped a rail and started running in the briars and brush at the ends of the ties. Lordy! Lordy! What to do? There was nowhere to jump because all of the right-of-way was just one big ol' briar patch so I just sucked it up and continued on my desperate dash to safety.
Lackey Street was getting closer but so was that darn engine! With the whistle wailing and my lungs nearly bursting I finally got close enough to Lackey Street to throw myself headlong onto the pavement. The engine passed so close behind me that I felt steam blow up my pants leg!
Damn that engineer! Didn't he see me? Damn! Damn! Damn! I had been running on the side of the tracks that he had a clear line of sight to and still, he darn near ran me over! That danged ol' engineer should have started slowing his train way back up the tracks!
If I had been squished that afternoon it would have been a sad day for my parents. And they would have been even more sadder when they learned that the R&B RR had to make a complete stop before it crossed over the SAL tracks. And those tracks were no more than six hundred feet from where I was sitting on asphalt rubbing my bruised knees. What difference could it possibly have made to the R&B RR on that day if the engineer stopped his train before he got to Lackey Street?
I don't think I ever told mom of that incident. As far as I'm concerned that was one secret she definitely didn't need to know.
Bruce Osburn 6-1-2001
HARLEY-DAVIDSON
.....and treasure hunts
ca. 1949-1950
by: Bruce Osburn
My oldest brother, James, was a nineteen-year-old sailor in Pacific waters when my family moved to Hamlet in 1948. About 1949 he was transferred to a ship at Norfolk, VA., and he came home every weekend he had shore leave. He didn't come alone. Sometimes there were one, two or three young sailor boys bunked down on the couch and on pallets scattered about the living room.
Some of the boys came to think of our place as a second home and even came there when James had weekend duty. They came by car, train, motorcycle or hitchhiking. I don't know what attracted those sailor boys to the little bitty town of Hamlet but they sure did like to come there. Maybe they just liked the homey atmosphere and my mom's home cooking. But I'll bet it was really because of those girls down in Cheraw I had heard them talk about as they laughed and slapped one another on the back.
Late in an afternoon they got into a car - and sometimes our truck -and headed off to Cheraw. Early the next morning, sometimes just before daybreak, they returned to our house looking for a place to sleep. I didn't know what those boys did all night long down there in South Carolina but they must have really enjoyed themselves 'cause they kept going back....and back....and back... week after week.
Their all-night escapades proved to be a bonanza for me and my brothers and we eagerly awaited the break of day. We weren't out of bed long before we grabbed a water pail and a whisk broom and set about cleaning the car. But, of course, our main objective was to see what treasures we could find; washing and sweeping the car was just an excuse to get inside it.
The first thing we did was jump into the back and pull the seat from the floor. Whoeee! Look at all that money! How'd that get there? There were nickels, dimes, quarters and half-dollars just lying there waiting for a plundering kid to pick up! Even the front seat gave up its fair share. Whatever it was those ol' sailor boys did on the back seats of those cars sure did made us rich!
Our treasure hunts never failed to turn up a dollar or so and that made it more than worthwhile for us to clean the cars. We were well rewarded for our efforts but sometimes I wondered if the boys didn't just "plant" the coins so they could get the cars cleaned.
I remember the names of only two of those then-young men - W.T. Bateman, Jr. of Hugo, OK and a guy we called Nick the Greek, because, I suppose, he was of Greek descent. I don't remember much about the others except for one incident. That was the day a red-headed kid stopped by and said he had permission to take Bateman's motorcycle. That in itself wasn't unusual because just about everyone rode Bateman's old 1941 Harley-Davidson "74".
But what was unusual was the fact the young sailor had never ridden a motorcycle before. Brother Gene, who was about fifteen, had been riding the Harley for several months so he showed the sailor how to kick-start the engine and how to "toe and heel" the clutch to shift gears. A few lessons in our back yard were enough to get the fellow underway.
He stuffed his AWOL bags into the two leather saddle bags and we stood in the front yard holding our breath as he wobbled down our drive toward the county road. With both feet sticking out to the sides he kept pushing himself upright as he slowly made his way closer to our pond. Our drive passed on top of the dam and we cringed as he zigged and zagged safely across and onto the asphalt of the county road. He turned south and we heard him gunning the engine and shifting gears as he sped out of sight down the highway, the distintive loud thunder of the old Harley identifying it and announcing its coming as it carried that young sailor on an adventure to Florida.
He returned the machine about two weeks later, still in one piece and none the worse for wear and tear. He probably had gotten a good feel for the old Harley before he had passed completely through South Carolina and it's safe to say he must have thought he'd mastered it by the time he got to Florida. I say that because he said he had raced that old Harley in the Daytona motorcycle races!
We never found out one way or the other if he was telling the truth about racing the machine. But James could tell of its speed because he traveled the distance of twenty miles from Cheraw to Hamlet in ten minutes! That's no typo! Twenty miles in ten minutes averages 120 miles per hour!
James had made the mistake of staying at his girlfriend's house too long and was there when the passenger train he was to take north from Hamlet came into Cheraw from the south. He jumped onto the Harley and started for Hamlet. When he got north of Wallace, SC, and onto route #177, he laid down on the machine with just his eyes peeping over the headlight and his feet hanging off the back!
He opened the throttle and practically flew over the road. He said that even though the Harley only registered up to120 miles per hour, the speedometer needle was standing straight up and down, indicating at least 130 MPH! He made it to our house where he dropped off the Harley, grabbed his AWOL bag and got a ride to the depot in Hamlet where he waited a few minutes for the train to come in.
After James got married in 1950 most of the boys stopped coming down for weekend visits. But we weren't completely abandoned because Bateman continued to visit and remained friends with our family for many years. When he got married about 1952 he brought his wife to Hamlet to introduce her to mom. In 1963 I was in Philadelphia for a navy school and I visited with him and his family in Glen Burnie, MD. One of James' daughters - who Bateman knew well when she was just an infant - has talked to him by phone as recently as two years ago.
James met one of my young friends in Hamlet that he would run into years later when both were sailors. L.G. McKeithan was a classmate who occasionally came to our house and it was during one of those visits that James first saw him. In 1962 James was stationed at Glynco Naval Air Station in Brunswick, GA, and a sailor that transferred into the same division mentioned that he had gone to school with an Osburn kid in Hamlet, NC. The two of them had a good laugh when James told L.G. that the kid was his little brother and that he remembered L.G. About 1963 I was in Brunswick and L.G. got in touch with me, the first time I had seen him since 1953.
I remember the days when youthful exuberance reigned supreme and the days when complete strangers were made to feel welcome at our house. Those were the days when young sailors horsed around with us little kids, drove us to an afternoon movie in Rockingham and picked us up later. Those were the days when friends and memories were made that last forever.
Bruce Osburn 6-5-2001
ROLLER SKATES
....and a prankster uncle
ca 1950
by: Bruce Osburn
Mary Lou Presslar's family moved into a house near us - the same house the Helton's would later move into - and lived there about a year. She was a year or more older than me and we - along with other kids - did kid things while we waited for the school bus in the mornings.
She was a gangling sort of girl - tall, mostly all legs and thin as a rail. But was she ever graceful on a pair of flimsy, strap-on roller skates! She flashed by at an incredible speed, made dizzyingly tight little circles and zipped backwards, sometimes on just one skate.
I don't remember when I first conned Mary Lou into letting me try on her skates but I must have done so because I learned to skate on them. When I saw her doing her stuff on the county road I went there and hung around until she let me have a go. And even though I didn't have a lot of skating time I learned to stand and go in the direction I wanted without too much trouble. The falls and bruises came less and less frequent as I improved and learned to keep my balance.
Then there came a day when I no longer had to wait for Mary Lou to make an appearance on the road just so I could get in a few laps. Brother Gene's girlfriend must have noticed the sharing of the one pair of skates because she gave me her old ones. They were practically identical to Mary Lou's - toe clipping, ankle strapping and an adjustable-length metal frame with steel wheels.
Dot Billingsley's old secondhand sidewalk skates gave me hours and hours and miles and miles of skating. And, even if I do say so myself, I became pretty darn good with those old skates. I learned to make tight little circles just as I had seen Mary Lou do, hop over cracks in the road and skate backward with just as much ease as going forward. I put so many miles on those old skates that I wore away the wheels until they were just washers. Every now and then one fell apart and scattered ball bearings all over the asphalt. But, at just fifty cents a wheel, I could afford to replace them one at a time without going broke.
During my skating time on the road I gave cars plenty of room to pass by. I never broke any bones or chipped any teeth. The only mishaps I suffered were skinned elbows and knees and maybe a bumped butt every now and then. But I had a scary experience one day that scared the bejeeze out of me because I could have wound up with a couple of broken legs or, worse yet, dead.
Uncle Doug Patrick had been visiting our house and on his way home he slowed his car just as he got alongside me. He held out his hand and motioned for me to come nearer. I glided over to his slowly moving old 1939 turtle-back Ford and held my hand out to him. He grabbed it and off we went! Hey, I'm not talking about a slow speed! I'm talking about a hair blowing, skate wheel screaming speed that made me holler like a banshee.
Uncle Doug just hooted and laughed as I pleaded with him to let go. We must have covered a distance of at least three hundred feet before he finally released my hand. I was going so fast all I wanted to do was stop as quickly as possible so I aimed myself for the shoulder of the road. As soon as the wheels sailed off the asphalt they bogged down in the soft dirt and I flew through the air belly button over appetite.
I don't know if Doug ever realized the danger he had put me in that day but that experience taught me never to hitch a ride from a moving car, either on skates or a bicycle.
Bruce Osburn 6-10-2001
MY TWO-SPEED BICYCLE
....quick-change sprockets
ca. 1950-1952
by: Bruce Osburn
Bicycles in the middle of the last century were much different than those of today. There were no such things as mountain bikes or trail bikes. Bicycles of five-speeds and more were several decades into the future. There were only two types a kid in Hamlet could have; a skinny-tired bicycle called an "English 3-speed racer" or the one most commonly seen on the streets - a big-tired bike that was best suited to the terrain of the sandhills.
I doubt if there were more than a half dozen of the English 3-speeds in all of Richmond County. I rode one once but it just wasn't designed for the soft, sandy soil of that area. It performed well enough for me on a street but every time the skinny tires left the hard surface they sank into the soft sand and the bike came to an abrupt halt which sent me tumbling over the handle bars or crashing down sideways. And judging from the great number of the large-tired bikes around town one would think that most kids preferred that type over the skinny-tired one.
We kids identified the bikes according to the size tires they had. The biggest ones were called 26-inchers, followed by 24- and 20-inchers. I think every kid eagerly awaited the day he could advance to a 26-incher and that day usually came when he was able to straddle the cross bars without falling. That signaled he was no longer a little kid but a kid that was now big enough to ride his older brother's bike.
Brand new bikes came with different pieces of equipment. Most came with a kick stand for parking and a chain guard to keep pants legs from being chewed up in the front sprocket. Some of the really fancy ones had a headlight attached to the front fender and a "belly tank" between the two cross bars which held a battery operated horn.
If a kid got a bike that didn't have any accessories he could still add something when he got enough money - maybe a clamp-on headlight for the handle bars. Better yet, he could install a wheel operated generator on the front fork and have both a headlight and a taillight. And if he had some extra cash he could add the best toy of all - a siren! Every kid wanted a siren because it loudly announced his arrival at home, at his buddy's house, at the movies or any other place he had the urge to pull the chain and irritate an adult or two.
Even if a kid wasn't lucky enough to have any bells and whistles on his bike he always made sure he had that all-important noise maker that made his bike sound like a motorcycle. (Well, it did make it sound just a little bit like a real motor bike.) Stiff pieces of cardboard clipped onto front and rear forks with a couple of clothes pins made a loud buurrrr as the spokes chewed up a rookie Mickey Mantle or a veteran Ted Williams baseball card.
There were bikes made for boys and there were bikes made especially for girls. A girl's bike usually had a guard on both sides of the rear wheel to keep a skirt from getting tangled in the spokes and it didn't have high cross bars like a boy's bike. The bars were low and joined to the frame near the pedal crank which permitted a girl to "mount" her bike without having to swing one leg way up over a cross bar and maybe expose her bloomers.
Girls rode boys' bikes and thought nothing about it but a boy was never comfortable riding a girl's bike. A girl just gathered up her skirt and piled it atop the cross bars and pedaled on down the street but a macho boy would rather walk than be seen riding his sister's bike!
I had two fat-tired bikes during our stay in Hamlet. One of them I bought on credit from James Moon for five dollars, giving him my twenty-five cents lunch money every day until it was paid for. (Well, that isn't exactly the way it was finally paid off but that's another tale.) I can't remember how I came into the other one, most likely it was a hand-me-down from someone.
A lot of miles were put on my bikes riding around Hamlet and far from home. I pedaled down Battley Dairy Road to a general store near the Outside Furniture Store, out to Highland Pines to visit my buddy L.G. McKeithan and sometimes I went down highway #38 all the way to South Carolina to buy firecrackers.
All those accumulated miles took their toll on the bikes. The fenders fell off, tires wore down until the cord peeped through, the chains slipped, the brakes were questionable at best and the rubber foot pedals fell off. But, no matter how broken down they became, I still preferred them to walking and did my best to keep at least one of them in riding condition.
Several "master links" joined enough broken sections of chain to make one long enough to join the two sprockets. A broken spoke was replaced with one from an already nearly spokeless rim. A half roll or so of electrical tape wrapped around a tire lasted until a boot was put inside to cover a worn spot. Or, better yet, a not-so-worn-out tire replaced one that had an inner tube poking through.
I wasn't the brightest kid in school so I had more than just a little trouble with my X + Y = Z problems. I was so dense I didn't know the difference between a sine or an acute angle or a hypotenuse. (And I still don't. I had to look in my dictionary just to find those words!) Sometimes there were equations raised to the third or fourth power just to confuse me even more. A little 3 or 4 sitting near the top of a number to denote a power was foreign to me but there was one power I knew about - leg power.
I was smart enough to know that it was harder to pedal up a hill than on flat ground. And I knew that it was easier for one bike to climb a hill than it was for another bike to climb the same hill. There had to be a reason for this and I found that it had something to do with the size of the front sprocket in relation to the rear sprocket. A large front sprocket propelled the bike at a good speed on flat surfaces but made the legs tire quickly when pedaling up a hill. A smaller front sprocket wasn't good for speed but was much better for climbing hills - in some cases a kid could make it all the way to the top.
The two front sprockets I had were interchangeable and one was larger than the other. I became quite adept at changing them when I planned a long ride and could swap them out in just a few minutes. They gave me the choice of speed or power. When I was riding around Hamlet I used the larger of the two for speed since there weren't many hills out my way. When I went to visit L.G. McKeithan in Highland Pines I used the smaller one for power because there was a long, long hill to climb.
I could have easily avoided that long climb except for the fun I got from flying down an equally long slope on the same road. When I went to Highland Pines I passed through Hamlet and west on Hylan Avenue. Not too far out of town on that road was a small valley the road descended into and back up the other side. Both hills were steep and about a quarter mile long.
When I started down that hill I pumped my ol' bike as fast as I could. In just a short distance I was going so fast my pedaling couldn't keep up with the speed of the wheels and all I could do was lean low over the handle bars and let the wind blow through my hair while I sped to the bottom at an incredible speed. But, alas, my fun was over as soon as I started up the other side. But my work was made easier because of the small front sprocket and I usually managed to make it all the way to the top, standing and pumping the whole distance.
There was an embankment on Hylan Avenue near its intersection with MacDonald Avenue that we kids rode our bikes down. The slope was extremely steep and had a vertical height of about twenty-five feet. And we weren't satisfied just to zip down that slope at a break-neck speed - we had to make a contest of it.
The challenge was to see which kid could go farthest down the slope before he jammed on brakes to avoid crashing into a briar covered ditch just a few yards beyond the foot of the embankment. The ideal scenario was for a daring rider to jam on his brakes just before he got to the bottom of the slope, turn sharply to the left and finish the ride alongside the ditch. Most of us were wise enough to jam on brakes well before the foot of the slope and then make the turn to the left without hurting ourselves. But there was one young fellow who threw caution to the wind and made a ride that won him the brass ring for distance. His ride was so spectacular no one ever attempted to beat it.
Some of you might even consider him foolish rather than daring. And the whole thing might have been just an accident, something he didn't plan at all, because it could have been he just had bad brakes. The past fifty years have erased that kid's face from my memory as well as his name. But I still remember his winning ride, one that was never again equaled. And I think that to fully appreciate that kid's ride you must first have a visual picture of the incident.
He rolled his bike off the shoulder of Hylan Avenue down that long, steep slope and started his run for a win. The back wheel was still spinning when he flashed past the point where most of us not-so-daring boys applied our brakes. In less than a second or two he was at the bottom of the slope and well past the point where he should have made a left turn. He sailed right into the ditch and the front wheel struck the far side. Everything that happened afterward registered in my brain in slow motion.
The bike stopped, did a half-rotation around the front wheel, broke free from the lip of the ditch and resumed its original speed just a few feet off the ground. The back wheel was now the fore and the front wheel was now the aft. And the kid was no longer sitting on top of the bike, he was sitting under it, head down and feet up. He was still astraddle the bike as it sailed deep into the briar patch - back end first and upside down!
The thick briar patch brought him to a stop and he scrambled out pushing his bike. The front wheel was now more oval than round, he was scratched and bleeding from the brambles, but by cracky!.... he had won!
I always took a different road back home just so I wouldn't have to make that tiresome climb up the other side of that steep hill on Hylan Avenue. I went by way of a road that is now known as Freeman Mill Road because there were no long hills to worry about and it was nearly the same distance to my home.
Bruce Osburn 6-24-2001
**************** Some thoughts I couldn't weave into this tale:
......I can't recall ever seeing a bike with training wheels. A kid usually learned to ride by taking his spills and scrapes until he got it right.
.....Bicycles left in racks at the movie theater or at school were never stolen.
.....A kick stand was hardly ever used in one's own yard. A kid would jump off his bike while it was still rolling and let it continue on until it hit something or fell over onto the ground.
.....The two most common brand names for "coaster brakes" were New Departure and Bendix. Bendix was easier to work on.
......There were two types of chains: "every link" and "every other link." I preferred an "every other link" chain because it was easier to put master-links in them.
.....When putting a "boot" into a worn-out tire it was better to put in an entire cap from another tire. That eliminated that annoying bump-bump-bump caused by a little boot.
BEVERLY
...was a generous girl
ca 1950
by: Bruce Osburn
There was a young girl about fifteen years old who lived on McDonald Avenue that set her sights on my brother, Gene. She lived just across the street from my aunt Cecil and I saw her on several different occasions when I visited there. I came to know her well enough to speak when I saw her away from home.
I don't know why Gene didn't respond to Beverly's obvious attempts to spark a friendship between them. After all, she was an attractive girl and was more than amply endowed with physical attributes most guys went crazy over and some girls only dreamed about. But I suppose it was because Gene had already set his sights on another young girl by the name of Dot. And even though Gene didn't pay much attention to Beverly my younger brother, Kenny, and I sure did take a shine to her.
For a period of time she worked in the five-and-dime store that was directly across the street from the Hamlet Theatre.
When I went to a movie on Saturday afternoon I took full advantage of our "acquaintance" because I went into the dime store to buy a nickel's worth of candy from her before going into the theater. Some of you might ask why I'd go there to buy candy when there was plenty of it in the theater. Well, the answer to that is..... a nickel would buy much more candy in the dime store than in the theater.
My favorite five-cent candy at that time was a HeatH bar which I could wolf down in just a few minutes. Baby Ruths and Tootsie Rolls were more for the money but they, too, were soon just memories. Milk Duds and a Sugar Daddy lasted a long time only because they were hard to chew. A box of Malted Milk balls dissolved too quickly. Goobers and Raisinets disappeared long before the Three Stooges were finished with their slap-stick comedy.
But, a nickel's worth of candy bought at the dime store lasted a long, long time if Beverly waited on me and weighed it. Well, to be truthful, she didn't even weigh it and I came away with at least ten times more candy than could be bought for a nickel in the theater.
All I had to do was tell her which one of a dozen or more displayed candies and nuts I wanted and she scooped it into a paper sack. And no matter which one I got the volume was always the same. A nickel's worth of Malted Milk balls filled the paper sack clear to the top just as a nickel's worth of chocolate covered peanuts did. There were several times when I saw the store manager give Beverly the fish-eye look as I was seen leaving with a sack filled to the brim and Beverly was ringing up a .05 sale with a ka-chingof the old brass cash register.
Kenny and I were both guilty of taking more than we'd paid for - and we knew it. But, it really wasn't the same as stealing 'cause we'd only asked for "a nickel's worth, please" and who were we to argue with the person doing the selling? I've often wondered if Beverly was ever scolded for her generous amounts and made to answer for them.
Bruce Osburn 7-10-2001
**************
Subject: Beverly
Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 11:45:34 -0400
From: "Doug and Sandra Gray"
I believe the young lady was Beverly ------. Her father, Melvin, managed Kirkley's Cleaners next door to Campbell's Pharmacy on Hamlet Avenue. She lived with her parents on McDonald Avenue and the 5 and Dime store across from the Hamlet Theater was Cade's. Mr. Cade also had a store in Laurinburg. He had a couple of daughters and the oldest, Gloria, was 2-3 years younger than us. I hope all is well with you.
Doug
**************
Subject: Beverly
Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 13:06:21 -0500
From: Richard Osburn
To: Doug and Sandra Doug,
You're sooo right - it was Beverly ------. I didn't give her last name 'cause I knew it would cause a lot of......."That must be the 'so-and-so' girl".... among some of the old timers. Beverly had a big crush on Gene but he already had a girlfriend. Kenny and I really did take unfair advantage of her infatuation, but, hey, anything was fair when it came to getting free candy!
I didn't know the name of the dime store when I wrote the tale and I can't say that I ever knew it. The only dime store I can remember by name is Rose's on Hamlet Avenue. Gwen Helton's mom worked there. At one time the son of the manager was in my class - I can't remember if it was at Pansy Fetner or Hamlet Ave. School. I can't remember the boy's first name but his last name was "Fisher" and they came to Hamlet from Farmville, NC. Don't ask how I can recall that but it's just something that sticks in my mind.
Keep in touch.
Bruce
**************
Subject: Re: Beverly
Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 13:33:27 -0400
From: "Doug and Sandra Gray" To:
I figured you omitted her surname on purpose. Cade's Dime Store was later bought by Harrington who happens to now own the funeral home bearing his name in Hamlet. You are right about Rose's on Hamlet Avenue. The boy you remember was Bill Fisher. He and his family lived on Minturn Avenue. They left Hamlet when Bill finished the 8th grade. He graduated from Duke and became a Science teacher in Reidsville, N.C. He died of cancer a couple of years ago. My wife is amazed how much Hamlet material I remember. The IRH web site is a lot of fun to me. Keep on sending Russell material. ---
[Doug]
TOO MANY HAMSTERS
....where'd they go?
ca 1950
by: Bruce Osburn
Dad made plans to make his first million dollars sometime in the late 1940s or early 1950s. I can't remember the exact year but I do recall something about the enterprise - a business venture that would make us rich beyond our wildest dreams. All we had to do was raise hamsters and sell their pelts for the handsome sum of one dollar each!
I don't know why dad thought he was up to that challenge. After all, he had been a soldier for more than twenty-five years and before that he had lived on a farm only until the age of seventeen years. Oh, he could do all sorts of things that required a great deal of skill and planning. He was no stranger to electrical, carpentry and mechanical chores. He was skilled enough in those fields that he wouldn't have had any trouble in obtaining a journeyman's certificate in either trade. But, raising hamsters? That was much different than just turning loose a gang of hogs that required little attention.
Dad prepared our outbuilding for the hamster room. He bought cages, watering bottles with glass tubes, hamster (or rabbit) chow and ordered some breeding pairs. I don't know how many pairs he got but they proved to be more than enough.
Even though none of us had ever before seen a hamster we were all excited about dad's venture. I can't remember if we kids were told to help or if we just volunteered. We were completely ignorant of the proper feeding and caging of those cute little bundles of fur but we learned as we erred.
We laughed and giggled as we watched those cuddly little pets stuff the pellets into their mouths with both front paws. How in the world can they eat so much so fast? And look at their jaws! They're swelling up just like they got the mumps! Ain't they cute!
After about a week had passed we began to wonder where the strong odor of ammonia was coming from. Well, shoot, ain't that coming out of the cages? And look there - how come the paper bedding is all wet and clumped together? My gosh! Look at that pile of pellets!
We had just learned that those little rats weren't eating all those pellets we poured into their food dishes. Those darned ol' varmints were hoarding their food and they were going to the bathroom right there in their cages!
We learned not to give them more pellets than was necessary and that the cages had to be cleaned every day or so. But, hey! It's gonna' be worth it. This venture will soon start to pay off and, besides, they are soft and cuddly. See how this one snuggles down inside my shirt?
About three weeks or so after we first got them the females began to drop pink little babies about the size of peanuts. They were blind, hairless and helpless. But in no time at all the little ones were running about the cages doing things you wouldn't want your little kids to see. And those shenanigans just produced more of those blind little vermin.
They came so fast we couldn't keep the males and females separated and each of those promiscuous girls dropped a litter about once a month. Hey, the young ones didn't waste any time at announcing their fertility either, for they got into action even before we knew if they were boys or girls.
Right about this time I lose track of dad. This might have been the time when he went back into the army or he just left them to our care. We never sold even one of those nasty little rodents and we couldn't even give them away. Oh, we tried, but no kid wanted one. Maybe they had been warned by their parents not to bring one home.
They were no longer the cute and cuddly little bundles of fur they had once been. They had become a nuisance and were a pain in the neck.. I don't remember how long we had them before they began to lose their appeal, maybe no more than three or four months. But I do know that we were anxious to get rid of them - but how were we to do that? - no one wanted them.
I don't know if it was a deliberate thing we did or if it was more of an accident but the animals began to disappear from open cages. We eventually wound up with no hamsters to worry about.
A few months after they had "escaped" I saw a blond rat scurry under the outbuilding but I didn't see a long tail on it. We have wondered all these years if some of the hamsters had managed to survive and had established little colonies under the buildings. Maybe Rudy Cox can shed some light on this. How about it, Rudy, did you ever see strange little tail-less rats running about the place?
Bruce Osburn 7-19-2001
GAMES WE PLAYED
....taking a flying leap!
late 1940s-early1950s
by: Bruce Osburn
Most of the games the kids in my family played were time-tested and had been played by kids for generations. There were the usual games that didn't need any special equipment at all - games such as hop-scotch, tag, foot races and rasslin'. And then there were games that needed at least one piece of equipment - jump-rope, marbles, baseball, basketball, dodge-ball and cap pistols for a game of cowboys.
The Osburn clan had two games that I can't recall anyone else ever playing. One of the games had no name - we just played it. The other we called "Hobo-swing."
The first game wasn't really a game at all but more like a carnival dare-devil ride that only the stout-hearted older kids got on. It was a made-on-the-spot apparatus strung between two pine trees and the younger kids didn't dare get on it.
A long piece of clothes-line wire was threaded through a foot-long piece of water pipe and one end wrapped around a pine tree about twenty feet up the trunk. The other end of the wire was wrapped around another tree near the ground about a hundred feet away and pulled banjo-string tight.
A daring kid climbed the tree, took the water pipe in both hands and launched himself out over the limbs. A screaming slide down the wire lasted just a few seconds and was repeated over and over until the kid got tired of climbing the tree.
The first one of the wire-slides that I recall the Osburn cousins making resulted in bruises for the first rider. The kids that made it knew what they wanted but didn't quite understand angles and velocity.
They attached the wire to two trees but the angle of the wire was too great. Not only that, but the "ground" end was too high. When the first rider flew down that steep wire he smashed square into the tree because he couldn't touch his feet to the ground so he could slow down and stop. A little rearranging of both ends of the wire fixed the problem.
The second game - "Hobo-swing" - was easy to make and one that I liked. First, we half-filled a burlap sack with pine needles, rags, cotton or anything else that was handy and closed the end with a couple of over-hand knots. Next, a rope was tied around the knots and the other end tied onto a stout limb about fifteen or twenty feet above the ground.
The proper way for a kid to ride the swing was to grab the rope in both hands and sit astraddle the sack, clenching it tightly above the bulge of pine needles with his thighs. After he was mounted he could swing just like he was on a a regular swing - a lot of leg pumping sent the ol' Hobo-swing swinging through a wide arc.
An added plus of a Hobo-swing was that more than one kid could ride at the same time. The second rider sat on the first rider's legs, facing him. A third rider sat on the second rider's legs, crosswise to the first two. A fourth rider sat on the third rider's legs, facing him. More riders got on if they could find a spot.
The whole idea of a Hobo-swing was not to use it like a little ol' kiddy swing - that was too sissified. A Hobo-swing was for daring young boys to show how fearless they were - to show that they were not afraid to take a flying leap out of a tree at a moving target.
That leap was made from a small platform about ten or twelve feet above the ground. It was big enough for one or two kids to stand on and had been made in another tree that was close to the swing. Several boys climbed the tree for their turn to jump and a kid on the ground took the sack with both hands and swung it with all his might toward the platform.
The first kid on the platform made a quick evaluation of the approaching sack - was it near the end of its arc? Was it close enough to jump onto? When he had satisfied himself that he could soar through the air and land straddle-legged on the sack he took a leap. The next kid in line waited for the sack to make its return and if he thought he could land on the first kid's legs he threw himself into space.
The first two or three kids had a better chance of making a safe leap than those that came after. The arc of the sack became less with each kid and by the time the fourth kid took a leap the sack wasn't coming as close to the platform. But still, some of the last ones dared to try it and busted their butts when they managed to grab just the rope and fell onto the ground.
I was never so bold as to try to ride the wire-slide. But I made many a leap at an ol' Hobo-swing, piling onto kids already hanging on and being piled onto myself. And I remember some of the times when I missed it completely, crashing onto the ground only to be knocked over by a tangle of feet and legs when the swing made its return.
Bruce Osburn 9-12-2001
SHOOTING POOL
...one bag of collards, please!
ca 1951
by: Bruce Osburn
I shot my first game of pool when I was about thirteen years old. It wasn't at Atkinson's pool hall on main street or any of the other pool halls in Up-town or Down-town Hamlet. In fact, I never shot a game of pool in any of those places. I was initiated into that mostly men-only sport at a black owned pool hall.
My introduction into the mysteries of a pool hall was by accident. When I left home with Pete Miller that day our aim was to make twenty-five cents or so by selling an old rooster to a black owned hotel/restaurant/bar/pool hall on the north end of Bridges Street. We suspected we wouldn't have any problem getting rid of that tough old bird because Pete's granddad, Mr. Knight, sold produce and other stuff to the owner.
When Pete and I offered our inedible bird to the owner he said he might be able to boil him down and make chicken and dumplings. But, he wasn't agreeable to giving us twenty-five cents in cash for that stringy old bird and instead made an offer of a "few games of pool." So, it was there that I learned to roll a cue stick on the table to check for straightness and learned to check tips for tightness. I learned to shoot eight-ball and straight rotation and that was all.
Pete and I shot pool in that place on several different occasions. It didn't matter that we were the only white kids in the place - no one gave us a hard time as we chalked-up our cues and had a good time of blasting balls over ripped felt. And the best part of the whole deal was it didn't cost us a thing! Not a nickel! The owner accepted a burlap bag full of collard greens or turnips for "a few games." I don't know if Mr. Knight ever suspected that his collard patch was contributing to the delinquency of a couple of fine, young boys.
Bruce Osburn 9-24-2001
COPPER TREASURE
....looks can be deceiving
ca. 1952
by: Bruce Osburn
During the early months of World War II rural folks that had never before seen soldiers near their homes suddenly found army trucks and other vehicles rolling along backwoods roads because additional army camps had sprung up throughout the country for training foot soldiers and pilots. One of those camps, whether an old established camp or a new one, was just north of Hamlet near Hoffman. I don't know what type training Camp Mackall provided in the war years but it still exists today as an army airfield.
At the end of World War II some of the camps were closed or reduced in size and some of the buildings were either demolished or sold as surplus. My dad bought an abandoned barracks at Camp Mackall and everything in it was his. Brothers-in-law and nephews pitched in to raze the building and haul the material, one pickup truck load at the time. Dad salvaged doors, windows, plumbing, lumber and anything else he thought had value. Some of that salvaged material was used to build our new home in Hamlet.
Other no-longer-needed army materials were sold to anyone who had the money to buy them. I can't say with any certainty that our neighbor, Mr. Helton, got in on this government disposal program but I believe he did; he had several rolls of tightly bound wire near his house that were said to have come from the fields and woods surrounding Camp Mackall. The wire was supposed to have been a substitute for barbed wire but was a poor imitation.
The barbs were made of short, six-inch pieces of bright copper wire that had been twisted around a single strand of a larger wire that was about two or three-hundred feet in length. A short piece of copper wire was wrapped around the larger wire every six or eight inches apart, hundreds of them on each roll of wire. It didn't take me long to see the prospect of becoming independently wealthy because Mr. Helton had a dozen or more of those big rolls of wire just laying on the ground with grass and weeds growing through them.
Money was an important part of a 14-year old kid's life and I earned some of mine in different ways. Some was earned by collecting the two cents deposit on soda pop bottles and some was earned by selling scrap metal I found on the SAL roadbed. I knew the difference between just plain old scrap steel and the much more desirable brass or copper. Scrap iron brought about a cent a pound at the scrap dealer while copper or brass brought about thirty or forty cents a pound. Mr. Helton had pounds and pounds of that bright copper metal just going to waste so I asked if I could take it and he said ...yes!
I began by untwisting the short pieces and tossing them into a pile. Those little wires were the toughest pieces of copper I had ever handled and my thumbs and fingers were soon ripped and bleeding from being cut by the sharp ends. I learned that two pairs of pliers made the unwinding easier and kept my fingers from being ripped open.
As I removed the wires I had to pull the strands of the roll apart so I could get to the wires deep down inside the coils. You might ask why I didn't just unroll the wire to make my job a little easier. Well, you see, that wasn't just your regular soft, steel wire - it was a hard, tough wire with plenty of spring steel in it. If I had cut the wires that bound a roll into a circle I would have had wire uncoiling and springing all over the yard! So, I had to work a roll by sections, temporarily spreading and binding the coils until I was finished with that part before moving on to other coils.
I took my hundreds of pieces of short wire home each day I worked at it. At home I threw them into a bushel basket and waited for the day when I would have enough for brother Gene to take to the scrap dealer in Rockingham. I can't remember how many days and weeks I worked at collecting those little wires, maybe even a month or so. But, eventually, I filled my basket and estimated I had a hundred pounds or so. Thirty or forty cents a pound would make me rich! That was as much money as some folks made in a week at a cotton mill!
Brother Gene took my basket to the scrap yard and I watched as the dealer thrust a big magnet into my wires and then held it up for me to see. There were hundreds upon hundreds of wires clinging to that darned ol' magnet! There were so many wires sticking to the magnet it looked like a giant cockle burr. Dang it! All I had to show for my bloody fingers was a hundred pounds of copper coated steel wire - and at just one cent a pound for scrap iron! One buck for more than a month's work!
I was never again foolish enough to collect copper or brass without first poking a magnet to it.
Bruce Osburn 10-8-2001
A SOUTHERN TRADITION
...our legacy
1948-1953
by: Bruce Osburn
During the years my family lived in Hamlet there was a tradition that was alive and well in that little town. It was a tradition that had survived for centuries, was widespread throughout the south and had the official sanction of both state and local governments - it was that southern institution called segregation.
Bus stations and train depots had separate waiting rooms. Blacks were relegated to the rear seats on buses, both local and long distance. Public schools were officially segregated and privately owned businesses engaged in the practice. The one and only in-town theater had separate seating arrangements - blacks entered through a side door and climbed a stairway to the balcony while whites occupied the lower seats. No blacks could be found eating at any of the white owned cafes or restaurants but they could be seen in the kitchens as cooks or dishwashers.
Segregation, as practiced in our little town, was mostly one way. Blacks who entered white owned retail stores didn't know if they would be waited on right away or ignored in favor of a white that had entered after them. But, on the other hand, whites could enter any black owned business and expect to be served with all due respect. My dad took advantage of that tacit understanding and often stopped at the High Hat Club, a black owned tavern, for a few "cool ones." At times I was with him and we plunked ourselves into a booth where we were served without any hesitation on the part of the owner. I think that if a black man had entered a white owned honky-tonk and sat in a booth expecting to get a "cool one" he would have been thrown out on his ear, no matter how seedy the tavern.
I think the adults were more likely to be demonstrative in their support of that separation than the children were. Some of the adults were quite animated in public encounters, sometimes to the point of shouting and gesturing. But, when the same two individuals met in the privacy of a yard the exchange was cordial, much different than the public meeting. Sometimes I wondered if the public displays weren't just posturing for those folks standing nearby.
I remember an old white man who could be quite vocal in his disparaging remarks about black people when he was engaged in conversation with others of the same bent. But, in actuality, he didn't practice what he preached. He was the same white man that went to a black man in the area whose house had burned and told him he had an old refrigerator he didn't need anymore. He then went so far as to haul it to the black man's new residence. He was the same white man who suddenly remembered he needed something from town every time he saw the old black man and his wife walk by on their way to Hamlet, more than three long miles away. After they had passed his house he got into his car and, after he had stopped to pick them up, tell them he was just going into town to pick up something.
Those attitudes could be altered to suit the occasion because some of the white folks thought they raised their status among their neighbors if they employed a part-time maid. So, it was not unusual to see a black woman sweating over a hot ironing board or doing other energy-sapping household chores that had been put aside until it was time for her weekly appearance. Her pay for a day's work was usually about the same amount a white girl earned for an evening of baby sitting. But, to show they were a benevolent employer that wanted to save the maid taxi fare, the white folks picked her up and delivered her back home - she always sitting, of course, in the back seat of the car.
Some of the adults were condescending to their maids and yardmen without even realizing it. Old black men and women were routinely addressed as "Uncle" and "Aunt" without the least bit of disrespect intended. That was yet another tradition which had ingrained itself into the southern way of life. And even though no disrespect was intended it nonetheless relieved the white folks of having to address their hired help as "Mr." and "Mrs." Even the little kids picked up on the tradition because I remember that I addressed the black man who farmed our land as "Uncle Gene." But I also said "yes sir" and "no sir" to him because he was an old man and we kids were taught to be polite to older people.
Children seemed to gravitate toward other children, regardless of skin color. They could be found swimming jay-bird in an old swimming hole or tossing a football or baseball in open fields. Impromptu bike races or foot races occurred at chance meetings and sometimes there was a brief rasslin' match to settle the pecking order. I remember sitting naked on the dam at Liles' Lake with a couple of black kids and openly discussing why my hair was straight and theirs was kinky. Little kids, when left to their own devices, tossed aside traditions and just wanted to have fun.
This tale was not meant to be a political and/or social statement. It's just simply a tale of observations and events that I remember from my childhood. I have no agenda to pursue nor do I have a desire for anyone to alter their own personal views or preferences.
Bruce Osburn 10-17-2001
OKRA
....my punishment
1948
by: Bruce Osburn
"Bruce Osburn! Why didn't you do your homework this time!?"
"'Well, it's 'cause I had to work, Miz O'Brien," says I.
I had just repeated my stock answer as the reason I had failed to turn in my homework. I had told that lie nearly every day since entering Mrs. O'Brien's fourth grade class in January, 1948, and I was getting good mileage from it. I must have been convincing in my lying 'cause I can't remember her ever making me stay after school to do what I should have done at home. But, eventually, my tales of being an overworked kid began to wear a little thin and I was found out to be the liar that I was.
I wasn't a stupid kid. It's just that I was one of those that hated to do school work outside of a classroom. And even though I hated to do homework - and seldom did - I was still able to absorb enough information while in class to get by. I could read a chapter or two of geography or history and remember enough of it to pass most of my written tests. Oh, I didn't make A+ or even B+ but I did well enough to make Cs and that was good enough for me.
My laziness - or irresponsibility - stayed with me all the way through graduation. All during my high school years - from 9th through 12th - I never took any books home, not one! In 9th grade in Hamlet I had "study hall" first and sixth periods and I used that time to do my assignments. From 10th through 12th I barely squeaked through but still managed to don cap and gown on graduation night.
Mrs. O'Brien knew my dad and asked him what kind of chores or work I did at home every day after school. Dad told her I had no regular chores and I certainly didn't do much work. When dad learned about the excuses I had been giving Mrs. O'Brien he told her that I would do my homework plus do some work at home!
It was early in the spring and dad's garden already had a good start and would soon be producing vegetables. One of those vegetables would be my responsibility from then on.
Every morning I had to get up earlier than usual and go into the garden to do my work. There I cut a half-bushel of okra which dad sold to Ormsby's fish market, which was just a little east of the SAL tracks on Hamlet Avenue. The reason I cut the okra in the mornings rather than in the afternoons was because Mr. Ormsby wanted only the freshest of produce. If I had cut the okra in the afternoon it would have wilted just a tad before dad took it to the market.
I began to do my homework and do work at home. Dad got all the money and I got itchy arms from the stinging leaves. Some of you might think that I developed an aversion for okra but that's not true at all. In fact, I love that itchy little pod to this day! You can slice it, roll it in cornmeal and fry it or you can boil it down in a pot of butterbeans, it doesn't matter. I'll eat it any way you cook it for there are few vegetables that are as good as that slippey ol' pod!
Bruce Osburn 10-18-2001
THE MAINTENANCE MAN
....my dad
1948-1950
by: Bruce Osburn
Shortly after we had settled in at Hamlet dad was hired by the county to provide maintenance for school buildings. I don't know if he did the upkeep on all the schools in Richmond County but I know for sure that he kept tabs on three schools in Hamlet - Pansy Fetner, Fayetteville Avenue and Hamlet Avenue School. Dad was experienced enough in electrical, plumbing, carpentry and mechanical chores that he had no trouble in doing any of the work.
I sure was proud of my dad 'cause he had a title - maintenance man! When someone asked what my dad did I don't think I ever said he was a retired army master sergeant. No, I proudly announced that he was the maintenance man for the schools and, with a long title like that, he must have been important.
Pansy Fetner School was the victim of a breaking and entering into the lunchroom which caused damage to the outside door and also the theft of some food. Dad repaired the damage to the door and the Hamlet police were notified of the incident. The police weren't successful at making an arrest and the mischief continued. After several more entries were made dad became a little upset at having to repair the door and, since the police were unable to put a stop to it, he decided to set a trap.
After Pansy Fetner had closed for the day dad went there and set the most simplest of all traps - a string and light bulb. He ran a string from the lunchroom door up to a pull-chain switch on a light on the first floor.
Dad stopped by the police station before going home and told them about his little trap. He told them that if they should see a light in a certain first floor classroom they should go straight-away to the lunchroom. Later during the night an officer on patrol noticed the light was on and headed straight for the lunchroom where he nabbed the intruder.
Not one bit of credit was given to dad for his efforts in bringing about the capture but the police sure did pat themselves on their collective backs. According to them the arrest was the result of an ever alert and diligent police force, one the folks of Hamlet could be proud of.
There was a chore dad did that had nothing at all to do with maintenance and was nothing more than janitorial work. That was a chore I liked because sometimes I picked up a nickel or dime or two. On Saturdays mornings - after an at-home basketball game the previous night - dad and I went to Hamlet High to clean the gym and locker rooms. Any money I found while sweeping under the bleachers I could keep and sometimes I found enough to buy a goodie or two. If I found a basketball laying around dad let me shoot a few hoops after we had finished.
What I liked to do best was clean the locker rooms. Oh, if only I had the foresight then - like I have hindsight now - what a tale I could write! I would be able to tell you who was doing what to whom, who was the best at what they did and other things you always wanted to know about someone else. And all that information didn't come from the walls of the boys' locker room - the best and most revealing came from the girls' locker room walls!
But, alas, my foresight wasn't 20/20 then and I didn't write any of that important stuff down. So, you old timers can relax. The brain cells that recorded all that information have long since sloughed away and I can't remember anyone's name, not one.
Bruce Osburn 10-18-2001
PIG'S PLACE
.....and penny bubble gum
late 40s-early 50s
by: Bruce Osburn
Some of the kids in my neighborhood were sometimes lucky enough to come into a few cents by doing chores or by conning an aunt or uncle into coughing up a coin or two. Some saved their nickels and dimes until they had enough go to the movies and some just blew their pennies as quickly as they could run to the nearest store.
That store was just up Lackey Street extension a short piece, less than one-half mile away near the south side of Hamlet. It was owned by a black businessman who owned property on Bridges Street and was run by a black man everyone called Pig - an old, wizened sort of short fellow. One could argue that Pig had his job mostly because of charity and good will on the part of the owner because store sales certainly weren't that great. I don't think Pig had much education; in fact, I don't think he could read or write. And I believe that shortcoming - if true - led me to have a bitter disagreement with him one day.
Pig's place wasn't large, just a concrete block structure about twenty feet square. I remember that it had one small glass display counter and a few nearly empty shelves near the walls that held the scant stock of the store. The rest of the store was just empty space, way yonder more room than was necessary for the little bit of stuff that Pig had for sale. I can't remember if there were chairs but I do remember I sat on empty up-ended soda pop crates whenever I passed a few minutes with Pig. Howard and Larry Helton and I used to go there and spend considerable time with Pig, eating and drinking and smoking and lying.
A thin dime could fill a little boy's stomach at Pig's. After paying five cents for a Pepsi or RC a kid still had a nickel to buy other goodies. A huge Jack's sugar cookie cost just one cent and a couple of those filled a pretty big hole in his stomach. Two cents for a couple of double-pack Mary Janes or Squirrels filled him even more and there was still a penny left over for a piece of Double-Bubble or Bazooka bubble gum to chew on the way home.
Pig's place was supposedly a grocery store for he sold canned goods and other packaged food stuffs that weren't likely to spoil too quickly. I can't say this with any proof or certainty but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the grits and corn meal had weevils in them.
He also sold things for immediate consumption - pickled pigs feet, pickled eggs, Penrose hot sausages and all kinds of nabs, both Lance and Tom's. And for take-out there were sardines, potted meat, vienna sausages, saltine crackers and other fast-food items that were so important to those folks who didn't have the time - or means - to fix a brown-bag lunch. In fact, I bought a few of those to-go lunches when I worked a week cutting timber.
I could buy lunch for just fifteen or twenty cents. First off, a Pepsi or RC was only five cents. A small package of saltines was a nickel and potted meat or sardines cost five or ten cents. In those days it seemed like all sardines - no matter who packaged them - were just little bitty fish and always packed in some type of thick oil. Back then a sardine could be wolfed down without worrying about big bones - unlike today's sardines which are as big as the little fish I used to catch at Liles' Lake. And, after I had eaten all those little fishes, I crumbled the few saltines I had left over into the oil and made a slurry of it. That was good eating, too! So, it shouldn't come as a surprise to know that I liked the sardines we had back then better than the ones we have today.
Potted meat was also on the menu and it's a wonder anyone ever ate a can of that pale, pink mush. Just a brief scan of the ingredients was more than enough to make you lose your appetite. There were pig ears, snouts and lips; cow ears, noses, lips and udders and more things than I can remember. Vienna sausages were much the same except they had been extruded into a little weenie looking thing. But, all the animal parts went down pretty good with crackers - all washed down with an RC that had been placed in a creek to stay cool.
I've told you all of the above just so I could set the stage for the time Pig and I had our big disagreement over the price of one of his goodies. He had his say but I came out the winner - even though he still insisted he was right - and I got more than I should have.
Somehow or other I came into a few coins and went to Pig's place to have a Pepsi and maybe a package of peanuts or whatever I thought I needed. As I was about to leave I stepped to the glass show case and told Pig I wanted a pack of the chewing gum he had just placed there. That chewing gum wasn't the familiar Double-Mint, Juicy Fruit or Spearmint we were so used to seeing. It was in a much more colorful pack and was for sale in Pig's store for the very first time. It was in the same type pack as the more familiar brands - a pack of five sticks which had been packaged in a 24-pack box. That, alone, should have been enough to tell Pig all he needed to know about the price.
I gave Pig a nickel for the gum and he gave me four cents in change. My first reaction was to tell Pig he had made a mistake and I pushed the four cents back to him. He told me the gum was just penny gum and pushed the four cents back to me. After we had pushed that four cents back and forth a couple of times he really got hot under the collar. He yelled at me that he knew the difference between regular chewing gum and bubble gum and what I had just bought was penny bubble gum.
I was basically an honest kid. Oh, I had borrowed a few watermelons and cantaloupes every now and then but I had never stolen money, personal items or shop-lifted from anyone. I had taken more candy than I'd paid for several times but that wasn't entirely my fault. (Read about that in my tale of "Beverly".) And the more Pig yelled that he knew the price of bubble gum the madder I got. Finally, I got so hot I told him I wanted the whole box, every danged pack! I gave him twenty-three cents for the rest of it and stomped out the door.
I was a popular kid for a few days. My buddies and I had more gum than we had ever had before and we owed it all to Pig's..... pig-headedness! ......and we never did make any bubbles with Pig's penny bubble gum.
In later years an addition was made onto the back of Pig's place. The building was still standing as late as four months ago and the difference in the original and newer blocks was visible as I drove by. I don't think the building is used today and may be in its last days. If you live near Hamlet take a drive out Lackey Street, on past the SAL tracks and you should see Pig's place straight ahead at the bend in the road (Gin Mill Road.) Let me know if it's still there.
Bruce Osburn 10-24-2001
TRICK or TREAT!
....Bull Durham remembered
Halloween 1952
by: Bruce Osburn
"Trick or treat! Trick or treat!" we shouted at an old man standing behind his screen door. He had come there in answer to our knocks and he just stood there, with a confused look on his face.
It was plain to see that he was surprised to see us and, to be truthful, we were afraid to be there. You see, we kids had heard scary tales about his place and no one dared to go there. Yes, we were probably more scared than he was surprised!
I had gone trick or treating that night with two of my younger buddies, Howard and Larry Helton. At fourteen years of age I was too old for that kids' night and I like to think that the only reason I went was so Howard and Larry could have some fun and perhaps get a sack of candy. But, of course, I probably had high hopes of getting my fair share, too!
We didn't have costumes - just our regular clothing - although I was wearing a navy pea coat and watch cap which might be considered a disguise of sorts. We didn't have good luck at every house; mostly we got comments such as, "Ya'll are kinda big for trick or treating, ain'tcha'?" Dark-thirty had long since passed when we finally started for home but we were still looking for doors to knock on as we passed by Hamlet Hospital.
Directly across Vance Street from the hospital was that spooky old house we kids never went near. We saw that the yard was dark but, still, we mustered up what little bit of courage we had and made our way toward an un-lit front door. We stumbled up a wide set of steps onto a full-width porch which was absolutely terrifying in its pitch-black darkness. Our raps on the screen door brought the old man and we yelled. "Trick or treat! Trick or treat!"
After he had gotten over his initial shock of seeing us there he said he didn't have any candy anywhere about the place. He went on to explain that we were the first kids to come trick or treating in many years and he had long ago quit buying candy since no one ever came anyway. He was still apologizing as we turned to leave and he off-handedly remarked that all he had to offer was some Bull Durham.
"We'll take it!" says we and he reached in his shirt pocket for bag and papers. We young boys sat on the steps and rolled a smoke and chatted with him for a while. When we started to go he told us to keep the makings 'cause he had more inside.
The old man really wasn't the scary ol' ogre we had believed him to be. In fact, he was a friendly and likable sort of fellow. And his treat was the best one we received all night!
That night was so long ago I can't remember all the streets we visited nor do I remember what treats we got. I can't say with any certainty whether we got as little as just a handful or if we got as much as a sackful. But, what I do distinctly remember is that little nickel-bag of Bull Durham smoking tobacco. I remember the time we spent on an old man's porch while we smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and talked about things that must have been important back then but by now have long since been forgotten.
Bruce Osburn 11-6-2001
VISITS TO THE DOCTOR
....emergencies only
1948-1953
by: Bruce Osburn
"Well, Bruce," said Doctor Garrison as he inspected a round, red, itchy rash under my armpit, "I suppose you have more of these things, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," I answered in a barely audible voice because I sure was embarrassed to tell him where.
A visit to a doctor was a rare event for me when I was just a kid. Only the most serious of my injuries required the care of a doctor and I probably didn't go more than a half-dozen times during the the five and one-half years we lived in Hamlet. Of course, I had my fair share of stubbed toes, sprained ankles, skinned knees and elbows plus an assortment of cuts, splinters and puncture wounds. But most of those injuries were treated by my mom using time tested and proven home remedies.
Our medicine cabinet had the usual patented medicines: Bayer aspirin; BC headache powders; alcohol; iodine; mercurochrome; bandages and peroxide. I preferred to use mercurochrome and peroxide on my cuts and scratches but mom leaned a little toward alcohol and iodine. I guess she figured no pain, no gain. Cousin Danny preferred to use the peroxide to "peroxide" his hair when he visited. That was a fad during the early 1950s but mom didn't allow her kids to do such nonsense.
A thin strip of cloth wrapped around a stubbed toe kept sand from getting into a split toe nail. (Did you ever notice when you were a kid that a stubbed toe was always re-stubbed just before it was completely healed?) I wish I could count the times my nails fell off after a toe turned black and blue. It's a good thing I wasn't limited to just two sets of nails like I was to teeth.
Lard liberally slathered on a burned or scalded arm eased the pain until it was bearable. Butter smeared on a bumped forehead made the swelling go down. A fresh, wet cud of chewing tobacco applied to a wasp sting drew out the poison and reduced swelling. If chewing tobacco wasn't available a chewed cigar or cigarette worked just as well.
When I pulled a splinter from a foot or hand I made sure I rubbed it in my hair so the wound didn't get infected. Stepping on a rusty nail scared the bejeeze out of me 'cause I just knew I was going to get lock-jaw. Every cut I got always took longer to heal than it should have 'cause I kept picking the scab off. The "dog days" of summer were the worse because every cut or scratch was sure to become infected. (Well, that's what the adults told us.)
When we children got the measles or chicken pox we spent the whole time in bed - in a darkened room - 'cause mom said they would settle in the eyes and make us blind. Or, worse yet, since we were little boys, they would settle down there and, heaven forbid, we would never be a daddy! I think I might have even been treated a couple of times with a "hot toddy" - white lightning and honey - for some stubborn illness that hung on for a long time.
Mom's home remedies must have been effective 'cause the only time I went to Dr. Garrison was when the treatment was beyond mom's ability. And that treatment was usually for sewing up a deep cut or gash. I remember three times I went there to have that done: once for a knife-cut thumb; once for a scythe-cut hand and once when I gashed open a foot at Liles' Lake. But, on the day Dr. Garrison asked if I had "more of these things," my visit wasn't to get a cut sewn up but for something I had never been there for. I had developed a rash on a couple places on my body which itched like crazy. And I scratched until they were raw.
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